Reading the Bones

by Gina McMurchy-Barber

  “I’ve brought you some of the fresh salmon berries you like so much.” Sleek Seal says, placing the small wooden bowl filled with the delicious pink pearls into her grandfather’s lap. Gently, she slides herself close to his side and pulls from her leather pouch a ball of matted hairs from the woolly dog. She plucks at the fine hairs, then begins twining them into long, soft strings. The two sit silently side by side, happy in each other’s company.

  CHAPTER 8

  I woke early to the sound of fat raindrops pelting against my window. I couldn’t go back to sleep because the resentment I’d gone to bed with the night before was still there, filling me with a darkness blacker than the clouds outside. So I stayed in bed, feeling tense and raw, wishing as never before that I was far away from here and back with my mother.

  The phone rang, and I waited for my aunt to answer it. I was afraid I’d sent thought waves to my mom and now she was calling. I knew if I talked to her she’d hear something in my voice and start asking questions.

  I tensed when I heard my aunt cross the hall and open my bedroom door.

  “Peggy, that was the sailing instructor on the phone. He says it’s too stormy for sailing today and cancelled the lesson.”

  My hands relaxed, but I didn’t say anything to Aunt Margaret. I turned over in my bed and heard her quietly back out of the room and shut the door.

  When I decided to get up and dress, I opened the top drawer and was surprised to see rows of clean, paired socks. The other drawers were full of neat piles of pants and T-shirts, too. I remembered taking the large mound of dirty clothes down to the laundry room the other day, but never gave any thought as to how it would get clean and back in my drawers. Now everything I owned was tidy and folded — just the way my aunt liked it. I pulled everything out and mixed it all up, then stuffed the heap back into the drawers.

  I decided to go over to Mrs. Hobbs’s house first thing and explain about the night before. I hoped she wouldn’t feel disappointed with me. I wondered if I should tell her about finding the ancient pendant and Mr. Grimbal’s sudden visit — and the big fight I’d had with Aunt Margaret. Maybe if she knew how unhappy I was she’d invite me to stay with her.

  As I slipped into my clothes, I had visions of Mrs. Hobbs adopting me as her granddaughter. We could collect shells together and make necklaces. And she’d always bake double chocolate chip cookies and berry pies for me. And I would live happily ever after. “Right!” I said out loud as I snapped myself out of the daydream. “Things never work out that well for you.”

  When I entered the kitchen, I heard my aunt’s and uncle’s hushed voices coming from the living room. I pulled on my old windbreaker and quietly slipped out the back door. When I stepped out into the chilly wind and steady drizzle of rain, I realized my worn-out jacket wouldn’t keep me warm. But there was no way I was going back inside the house.

  As I walked down Kidd Street and over to Agar, I felt as if I were wandering through a ghost town. All the streets were deserted, and even the gulls were nowhere to be seen. I tucked my arms close around me and ducked my head low. When I got to Mrs. Hobbs’s front door, there were no warm smells of fresh cookies or a kindly voice talking to Chester. I rang the doorbell twice and heard it echo inside the house. When there was no answer, I tried pounding the door with my fist.

  After waiting a long time, I walked back out to the road and headed toward Blackie’s Spit, even though the storm was now whipping at the trees and rattling windows. I knew it was unlikely, but I still hoped I’d find her out on the sandbars looking for shells, with Chester waddling behind. When I reached the end of the narrow finger of land, I wasn’t surprised that no one was around. I turned back into the full force of the cold wind. For a few moments I opened my jacket and held my arms out wide to see if the gale would lift me into the sky like a kite — an unanchored kite tossed around the atmosphere, being pulled farther and farther from Earth.

  With nowhere else to go, I went back home. When I came into the kitchen, I noticed a book sitting on the table. A wild, stunning wolf on the cover jumped off the jacket at me. I read the words framing the eerie mask: Cultures of the North Pacific Coast by Philip Drucker. It was an old book, worn at the corners, and many of the pages had been dog-eared with pencilled notes in the margin.

  “Peggy, have you been out wandering around in this storm?” Aunt Margaret gasped when she came into the kitchen. “I thought you were still upstairs in bed sleeping.” Then she noticed me staring at the book on the table. “Dr. McKay dropped that off for you. She thought you might be interested in looking at it.”

  “Did she say anything else?”

  “Not much, just that she’d wait until the weather improved to come back and finish the excavation. Do you feel better now that you’ve had a chance to speak to Mrs. Hobbs?” “She wasn’t home,” I said without looking up from the book.

  “That’s too bad, but I’m sure she’ll understand when you get a chance to explain.”

  “Yeah, you’re right. She’ll understand because she gets me.” I avoided my aunt’s hurt expression and opened the book to the index in the back. There was a long list of references to the Coast Salish, like dance ceremonies, kinship structures, potlatches. I flipped to the section on potlatches. I already knew that the word meant gift and that they were traditional gatherings where people of different villages came together for days of ceremonies and feasting to honour someone who died or a chief who wanted his status to be recognized. I always thought it was cool that the true sign of a wealthy chief was not how much he had but how much he could afford to give away.

  Under my breath I read: “Some Coast Salish were fond of the ‘scramble’ as a method of distributing goods to commoners, but never to chiefs.” I imagined men, women, and children playfully racing around to gather bone fish hooks, awls, and baskets to take home. I riffled through more pages to see what other things I could learn about potlatches. I skimmed over the subheadings: “The Formalities of Potlatches,” “The Potlatch and Loans of Interest,” “Rivalry Potlatches.” The last title caught my attention. I read the first line of the paragraph: “The spectacular rivalry potlatches were all to humiliate a rival.” That was when I remembered Aunt Margaret was still there staring at me.

  “Peggy, I’d like to talk with you.” She nervously cleared her throat. “I realize you’ve been unhappy. It’s natural that you want to be with your mom. But the fact is she can’t care for you right now. I know she wants to, but if she’s going to get on her feet she needs to —”

  “Make sure I’m out of the way, right?” I interrupted.

  “That’s not what I was going to say.”

  “No, but you were thinking it.”

  “No, I wasn’t!”

  I hadn’t noticed before, but my aunt’s face was all pink and puffy.

  “Look, Peggy, I admit you haven’t exactly been a joy to have around. But I know it’s because your life is all upside down. I also admit that I’m strict and —”

  “Unreasonable? Demanding? Unfair?” I fired back.

  “Okay, maybe there have been times when that was true. But then you’ve been disobedient, irresponsible, ungrateful, unforgiving, cold, and secretive.”

  My aunt’s words were like blows to my head and stomach. Now her face was glowing red, and her eyes were moist.

  “I promised your mom that I’d look after you. And that’s what I want to do. But if this is going to work you need to cooperate ... and show respect.”

  “Mom always taught me that respect is a two-way street, Aunt Margaret,” I spat back.

  “That’s true, but sometimes parents know what’s best and the child just needs to trust and be obedient.”

  I felt as if an explosion had gone off inside my head. “Parents? You’re not my parents and you never will be. My real mom loves me no matter what I wear or say or do. But you’ll never think I’m good enough. You don’t like my clothes, my hair isn’t combed enough, I don’t sit straight enough. How do you think it
feels living with someone who picks at every thing you do?” When the words stopped shooting out of my mouth, Aunt Margaret covered her tear-streaked face with her hands and left the kitchen.

  I ran upstairs and accidentally kicked Duff, who was sitting in the middle of the landing. “Yeowwww!” he screeched.

  “Shut up!” I cursed, and was glad I’d kicked him. There was only one person in the world who really cared about me. And if I wanted to be with her, we’d need money. I reached under the pillow and found the smooth little disc. Without glancing at its tiny face, I put it in my pocket and dumped Eddy’s book onto the bed.

  Outside, the rain had slowed to a sprinkle. When I marched as far as Beecher Street, I felt calmer. I decided to stop and catch my breath in Heron Park and think about what I was going to do next. I’d passed by the little park at the entrance of Crescent Beach many times but had never walked through it before. In the middle of the park was a huge rock deposited in the last ice age, a stinging reminder of my insignificant existence. As I followed the little path that led around the boulder, I spotted a bronze plaque. It read: “These petroglyph symbols were carved into this rock by the prehistoric inhabitants of this area.”

  Glancing up, I saw some indentations in the rock. I ran my hand over the rough surface to feel the deep groves. Then I stepped back several feet to see the design. It was a simple pattern of circles and dots. As I studied the petroglyphs, they began to look like the faces of skinny, bulgy-eyed aliens.

  Before coming to Crescent Beach I’d never heard of the Coast Salish. Now, everywhere I went, I found reminders of their existence. I wondered what the picture meant and wished I could ask Eddy, but I knew after today I’d never be able to look her in the eye again.

  I dragged my feet slowly along the sidewalk, passing Sunshine Organic Grocery and Fong’s Eatery. When I went by the Beecher Street Café, I noticed Bob Puddifoot inside, pushing a large muffin into his mouth and then gulping from a tall coffee mug.

  Finally, I reached the old grey building with the sign that read: REAL TREASURES AND GIFTS. In the lower left corner of the window was another sign: WANTED: NATIVE ARTIFACTS. WILL PAY TOP DOLLAR.

  My stomach knotted up and my shoulders tensed as I peered through the dusty window. I’d never been inside Mr. Grimbal’s store, and I almost hoped the place was closed. But when I pulled on the handle the door easily swung open.

  Right inside the entrance stood two large totem poles that reached to the ceiling. They looked like stoic sentinels guarding the entry. At the top of one was some kind of bird — an eagle or hawk, I guessed. In its talons was a killer whale. And below it was a bear, or maybe it was a wolf. I wasn’t sure. But it was the other pole that really caught my attention. At the very bottom was a human child clutched by a figure with an eerie black face, big red lips, and eyes that were dark and empty.

  “Don’t be afraid of Tsonokwa ... she won’t bite you. Not right now, anyway.”

  I spun around and saw Mr. Grimbal laughing at me with his raspy voice, which turned into a sputtering cough. He was behind a glass counter grinning his yellowy smile. In his hand he held an oddly shaped pipe that billowed tiny clouds of smoke. My insides felt all twisted, but I ignored the fear. Carefully, I passed the fierce face on the totem pole and approached the counter, forcing a smile. “What did you call her, Mr. Grimbal? Was it Sonaka?”

  “Close. Her name’s Tsonokwa. She’s the wild woman of the forest. All Native people had someone like her. The Coast Salish had a flying giantess called Quamichan, who liked to snack on juicy little children. Both Tsonokwa and Quamichan were mythical creatures useful to parents who wanted to frighten their children from straying far from home.”

  “Kind of like the bogeyman,” I said.

  “Yup, that’s pretty much it.” Mr. Grimbal took a long drag on his pipe and studied me intently. “So are you here to buy or sell?”

  I blushed under his intimidating stare but didn’t answer the question. Instead I looked around the shop. It was dusty, and the shelves were cluttered with a hodgepodge of souvenirs, books, and beach toys. Behind the glass counter, out of reach, were shelves full of what appeared to be Native artifacts.

  I recognized several of the stone and bone objects. Some were just like the artifacts Eddy and I had found in our burial. There was a stone bowl with very thick sides, a large stone spool with a pointy tip, several burins, and two wooden rattles with carved killer whales. Then I saw a small carved figure that seemed to be made of the same gleaming black stone as the one I had tucked into my pocket.

  Mr. Grimbal snickered. “Still got Miss Know-It-All running around your backyard?”

  His voice had startled me from my thoughts. “She hasn’t, I mean, we haven’t finished the excavation. But it won’t be long now.” I needed to change the subject. “Do you know what the petroglyphs in Heron Park are about?”

  “I do. What’s it worth to you?” He snickered again, and I remembered what Eddy had said about Mr. Grimbal being a pirate and a grave robber.

  “Just pulling your leg, kid.” As he spoke, small puffs of smoke escaped from his mouth. “This place was once the summer village for the ancient ones. If you think it’s nice now, back then it must have been a paradise.” The usual harsh look on Mr. Grimbal’s face softened. “This place had an abundance of food that kept those folks coming back every summer for thousands of years. But while they were gone for the winter they needed someone to watch over the place. I think those petroglyphs represented the spirits that guarded their fishing grounds, and when the people returned every spring, they were like the Welcome Wagon ladies.”

  He stopped and banged his pipe into an ashtray. That was when I realized that the grey stone pipe was actually a carving of a crouching wolf. It looked old.

  “So that’s what I think those petroglyphs are about. But don’t take my word for it. Ask the good doctor what she thinks.”

  He took another long drag on his pipe and stared at me. I felt as if he were trying to size me up, so I looked down at the jewellery in the glass case.

  “Of course, it doesn’t take a Ph.D. to realize that nature was important in the development of Native art. And this place had lots to work with — wildlife, mountains, the ocean. Even the sun and the moon.” Mr. Grimbal pulled out a small silver pendant from the jewellery case. I peered at the etched design of a moon face — it had wide ovoid eyes and a u-form mouth.

  “Did the ancient ones always carve from silver?” I asked.

  “Not at all. Silver didn’t come until much later. The first people would’ve carved from bone or stone.”

  Just then I felt a strong urge to check my pocket for the small stone carving. “What’s that black stone there?” I asked, pointing at the shiny animal figure I’d seen when I first came into the store. Mr. Grimbal took the gleaming piece off the shelf. I touched the familiar cool, smooth surface.

  “This is made of argillite. I got this little piece from a fellow who worked in Haida Gwaii — that’s the Queen Charlotte Islands. He got it off some guy who needed cash to buy new fishing gear. But it’s not that old, maybe a couple of hundred years.”

  I noticed the price tag said three thousand dollars. My palms suddenly became sweaty. I glanced around the store at the objects on the shelves. “Is it legal to buy artifacts, Mr. Grimbal?”

  He was annoyed by my question. “It’s not a black-and-white issue, kid. If you were walking along the sidewalk and found a diamond ring and had no idea who its owner was, wouldn’t you keep it?”

  “I’d try to find its owner first. Maybe place an ad in the paper.”

  “Well, what if its original owner was dead? That would make it yours, and you could do whatever you wanted with it. You could wear it, give it away, sell it.”

  I felt Mr. Grimbal’s eyes piercing through me, so I looked up at a framed newspaper article on the wall. The headline read: “Archaeologists Find Crescent Beach’s Double Burial Romantic.”

  “What was that all about?” I asked, cha
nging the subject again.

  Mr. Grimbal rubbed his chin as if I were a mystery he was trying to figure out. “Back in the 1970s some fellows were making repairs to a burst water pipe. That’s when they accidentally discovered the remains of some poor Indian and his woman. Their bones were all mixed together like they’d been embracing each other at the moment of death. All around them were arrowheads — some embedded in the ribs and skulls. It didn’t take a bunch of experts to figure out those two died a violent death.” Mr. Grimbal swiped his index finger across his throat. “But what made this story really interesting was how the burial was discovered on February 14 — St. Valentine’s Day!”

  A chill spread up my arms, leaving a trail of prickly goose bumps.

  “Okay, kid, that’s enough history lessons for today. I’m a busy man, and I’m pretty sure you’ve come to do business. So let’s get to it.”

  His sudden confrontation launched my heart into my throat again. Nervously, I dug into my pocket for the stone pendant. I heard Eddy’s voice in my head telling me to turn around and run. But then I thought about my mom and Aunt Margaret. At that moment it didn’t take much for me to force myself to reason like Mr. Grimbal — finders keepers — and that meant the pendant was mine.

  I opened my sweaty palm and lifted it closer to Mr. Grimbal. He reached out to take it, and I quickly pulled my hand back.

  “Well, I’m going to need a good look at it,” he said.

  “I’m not saying I’m going to sell it to you. I’m just wondering what you’d pay for an artifact like this.” I’d have to be careful. This thing was the only chance for Mom and me.

  Mr. Grimbal smirked. “Well, now, if that came from the burial in your yard, that would make it at least a couple of thousand years old. It’s a pretty little thing, too.” He rubbed his chin again, calculating something in his mind. “I could give you five hundred cash right now.”

  Blood rushed to my face, and I stuffed the stone back into my pocket and turned toward the door.