Reading the Bones (11 page)

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, changing 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.

“Now don't rush off. If you're really serious about selling that thing, I could probably give you a better deal.”

Mr. Grimbal wore a poker face, and I had no idea what he was thinking. “I want three thousand dollars,” I told him. “It's that or no deal.” I knew it was me talking, but I hardly recognized my own voice.

“Three thousand dollars? You've got to be kidding. No one in their right mind would pay that much. But seeing that I'm in a good mood today, I'll give you half that.”

If I even hesitated, I knew he'd win. By now I had a pretty good idea what my artifact was worth, so I turned and walked quickly past Tsonokwa and out the door. As I moved up the sidewalk, Mr. Grimbal yelled at me from the door.
“Okay, okay, you've got a deal. Come back in an hour and I'll have the cash.”

I tore up Beecher, passed the petroglyphs, and turned left on Sullivan. I didn't slow down until I knew I was out of Mr. Grimbal's sight. That was when I first felt the prickle of guilt as I thought about Eddy again. But she didn't know anything about the little carving. I reasoned that the old man in the burial had no use for it, while Mom and I really needed the money.

I ran into the backyard and bolted up the back stairs, avoiding the form under the orange tarp. I wanted to call Mom and tell her I'd won some money in a contest. What kind of a contest? I'd have to think first.

As I reached for the phone, I heard a knock at the front door. Then Uncle Stuart called out to my aunt. “Is Peggy back yet? There's someone here to see her.”

Immediately, I knew it was Mrs. Hobbs and rushed down the hall. Before I got to the front door I saw Chester's nose sniffing just inside the doorway. I bent down and rubbed his head, but when I glanced up it wasn't Mrs. Hobbs standing behind him. It was TB. I frowned in disappointment.

“Hi, TB. What are you doing here ... with Chester?”

“I'm looking after him. I came over because I thought you'd want to know that Mrs. Hobbs was taken by ambulance to Peace Arch Hospital early this morning.”

Did someone just slam me in the face with a frying pan? “She's sick? She's gone to the hospital?” My ankles melted, and I was afraid I'd collapse into a heap.

I felt my aunt place her hands on my shoulders,
which seemed to help steady me. “Hi, I'm Peggy's aunt. I heard you tell Peggy that Mrs. Hobbs is in the hospital. Thank you for taking the time to come here to tell her.” Then she looked into my face. “We can go there right now if you want.”

I was in a daze, but somehow I managed to nod.

As Aunt Margaret and I drove up Crescent Road's windy hill, I caught glimpses of the grassy shoreline that gave way to the horseshoe-shaped bay below. If I looked beyond the houses and telephone wires, I could pretend I was seeing it as it was thousands of years ago.

When we got to the hospital, we found Mrs. Hobbs in room 316. The gloomy space was divided into quarters by curtains and was shared by three other elderly ladies. As I approached Mrs. Hobbs's bed, her eyes were closed and I noticed that her skin was pallid. Her silver hair, which was usually twisted into a neat bun at the back of her head, hung flat and lifeless around her face. She had clear plastic tubes in her nose, and a loud whirr came from the oxygen machine on the floor next to her. I think she must have sensed our presence, because she slowly opened her eyes.

“Oh, Peggy dear, how kind of you to come.”

Kind? How could she say that? Last night I'd forgotten all about her. I'd probably caused her to get sick, too. I could feel my aunt close beside me, and at that moment I almost wanted to bury myself in her arms.

“Now don't be alarmed, honey,” Mrs. Hobbs said. “I don't know what came over me, but I'll be fine soon.” She closed her eyes, and at first I thought she'd drifted off to sleep. “Now I want you to go ahead and finish your mom's
present. TB's mother has a key to my place. You go in and get that box of shells. It's still on top of the china hutch. Oh, and give dear old Chester a hug for me, will you?”

I jammed my palms into my eyes, pushing back the tears.

We didn't stay long. Aunt Margaret said Mrs. Hobbs needed to rest. The drive home was too quiet, so I turned on the radio. Immediately, the car was filled with the gentle strumming of a guitar and the sad twang of a country singer.

You broke my heart when you left me all alone.

No one to hug at night, or talk to on the phone.

For months I prayed to God in heaven above,

To give me strength to find new love.

To give me strength to find new love.

I punched at the station tuner — a news bulletin about a car bomb somewhere in the Middle East. I punched it again — a commercial for life insurance. Finally, I snapped off the radio and sat quietly until we got back to Crescent Beach.

“I'd like to take a walk,” I said when we passed the
WELCOME TO CRESCENT BEACH SIGN
.

Aunt Margaret pulled the car off to the side of the road. “It's been a very emotional day, Peggy. I'm not sure it's a good idea for you to be alone.”