Reading the Bones (3 page)

“Why can't she just let me decide what to wear or what to read or who to be friends with?” I complained
to my mom on the phone one day.

“I guess she's forgotten what it's like being young. Give her time, pet. She'll come round.”

Aunt Margaret's latest kick was making me do my own laundry. She said I needed to learn to look after myself. That was fine with me, because it meant she stopped coming into my room five times a day — even when there was a mountain of dirty clothes on the floor. I think she figured I'd give in when I had nothing clean to wear. But she didn't really know me that well. Every time I left the house wearing a wrinkled T-shirt and socks that didn't match, I could see her almost pinch her lips shut. I guess you could say I was giving her a crash course on parenting.

A few weeks after coming to live with my aunt and uncle, I got interested in collecting seashells. It started one day when I was sitting by myself at the beach. Mrs. Hobbs and her old basset hound, Chester, came along, their heads pointed toward the sand. They seemed to take no notice of the nippy southwest breeze coming in from the Pacific. I watched as the silver-haired lady stopped and bent down to examine something more closely. After brushing at some tiny object in her hand, she walked up to me as though we had known each other for ages and said, “Have you ever seen a more perfect specimen of an
Ophiodermella cancellata
?”

I had to agree that the white spiral-shaped shell with its delicate design was pretty, even though there was no way I could repeat its strange name.

“Well, here you are, young lady.” Mrs. Hobbs placed the shell in my hand. “This can be the beginning of your collection. And the nice thing about shell collecting is
it's something you can do by yourself or with a friend.” Then she smiled and continued down the beach with Chester waddling along.

After that I did start my own shell collection. And whenever Mrs. Hobbs and I found ourselves at the beach at the same time, we combed the sand together, looking for more unique shells. Crescent Beach was covered with limpets, and so far I had managed to find four different species. I also had five types of snails, two different butter clams, a Pacific gaper, and cockles galore. But my favourite so far was the Adanson's lepton with its pearly pink centre and purplish-red fringe. I was planning to make a necklace with the shells for Mom when I collected enough.

As soon as Aunt Margaret noticed I was interested in shells, she bought me a book called
Shells of the Pacific Ocean
. It had lots of beautiful pictures. At first I was excited about the book. But then I realized it was her way of taking control again — making shell collecting into a “learning opportunity.”

“You should label the shells in your collection with their common and scientific names,” she suggested one day. “Then for fun you could look up their Greek and Latin origins.”

Right! That sounded like about as much fun as watching twenty-year-old reruns of
Mr. Rogers
. Snore!

Whenever my aunt interfered, I tried to remember she meant well. But I'd found the best thing was to stay out of her way as much as possible. So when I wasn't down at the beach collecting shells, I wandered past the little shops and up and down the quiet streets. West Beach had lots of fancy houses, like the ones along O'Hare

Lane. They had names hanging on signs out front like Swallow Hallow or Komokwa. I liked the name on the old Tudor house the best — Happy Haven. Sometimes there were garden parties with ladies in long dresses and men in suits drinking from tall, elegant glasses. No one seemed to notice when I stopped to watch.

The houses in East Beach, where I lived, were smaller. Most were cottages, built long ago, when people only came to Crescent Beach for their holidays. My aunt and uncle's house was nearly seventy years old and used to be a one-bedroom getaway. A previous owner added a second floor with three bedrooms.

One morning Aunt Margaret got the idea I should come with her to the decorating store and choose the paint colour for my bedroom. But I wasn't planning on living there for long and I certainly didn't want anything to do with picking out paint colours. I snuck out when she was in the shower and made my way to the end of McBride and out to the beach at Blackie's Spit. I liked early mornings on the beach the best. Hardly anyone was ever there.

A startled blue heron lurched awkwardly into the sky just as I jumped over a log and plunked myself onto the sun-warmed sand. I watched two seagulls fight over a cracked open clamshell, while two more circled silently overhead. I wondered how long it would take for the emptied clam to become tiny bits of crushed shell scattered all over the beach. On the other hand, it might go home in some kid's sand pail as part of a shell collection like mine, or become decorated with paint and glitter and sit on a windowsill.

On that morning Mrs. Hobbs and Chester were out
for a walk at the end of the spit. When she noticed me, she waved and marched in my direction. The wind whipped at strands of silver hair that had escaped from under her Tilley hat. And as the old dog waddled behind her, his tummy nearly dragged along the sand. Mrs. Hobbs lived on Sullivan Street, just down from Skipper's Fish and Chips. She once told me Chester liked to spend his free time sniffing out leftovers by the dumpster.

“Hello, Peggy. You wouldn't believe the treasure I've been gathering this morning!” Mrs. Hobbs said, nearly out of breath. She opened her palm and presented several long, thin tubular shells that were almost translucent, except for their pattern of tiny flecks. “These are tusk shells. With the tide out I managed to find these few in the mud and silt off the end of the spit. The ancient Coast Salish traditionally used them for decoration and trading.”

“Trading?” I knew a shrewd bargainer never appeared too eager, so I tried not to look excited. “I'll trade you something for them.”

“Hmm. What have you got that I might want?” Mrs. Hobbs's eyes were smiling.

“How about some of my best Adanson's leptons?” The tusk shells would be perfect for the necklace I wanted to make for Mom.

“That sounds pretty enticing. However, I was thinking more along the lines of, say, lawn cutting ... next Saturday?”

“Sure. It's a deal! Thanks.” I snatched the five delicate shells from her hand.

The day I got those tusk shells from Mrs. Hobbs was the first time I'd ever heard about the Coast Salish people. After Uncle Stuart and I discovered the skull in
the yard, I realized those shells were the first sign of a strange adventure.

Now, since I couldn't sleep, I crawled out of bed and pulled down my shell collection from the shelf. I rolled the long tubular tusk shells in my fingers and thought about the ancient people and what Eddy had said about the burial. For the first time I was glad I had moved to Crescent Beach with Aunt Margaret and Uncle Stuart. Still, it would take some time getting used to the idea of living over an ancient Native burial ground.

Finally, I got back into bed and closed my eyes. I tried to imagine a time when the tiny peninsula was covered in trees and the only people were the dark-skinned Natives who lived by the sea.

The next morning Eddy and I stood at the edge of the hole, looking down on the burial. She had already cleared away some of the dirt, and I could see a form beginning to emerge. It seemed more like a small child lying on its side, curled up in sleep. I felt a little weird staring at those fragile bones, bare of all life.

“Okay, Peggy, when excavating a site, what's more important at the time — the artifacts you find or the place you find them?”

In some ways Eddy reminded me of Mrs. Hobbs, though not in the way she dressed. Eddy wore a goofy hat covered in souvenir pins from all over the world and a khaki shirt with little pockets holding lots of little things, like a plumb bob, a measuring tape, and calipers. Her hands were thick and tough — the kind used to hard work and getting dirty. But she was easy to talk to like Mrs. Hobbs and made me feel as if what I thought mattered.

I searched for the words Eddy had used the day before. “It's the artifacts in ... ah ... situ — that's it! The artifacts in situ can tell you the most. That's why an archaeologist never takes the stuff out until every bit of information around the artifact has been recorded.”

Eddy smiled. “What kind of information are we looking for?”

“Okay, I know this. How deep the things are from
the surface ... ah, what other stuff is associated nearby ... um, and what the layers of soil are like. That's the matrix, right?”

“All right! You've been listening! Now that you've passed the test you're ready to be my assistant.” Eddy's round, wrinkled face smiled approvingly. Gently, she stepped over the string barrier she'd made and knelt by the bones. “Hand me the trowel and dustpan. I'm going to start by levelling this layer that you and your uncle started. Before we can remove the skull and bones, we have to see what else this burial can tell us.”

I handed her the tool box. Many of the objects inside were things most people had in their garden shed — a dustpan, a bucket, a hand broom, and a diamond-shaped mason's trowel. There were also some plastic sandwich bags, a small paint brush, and a dental pick like the one Dr. Forsythe used.

Carefully, Eddy scraped the dirt into the dustpan “We're not planting flowers and shrubs, so it's important to consider that just millimetres below, or in the next scoop of matrix, we might find some important bit of information. We don't want anything to be damaged or missed.” Eddy's pudgy body was perched over the burial as if she were a medic giving first aid. Occasionally, she stopped and wiped her forehead with the red bandana hanging loosely around her neck.

Soon the bucket was filled with black sandy soil dotted with bits of broken shell. “Okay, let's screen this stuff.” She pointed to a rectangular frame covered in fine wire mesh dangling from three poles tied at the top like a teepee. “Once we've screened away the loose dirt, we'll look carefully for any small things I might have missed.”

I struggled to carry the bucket over to the screening station. Every time I hoisted the pail up to dump its contents, the screen swung away. After three tries, I finally managed to empty the pail.

“We need to look for anything that appears to be plant life, small animal bones, or shell fragments that I can use to determine food sources available at the time of this burial,” Eddy said. “There might even be some small artifacts, like flaked stone from tool-making.”

I pushed around the cold, damp soil, which felt like coarse sandpaper to my hands.

“That-a-girl!” Eddy said. “Now push it around evenly and search for anything that might be important.”

I studied the surface without recognizing anything special.

“Okay, nothing there,” Eddy instructed. “Now start to shake it back and forth.”

I rocked the screen as if it were a baby in a cradle. “You'll have to do better than that,” she told me. “Give it a good shake.”

The tiniest grains of soil fell through, covering the plastic sheet with an ever-rising mound of dirt. I could imagine what Aunt Margaret was going to think when she saw all this dirt flattening her grass. Soon there was nothing left in the screen except some tiny pebbles and bits of broken shell that were too large to slip through the wire.

“It's nothing too exciting, but we'll bag these shell fragments as a food sample.” Eddy brought out a clipboard, a paper form, and a plastic Ziploc bag. At the top of the paper were the words “Artifact Record Form.” Below was the word
Site
, and next to it Eddy
wrote “DhRr 1 — Peggy's Pond.”

“These letters are a code that will tell any other scientist exactly which site this sample was taken from.” Eddy winked. “Kind of like when
X
marks the spot on a pirate's treasure map.”

“But why did you write Peggy's Pond?”

“It's customary to name a site. Sometimes we name it after the local Native group, or the landowner — or in this case the site discoverer.”

My cheeks turned warm with colour, then I watched as Eddy wrote: “Shell samples are a possible food source, found in level 1, ten centimetres below datum.” After that she filled the bag.

“Seems kind of gross that broken shell bits could be evidence of what ancient people ate, especially with a dead person in the mix,” I said. “That's about as appetizing as finding the remains of a dead pet in the garden along with the zucchini and carrots.”

Eddy chuckled. “I can see what you mean. But all these broken shells are here because the ancient ones heaped up the used clamshells or fish bones when they were finished with them — kind of like an ancient garbage dump, except it was all organic. Archaeologists call this a shell midden. We're not absolutely certain why, but it's quite common in this area to find burials in the midden.”

“I bet it has something to do with covering the scent of the body so wild animals don't go digging it up. Nothing could stink as much as rotting fish guts and stuff, right?”

“That could be it,” Eddy said, smiling. “All right, now that you've seen how we record information and
store it in bags, you can do the next one.”

She picked up the bucket and returned to the excavation pit. I knelt beside her on the grass, staring at the black midden like a pup ready to pounce on a ball.

The morning passed quickly, and I lost track of the number of buckets I screened. We didn't find a single artifact, and all there was to show for our hard work was a neat mound of loose sand, shell, and dirt under the screen.

“My legs are getting stiff,” Eddy finally said. “How would you like to dig for a while?”

My heart leaped the way it had when Uncle Stuart said I could back the car down the driveway. Careful not to crush any fragile bones, I stepped inside the small pit. Moving around was a bit like trying to navigate inside a cardboard box.