Reading the Bones

by Gina McMurchy-Barber

  I dashed over to the back door. “Eddy, you’re still here. I thought you’d be gone by now. Did you find anything today?” I ran down the stairs, stopping excitedly by her side.

  Eddy laughed and waved her hands at me as if she were trying to slow down a runaway horse. “Whoa, girl! I’m not still here. I only just got here.”

  “Great! That means I can still help you.” I ran over to the pile of tools under the stairs and got the bucket, trowel, and dustpan. Eddy had already pulled back the tarp from the burial and bunched it over by the hydrangea bush.

  “Yes, there’s something quite amazing I noticed yesterday when I was finishing up. I wanted you to be the first to see it.” Eddy used both her hands to pick up the ancient skull that had been resting right side down. When she turned it over, I saw a hole in the forehead shaped like a jelly bean.

  “This is really exciting, Peggy — and important. I still need to examine this in the lab, but I’m pretty sure this hole in the frontal bone is a case of trephination!”

  Her voice was kind of giddy, like mine when I was excited about something.

  “A trephi ... what?” I asked.

  “Trephination. That’s the term for a primitive skull operation. It wasn’t that common, and there are only a few dozen cases of prehistoric operations like this in the world. We believe it was done to relieve pressure on the brain caused possibly by an injury or illness.”

  Just the thought made me wince and rub my forehead.

  “It’s quite possible the case of mastoiditis we discovered may have caused an excess of fluid in the brain — quite painful I’d imagine. I need to record this before I do anything else, then follow up with some photographs. How about handing me a caliper from my tool kit?”

  I picked up the small metal tool with its two curved needle-like pincers and gave it to her.

  Eddy opened the caliper and began measuring the hole. She determined the width and length from inside the opening, then calculated the thickness of the bone and the area of bone that had healed. Finally, she filled out three data forms, writing lots of paragraphs and making tiny diagrams.

  “How would they have cut an opening like this?” I asked, locked in a stare with the empty eye sockets below the hole. I wasn’t sure I really wanted to know the answer.

  “I imagine they used a very sharp stone blade, or maybe even the sharpened edge of a clamshell, to cut and scrape a small hole into the skull. It would’ve been a slow process, and there’s nothing to indicate they had the means to numb the pain. Once the built-up fluid drained out, they would’ve covered the wound with some traditional plant medicine to help it heal.”

  All I could think of to say was “gross,” but Eddy didn’t seem to hear.

  “There isn’t a lot of information on these operations because they’re so rare. But from what we know, most of the patients didn’t survive. On the other hand, our friend here appears to have fared quite well.”

  “How can you tell, Eddy?”

  “By looking at the rounding of the edges and the form of the hole, I can see there was a period of healing. The skin probably grew over, and there was even some new growth in the bone, though obviously not enough to close up the hole. At the moment everything I see tells me this fellow went on to live for quite a while.”

  Eddy placed the skull on the grass and laid her ruler beside it as a scale for size. Then she started taking photographs. As the camera shutter clicked rapidly, I stared at the small hole just big enough for a nickel to slip through.

  On the beach below Shuksi’em, the men are piling the day’s catch. A boy yanks the tail of a small woolly dog trying to make off with a fish almost the same size. Other children dance in the sand, shouting at the squawking seabirds hovering in the sky.

  Soon the women come down to prepare the salmon. Each carries her own tools — a bone abrader for scraping scales and a flaked flint knife for gutting. Today’s catch will be smoked and stored in the cache boxes for winter.

  Shuksi’em can see that the days are getting shorter and feels the nights becoming cooler. He hates the damp cold

  He thinks this land would be paradise if it were not for the rain and many days of black clouds. These past few winters he would go for two or three weeks easily without so much as poking his head out from the clan house to see the sky.

  He remembers one winter long ago that he thought would be his last. A terrible pain behind his ear moved up to his head and hurt so badly he thought he was caught in the jaws of a black bear. Then his uncle, the village healer, said he would cure his pain.

  All his relatives and friends gathered in the big house and watched as the healer cut into his head. The scraping sound coming from the sharp stone blade made the inside of his head shiver. He can still remember Talusip’s voice quavering as she and the other women chanted songs. Soon a black wall went up, and he slept for many days.

  For a long time after that Shuksi’em was afraid to lie down. He worried that everything inside his head would fall out — his memories, thoughts, and fears lying on the dirt floor for all to see and trample on. For a long while the clan teased him about his hole, saying it was like the soft place on a new baby’s head.

  Now, many years after, his hair still has not grown over the spot. But at least the pain is gone.

  Eddy and I worked for a long while. I hadn’t noticed that the light had turned dim from the low marine clouds that had moved in from the Pacific Ocean. When we finally stopped for the night, the entire skeleton was exposed and sitting neatly on top of the dirt.

  “I need to get some photographs of the entire burial, but the lighting isn’t any good,” Eddy said. “Let’s just cover it up for the night and I’ll take pictures in the morning. Once that’s done, we’ll be able to remove the bones and take them where they’ll be safe.”

  “I can cover up the burial and put things away,” I offered.

  “That would be great, Peggy. I want to try to make it to the store before it closes and buy my grandson a birthday present. He’s turning seven tomorrow.”

  I walked out front with Eddy and waited until her red truck rumbled to life and drove off down the street. When I returned to the backyard, I was alarmed to see my aunt’s cat, Duff, inside the burial. “Duff, scoot! Get out of there!” I lunged at him, waving my arms at the same time. I startled him, and he darted out of the hole, glaring at me as he scampered up the stairs.

  When I glanced back at the burial, I saw he had kicked up some of the dirt and pushed the skull from its resting place. “Stupid cat,” I muttered. I could see how the speckled earth still formed a rounded indentation where it had cradled the skull and decided I should put the skull back in its original place. As I held it, I was surprised how heavy it was. I ran my hand over the smooth surface and let my fingers trace the edges of the eyes and the sharp and cracked bridge of the nose.

  When I lowered the skull into the cup-shaped dirt, I noticed a small, perfectly round stone. It must have been buried in the soil until Duff had kicked it out of place. Gently, I put the skull down and picked up the round stone, ignoring my thumping heart. It was probably just an ordinary rock, I told myself.

  The smooth black disc was a little larger than an Oreo cookie. But when I turned it over to study the other side, I almost dropped it. There, staring up at me, were the delicate features of a tiny face. Above the fine and gracefully carved face was a tiny hole drilled clear through to the other side. As I held the smooth stone in my hand and turned it over and over, the oil in my fingers deepened the gleam and the details of the face became clearer and even more stunning.

  I imagined Eddy’s reaction when she saw the tiny carving for the first time. Then I remembered what she’d said only last week: “It’s the artifact in situ that tells you the most.” As I gazed at the gleaming object, I hoped Duff and I hadn’t destroyed too much information. Quickly, I returned it close to its original resting place. Just after I replaced the skull, I heard footsteps coming from behind.

 
; “Hello, little Miss Archaeologist. Now what are you up to?”

  Mr. Grimbal was standing behind me. Before I could retrieve the tarp and cover the excavation pit, he bent down and started jabbing at the bones and skull. My heart almost leaped into my throat as his hand got closer to the small carving underneath.

  “I don’t think you should be here,” I said. “Eddy wouldn’t like you touching the burial.”

  Mr. Grimbal didn’t seem to take notice of me. He just grinned. “So what did she do with that nice little awl you found the other day? Bet the old biddy’s already stuffed it in some dusty drawer at the museum, along with dozens of others just like it. Find anything else?”

  I was afraid that Mr. Grimbal could read my mind.

  “Oh, sure you did,” he answered for me. “Burials like this usually have several things — stone and bone tools, trinkets, other stuff like that. Right? Of course, I’m right. So what else?”

  I stared back at Mr. Grimbal, my brain in slow motion. “Are you here to speak to my Aunt Margaret? Because if you are, she’s not going to sell anything. She doesn’t even know about the artifacts we’ve found.”

  “Artifacts, eh? Well, at least I know now there’s more than one.” He smirked at me as if I were some dumb little kid he’d cheated. “Well, just to give you an idea about what some of those artifacts are worth, that little bone awl could fetch four or five hundred dollars from an avid collector. I bet you could use some money like that.”

  “No, I don’t need any money, Mr. Grimbal.” I decided to make a dive for the tarp and quickly spread it over the burial. At least it would stop him from fondling the skull.

  “Then again, if you found something really unique, something rare, you could get several thousand dollars for it.”

  I turned my back on him and began placing the large rocks on the corners of the tarp. The wind had picked up, and the low grey clouds above seemed dark and dangerous. Why was he here now, just after I discovered the delicate little carving? Maybe he really could read my mind. I stole a quick glance at his face and shuddered at his grimacing smile.

  Just then Aunt Margaret’s voice shot out the kitchen window like a bolt of lightning from the clouds above. “Peggy, it’s time to come in. After you’ve scrubbed yourself spotless, you can reheat your supper in the microwave.” At that moment I couldn’t have been happier to hear my aunt’s bossy command.

  “Think about what I said, kid. There must be something you want. Everyone needs money, right?” Then Mr. Grimbal turned and sauntered slowly out of the yard.

  I bolted the gate and leaned Uncle Stuart’s shovel against it as heavy raindrops began to fall. Quickly, I ran around the yard and put away all the tools. By the time I finished, I was nearly soaked through. But before dashing into the house I hesitated. I looked at the tarp-covered burial for the last time and shivered at the thought of Mr. Grimbal sneaking in and stealing the little carving. With one swift movement I ripped back the plastic and rolled the skull over. In near darkness with rain already forming pools of water, I fingered the coarse earth until I found the small stone. I grabbed it firmly and pushed it deep into my pant pocket.

  Minutes later, when I placed my dinner in the microwave oven, my hands were still shaking. When the timer beeped, my heart skipped and my hand automatically flew to my side to check for the small hard lump. I took out the plate of spaghetti with tofu meatballs — Uncle Stuart’s specialty — and headed up to my room to eat. Besides finding a safe place to hide the stone carving, I wanted to search on the Internet for information about Coast Salish art. I also needed to decide what to tell Eddy.

  “Where are you going with that?” Aunt Margaret demanded. “You know the rule in our house — all food is eaten in the kitchen.” She pointed to a chair.

  My heart sank, and I flopped down on the seat.

  “Peggy, did you wash your hands? It certainly doesn’t look like you did.”

  I glanced down at my hands and the caked dirt under my fingernails. Shuffling over to the sink, I turned on the tap. When I finished washing, I sat down and started gobbling my food as fast as possible.

  “Slow down or you’ll choke,” Aunt Margaret cautioned. “Why the glum look? I thought you’d be happy after spending the evening digging up bones with your friend.”

  Just then my fork dropped out of my hand and clattered onto the plate. “Oh, my gosh, Mrs. Hobbs!”

  “What about her?” my aunt asked.

  “She invited me to spend the evening with her. We’re making something — a surprise for Mom. Aunt Margaret, I’ve got to run over to her house and apologize.”

  “Now? Peggy, it’s too late in the evening to go knocking on someone’s door. And even if you had her telephone number, it wouldn’t be polite to call. She’s probably already in her pajamas and ready for bed. You’ll just have to go see her after your sailing class tomorrow.”

  “Please, Aunt Margaret, it’ll only take fifteen minutes. I’ll run all the way there and all the way back.”

  “I can see you’re upset, but not tonight, Peggy. I’ve already explained that it’s too late to be calling on people.”

  “But —”

  “Peggy, stop. I said no. Maybe your mother lets you argue back, but I won’t have it. Now finish your meal and then it’s time for you to get ready for bed.”

  I pushed back the chair and stomped out of the kitchen. I knew if I stayed there another minute I wouldn’t be able to control what I said or did.

  “What about your supper?” my aunt called after me.

  I ran into my room and slammed the door. Aunt Margaret was so unfair, and she always treated me like a little kid. No matter how long I lived with her things would never be any different.

  “I’ve got to get away from here,” I growled out loud. “I don’t care what Mom says. I’m not going to live with Aunt Margaret anymore.” I turned over and buried my face in my pillow to stop myself from crying. Everything in my head was swirling around madly — visions of Mrs. Hobbs waiting for me, my aunt barking orders, Mr. Grimbal smirking. Then I remembered the little carved face I’d found less than an hour before. I pulled it from my pocket. As I held it between my thumb and forefinger, I wondered about the small hole at the top. It reminded me of the hole in the skull Eddy had shown me earlier. At that moment I realized the little carving was a pendant.

  I imagined a leather string bearing the little face. Maybe the necklace had been around the man’s neck when he was buried. Did men wear necklaces back then? He was a carver. Did he make it himself? Or was it a gift?

  Soon I was enveloped by a wave of exhaustion and felt myself slipping down a dark hole like Alice in Wonderland chasing after the rabbit. I tucked the small carved stone under my pillow and closed my eyes.

  Shuksi’em is surprised how well his hands feel today. He is glad, for this is the day he begins carving with the black stone. Carefully, he removes the fragile slate-like rock from the wet deerskin. His fingers tingle with excitement, for this strange new thing is just what he desired for the gift he is making for Sleek Seal, his granddaughter. He studies the

  grain in the stone. Shuksi’em must first see the carving in his mind and then he will know where to make the cuts. The Chinook told him the stone came from far away, over the mountains and past the sea. They said that the people of the stone called it Kwawhlhal. Shuksi’em thinks it a strange word indeed. He traded a deerskin and many dried salmon to obtain the stone. But he does not mind. It is a small price to pay for such a jewel.

  The stone is soft, and Shuksi’em must be careful as he carves. He is using his best shell knife to scrape at the course edges, slowly smoothing and rounding them. The vision in his mind grows clearer as the stone begins to take form. This small amulet will hang around the neck of his granddaughter, who is soon to have her passage to womanhood ceremony. Shuksi’em wills the protecting spirit to enter this gift with each careful stroke.

  Though he must not speak of it, Sleek Seal is his special granddaughter. Shuks
i’em sees in her the best of his people. He laughs inside as he thinks how often she surpasses her brothers at catching fish from the shore. Or how clever she is with hunting the small animals close to camp. No one taught her these things — for girls were not made for such work — but she always watches her uncles carefully and learns.

  Even more unusual are Sleek Seal’s stories. Many times in a day the young ones ask her to tell them tales. Some are the ones she has heard from him. But others are not familiar to their village. They come from inside her.

  Shuksi’em remembers when Sleek Seal reached her ninth summer. The women turned her attention to new tasks. She was quick to learn their work — making flour from fern roots, weaving spruce roots tight enough to hold water, fashioning string from nettle fibres and knives from mussel shells. Now she is very clever at making her own clothing of cedar bark, skins, and fur. And her aunts are very surprised at how easily she can beach a canoe without getting wet.

  But no matter how busy the women keep her, Sleek Seal finds moments to slip away to visit her grandfather. And at night she never misses his stories.

  Now Shuksi’em labours greatly over his gift. He wants its power to protect his young granddaughter who has been made an offer of marriage by a young man from another village. If her parents accept the offer at the fall clan gathering, Sleek Seal will leave her family’s clan house to join his. She has objected to the match, but the matter is not up to her. Though this granddaughter is in her thirteenth summer, Shuksi’em thinks she may not be ready. He has spoken to the girl’s father, who promises to consider the proposal carefully.

  Nevertheless, Sleek Seal’s passage ceremony will take place soon, and she is preparing for the dances. Shuksi’em will make sure the pendant is ready. Besides having protective powers, it must be beautiful. When his work is complete, he will take it to the shaman for a blessing.

  “Hello, Grandfather,” comes the sweet, familiar voice from behind.

  Shuksi’em manages to slip the precious stone and his carving knife under his cedar blanket quickly.