Read Online The Visitant: Book I of the Anasazi Mysteries by W. Michael Gear, Kathleen O’Neal Gear - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: W. Michael Gear, Kathleen O’Neal Gear
Ads: Link
wretch,” Sylvia said. She brushed her shoulder-length brown hair back from where the wind teased it. A sparkle animated her bright green eyes. “Are you going to pull the dirt back from that rock or wait until we all die of sunstroke?”
Steve moved with a careful grace, his trowel carving the sandy soil back from the rock.
“Whoa,” Dale called. “Watch it. That’s a discoloration.”
“Whoops,” Steve said. He followed around the lighter dirt with his trowel. “You’re right. Looks like this was dug out, and filled back up. Want to take bets that the discoloration runs around the body?”
“A burial?” Sylvia said. “Why the rock on his head?”
“First things first,” Dusty said in measured tones. “Somebody hand Stevie Wonder here a Ziploc. I want a soil sample.”
Dusty watched as Steve troweled fresh dirt into the plastic bag, measured in the location, and pulled his line level out to take a depth from the pit datum stake. Then he handed it up for Sylvia to label.
Dusty glanced at Dale. “Are you thinking what I’m thinking?”
Dale shrugged. “Steve, trowel down around the cervical area, see if you can follow the spine up to the back of the skull. If you have to coyote under the rock for the moment, it’s all right.”
Sylvia frowned. “What are you thinking, boss?”
Dusty just shook his head, waiting.
Steve carefully positioned himself so that he wouldn’t crush the fragile bone, and scraped the dirt away from the neck area, chiseling under the rock. “All right, race fans, I’ve got cervical vertebrae here, and … yes, I can feel the skull.” Steve glanced up. “Okay, the guy’s definitely got a rock on his head. What’s it mean?”
Dale gave Dusty a warning look, followed by a slight shake of the head.
Taking the cue, Dusty said, “Well, in the Anasazi days, the cemetery commission didn’t make you set the headstones in concrete. You’ll have to take it up with the local 10K3 undertaker. In the meantime, make sure you’ve got everything mapped in, photographed, and recorded. You are not to remove a single bone. Got that? We’re in NAGPRA land now. This unit has just been removed from the rule of science and placed under the rule of law.”
His crew nodded. NAGPRA, the Native American Graves Protection and Repatriation Act, required archaeologists to stop digging and wait for further instructions from the federal agency. They could excavate other units, just not one with a burial in it.
“You’ll have to call Maggie,” Dale said as he stepped back from the pit.
“As soon as I can get to the Visitor’s Center,” Dusty said. “I told you, Dale. I’ve just got a feeling about this site.”
“I hope your feeling doesn’t have to do with that rock.”
Dusty looked down at the rock and narrowed an eye. Maggie’s words haunted him. He could feel the Old Ones watching from across time, their souls fluttering just at the edge of his.
“Me, too,” he answered, genuinely worried.
5
C ATKIN STOOD BESIDE GRASS MOON’S BURIAL LADDER.
Everyone else had gone.
Father Sun hung like a fiery red ball over Talon Town. The cracked white plaster gleamed a bloody hue. Voices rose from the plaza. People must have gathered outside of Cloudblower’s chamber.
Catkin knelt and propped her war club across her knees. She whispered to the dead boy, “Don’t worry, little one. I will make certain you reach the Land of the Dead. No one will desecrate your body.”
Two hundred paces to her left, Browser’s dead wife lay at the base of the towering canyon wall. Toppled boulders jutted up around the grave. When Wind Baby gusted, a fine mist of snow whirled up and bobbed along the cliff face.
If a body were not properly cared for, cleansed, and rubbed with cornmeal, the confused soul would not know where to go or what to do. It would become a wicked, desperate ghost, wandering the land, crying. The only fate worse belonged to witches. A stone kept their souls locked in a space
Steve moved with a careful grace, his trowel carving the sandy soil back from the rock.
“Whoa,” Dale called. “Watch it. That’s a discoloration.”
“Whoops,” Steve said. He followed around the lighter dirt with his trowel. “You’re right. Looks like this was dug out, and filled back up. Want to take bets that the discoloration runs around the body?”
“A burial?” Sylvia said. “Why the rock on his head?”
“First things first,” Dusty said in measured tones. “Somebody hand Stevie Wonder here a Ziploc. I want a soil sample.”
Dusty watched as Steve troweled fresh dirt into the plastic bag, measured in the location, and pulled his line level out to take a depth from the pit datum stake. Then he handed it up for Sylvia to label.
Dusty glanced at Dale. “Are you thinking what I’m thinking?”
Dale shrugged. “Steve, trowel down around the cervical area, see if you can follow the spine up to the back of the skull. If you have to coyote under the rock for the moment, it’s all right.”
Sylvia frowned. “What are you thinking, boss?”
Dusty just shook his head, waiting.
Steve carefully positioned himself so that he wouldn’t crush the fragile bone, and scraped the dirt away from the neck area, chiseling under the rock. “All right, race fans, I’ve got cervical vertebrae here, and … yes, I can feel the skull.” Steve glanced up. “Okay, the guy’s definitely got a rock on his head. What’s it mean?”
Dale gave Dusty a warning look, followed by a slight shake of the head.
Taking the cue, Dusty said, “Well, in the Anasazi days, the cemetery commission didn’t make you set the headstones in concrete. You’ll have to take it up with the local 10K3 undertaker. In the meantime, make sure you’ve got everything mapped in, photographed, and recorded. You are not to remove a single bone. Got that? We’re in NAGPRA land now. This unit has just been removed from the rule of science and placed under the rule of law.”
His crew nodded. NAGPRA, the Native American Graves Protection and Repatriation Act, required archaeologists to stop digging and wait for further instructions from the federal agency. They could excavate other units, just not one with a burial in it.
“You’ll have to call Maggie,” Dale said as he stepped back from the pit.
“As soon as I can get to the Visitor’s Center,” Dusty said. “I told you, Dale. I’ve just got a feeling about this site.”
“I hope your feeling doesn’t have to do with that rock.”
Dusty looked down at the rock and narrowed an eye. Maggie’s words haunted him. He could feel the Old Ones watching from across time, their souls fluttering just at the edge of his.
“Me, too,” he answered, genuinely worried.
5
C ATKIN STOOD BESIDE GRASS MOON’S BURIAL LADDER.
Everyone else had gone.
Father Sun hung like a fiery red ball over Talon Town. The cracked white plaster gleamed a bloody hue. Voices rose from the plaza. People must have gathered outside of Cloudblower’s chamber.
Catkin knelt and propped her war club across her knees. She whispered to the dead boy, “Don’t worry, little one. I will make certain you reach the Land of the Dead. No one will desecrate your body.”
Two hundred paces to her left, Browser’s dead wife lay at the base of the towering canyon wall. Toppled boulders jutted up around the grave. When Wind Baby gusted, a fine mist of snow whirled up and bobbed along the cliff face.
If a body were not properly cared for, cleansed, and rubbed with cornmeal, the confused soul would not know where to go or what to do. It would become a wicked, desperate ghost, wandering the land, crying. The only fate worse belonged to witches. A stone kept their souls locked in a space
Similar Books
