Читать книгу Broken Bones - Gina McMurchy-Barber - Страница 9

Chapter Three

The first thing I noticed when I awakened the next morning was a delicious smell coming from the kitchen. As I sat up, I also saw that the coffee table was clear except for a basket of fresh fruit in the middle, the dining room table was set for breakfast, and Aunt Norma was standing at the sink washing dishes.

“Hi, Aunt Norma,” I called out groggily.

She turned toward me and raised her soapy hands. “There’s my girl. How did you sleep?”

I got up to give her a hug but stumbled over some hiking shoes.

“Sorry,” she said. “I meant to put those away.”

I threw my arms around my aunt. “That’s okay. Messiness makes me feel relaxed, like I’m on holiday.”

“Say no more. I’ve lived with your Aunt Margaret, too, you know.”

We both laughed and then I gave Aunt Norma an extra-long squeeze. “Mmmm.” I yawned and stretched my arms to the ceiling. “What smells so good?”

“I made you my favourite — cornbread. I even got some real maple syrup to slather on top.” She turned to the oven and opened it wide. Inside was a pan big enough to feed ten people. “Hope you’re good and hungry!”

I ate three large pieces of cornbread soaked in syrup, which might explain why my stomach soon felt as if it were stuffed with a football. I groaned happily. “Thanks. That was delicious.”

“Good. I wanted something special to celebrate your visit. I’m sorry I wasn’t here when you arrived last night. When I finally pulled in, it was around 2:00 a.m. and I didn’t want to wake you. Good thing you’re like me — able to sleep anywhere.”

“Do you always work so late, Aunt Norma?”

“Only if I’m on to a scoop — that’s newspaper jargon for a big story.” Her voice became serious. “Over the last month there have been a number of vandalisms like the one at the Pioneer Cemetery that brought you here.”

Maybe it was the fact that I was originally from a big city, but I almost snickered at the thought of vandalism being a big scoop.

As if Aunt Norma could read my mind, she added, “It’s not that vandalism is so strange, though we hardly ever get any around here. It’s the fact that they’re all directed at historical sites and cemeteries, particularly the burials of important Golden pioneers.”

“But I thought you already knew who was responsible.”

She shrugged and frowned. “The police have been questioning a teenage boy in connection with the disturbed burial at the Pioneer Cemetery.”

Figures it was a teenager, same as before. “If he’s responsible for the Pioneer Cemetery vandalism,” I said, “it has to be him who damaged the other sites, too, right?”

“It’s possible, but I find it all somewhat suspicious. I mean, most teenagers don’t know a thing about Golden’s history and don’t give two hoots, either.”

“Aunt Norma, you sound more like a detective than a newspaper reporter. Why don’t you let the police solve this?”

“Well, you could say we’re working on the case together. I tell Skip — that’s Constable Hopkins to you — what I know, and he slips me a tip or two back.”

“Skip Hopkins, eh?”

“Yeah, over at the newspaper office we call him Skip Hop-and-a-Jump. Of course, nobody’d ever say that to his face — he’s much too serious to take a little ribbing. You’ll meet him sometime, I’m sure. But keep in mind, unless you’ve got time to hear the entire history of the RCMP and its predecessor, the North-West Mounted Police, don’t ask him anything about his job.” Aunt Norma started clearing the table. “So what time is your archaeology friend coming around?”

I got up to rinse the dishes and glanced at the clock — it was only 9:15. “Eddy said something about getting a letter of permission to excavate. So it’s going to be later this morning.”

Aunt Norma looked at her watch. “I hate to do it to you, kid, but I’ve got to get to work.”

“But it’s early and I just got here,” I protested. “Can’t you go in late?”

“Sorry, the news comes first. Why don’t you wander around town and see what’s up? We’ve got a great little museum you should check out. Henry’s been the curator for the last twenty years and knows all there is to know about Golden’s history. His ancestors were among the first pioneers to come here. While you and your friend are digging up the ground, Henry could be digging into some dusty old pages looking for useful information that might help you.”

“Eddy told me when there’s written documents available that help an archaeologist interpret the past they call it historical archaeology. Otherwise an archaeologist has to depend on just the material remains, like artifacts, human bones, or dwellings, to piece together the lives of people who lived long ago.”

“That sounds like when a detective looks for clues at a crime scene,” Aunt Norma added.

“Yup, an archaeologist looks for clues that can tell what people ate, how they made tools, what their homes were like, and even stuff that helps us to understand what they believed happened after death.”

“I’m pretty certain you and Henry will make good friends. He loves history as much as you love archaeology. You know, some of the best information you’ll ever find comes from old newspapers. He’s got some at the museum. Ask him about them. They’re full of information that will give you a good sense of people’s attitudes in the past. There’s one old guy I always get a kick out of — John Houston, editor of The Truth. He was a good example of how racist and intolerant people used to be.”

Aunt Norma laughed. It was one of those snorting laughs, and I suddenly realized she looked and sounded just like Mom.

“The only good thing you could say,” she continued, “was at least he looked down his nose at everyone equally — the Irish were the navvies, the Chinese were Chinamen, and the First Nations people, well, more often than not, they were the redskins.” Aunt Norma squeezed my hand and got up from the table. “Sorry, kiddo, but I have to get ready for work.”

I was about to do my best impression of a pouting kid but was interrupted by a knock at the door. When I opened it, there was Eddy grinning her curly white head off.

“I know I said it would be late morning before I got here, so I hope you don’t mind that I’m early.”

“Mind? It’s perfect. My aunt’s getting dressed right now and is about to ditch me for work. Do you want to come in and have some leftover cornbread? It’s awesome.” I patted my stomach.

“Thanks, but I’ve had my breakfast. Do you think you could get ready in a hurry?”

I smiled and saluted. “I’ll get ready double quick, Captain. I’ll meet you in the truck in five minutes.”

It was quite amazing how fast I could dress when I had a good reason. After dragging a brush through my hair, scrubbing my teeth for ten seconds, and giving Aunt Norma a kiss on the cheek, I dashed out the door. It was only when I came to a screeching halt in front of the truck that I realized we had a visitor riding shotgun. He had long stringy black hair, a ring through his bottom lip, and black eyeliner, and when he waved, I could see he even had black nail polish. Ugh.

“Sorry, Peggy, you’ll have to sit in the back of the cab today.” Eddy directed me to the narrow bench behind the driver’s seat — hardly big enough for a doll to sit on. “Peggy Henderson, meet Sam McLeod.”

“Hi, Sam,” I said shyly.

The guy turned and smiled slightly. “Actually, I prefer to be called Tristan, like King Arthur’s knight.”

Actually, why don’t I just call you Frank, as in short for Frankenstein? I thought.

“It is an honour to meet the young maid of whom I have heard so much,” he added.

Now that was a completely weird-the-kid-out thing to say. I turned to look out the rear window so he couldn’t see how my face was turning into a ripe tomato.

Eddy chuckled. “Sam … I mean, Tristan has a flare for the dramatic.”

“Ah, ’tis true, madam,” he said in a phony British accent. “All the world’s a stage, and all the men and women merely players.”

Somebody get me a barf bag. What was Eddy thinking bringing this guy along?

“Shakespeare,” Eddy said, smiling. “That line’s from As You Like It, act 2.”

“Dear lady,” the kid said, “you render me nearly speechless — but not to fear, for I shall quickly recover.”

Eddy slapped her leg and hooted like an owl.

“It pleases me that the lady is so familiar with the works of William Shakespeare. M’thinks we shall be fast friends indeed.”

“M’thinks so, too, young sir,” Eddy said, still laughing. “Nothing could be better than mixing a little Shakespeare in with your archaeology.” Eddy turned to me as if she’d just remembered I was sitting in the back listening to them. “We’re fortunate to have Tristan along today. He lives in Golden and is one of the few who knows exactly where the old Pioneer Cemetery is. He’s going to lead us to the disturbed burial site, and that’s going to save us time searching for it ourselves.”

I was glad she’d finally shared her reason for bringing the Goth geek along. I was beginning to think she’d split her beam … or cracked her noggin … or flipped her lid. No matter what her excuse, I got the distinct feeling this wasn’t going to be the kind of morning I’d been looking forward to.

Fortunately, the drive to the Pioneer Cemetery was short. After the underpass, we motored along a narrow road that ran between the railway and a steep hill.

“Stop the carriage here,” Tristan suddenly directed.

When we got out, I glanced around, expecting to see something that looked like a cemetery. Besides the train tracks and the dirt road, there was nothing — well, like I said, nothing except a steep hill covered in trees, fallen rocks, and brush. I was beginning to wonder if the Shakespeare wannabe was on a mental vacation.

“Ah, Eddy, there’s nothing here,” I blurted with a sense of satisfaction and irritation.

“How poor are they who have not patience! Follow me, ladies.”

Double ugh. Somebody get me that barf bag quick.

Tristan started up the steep slope, which was covered in scrawny pine trees and shrubs, with loose rocks that must have rolled down from the highway at the top of the hill. As Eddy and I followed him, a few bits of shattered and weathered wood caught my eye. They looked like part of an old picket fence. I couldn’t think of any reason why there would be a picket fence on a steep hillside — they must have been dumped by someone too lazy to make the trip to the landfill.

When I noticed Eddy puffing like a whale, I almost laughed. She needed to come to the conclusion on her own that this Tristan guy was a git. Finally, we came to a stop.

Tristan turned and grinned. “It is here, dear ladies.”

“Phew, thank goodness,” Eddy said, gasping for air. “I didn’t think I’d be able to go any higher.” She plopped onto the ground to catch her breath.

As I looked around, I couldn’t see anything that looked like a cemetery or a burial — just the same shrubs, tall grass, and scruffy trees. Well, that and a few mounds that were probably home to some pretty big rabbits. Then Tristan pulled back some tall tufts of grass to reveal a freshly dug hole about the size of a spare tire. I peered into the hole that was about forty-five centimetres deep and saw a tiny bit of flat surface peeking out that could have been wood.

“This is it? This is the burial we’re here to see? How could this hillside be a cemetery?” For a split second I heard my Aunt Margaret’s grating voice whining like a screeching skill saw — the way she did if she figured something was absurd. Then I realized it was just me.

“It might be strange nowadays,” Eddy began, “but a century ago it took a lot of back-breaking work to clear land with only a few hand tools and the help of some horsepower. Pioneers couldn’t afford to use the flat fertile land you see down there for anything but farms and ranches. But this here slope was perfect for a cemetery. It was close to the original townsite, wasn’t useful for anything else … and besides that, it offered a beautiful view of the valley and mountains beyond. What better location could there be for a final resting place for the dearly departed?”

Tristan pulled down more grass and weeds so I could see a neat formation of rocks in the shape of an elliptical ring. That was when I remembered the bits of broken wood I’d seen down the hill and realized they were once part of the white picket fence that would have surrounded the cemetery — just like the fancy little fences I’d noticed around every little cemetery in every little town from Hope to Golden. It took less than a nanosecond for the heat to spread across my face again like soupy ketchup.

“Well, it looks just like any other hillside around here to me,” I mumbled, somehow thinking that was an excuse for being so thick.

“That’s right, which is good in a way,” Eddy said. “The fact this looks like any old hillside has protected the burials in this cemetery for a long time.”

“Well, it didn’t protect it completely. Obviously, the creep responsible for disturbing this burial knows all about —” I stopped in mid-sentence with a disturbing question in mind for Tristan when Eddy suddenly took out her orange marking tape and wrapped a piece around a small tree.

“Peggy, I need you to find me a sturdy stick about sixty centimetres long,” she ordered before I had a chance to say more. “I want to make a flag marker so we’ll be able to do a survey of the site and locate it easily when we come back tomorrow.”

Being cut off and ignored felt as if a bucket of cold water had been thrown into my face. If I hadn’t had manners, I would have told her to get Prince Charming to fetch the stick.

Once Eddy had marked the site, she insisted I be quiet as she walked down the slope and counted off the number of paces. At the bottom of the hill she marked the bearings with her compass and then left another orange marker.

“Thanks for your help, Tristan,” Eddy said. “Now we won’t have any trouble finding our way to the burial tomorrow.”

What? Thanks for your help … Tristan?

Before I had a chance to say anything, Eddy marched off to the truck. “Okay, let’s get going, you two. I’ve got to get over to the Canadian National Railway office. Since they’re the owners of the land, I need to work out an agreement with them on the conditions for the excavation and historical resource assessment.”

Soon we dropped the teenage mutant off at some old house. The grass was seriously overgrown and brown, and the paint looked as if it must have started peeling off a century ago.

Before Tristan closed the truck door he hesitated. “May I ask — when shall we three meet again. In thunder, lightning, or in rain?”

Eddy snorted so loudly I jumped off the seat. “You’re good. Macbeth, scene 1. How about coming to help us tomorrow? We could use an extra pair of hands. I’ll come for you in the morning.”

Tristan gave a sweeping bow. “As you wish, madam.” Then he paused, probably waiting for the curtain to lower and the audience to applaud. “Parting is such sweet sorrow that I shall say good night till it be morrow.”

Eddy hooted like an owl again. “Romeo and Juliet, act 2.”

“My compliments. The lady’s vast memory is my match indeed.”

All right, stop the show! Somebody get this kid off the stage.

“What a goof!” I muttered half under my breath after he disappeared into the house. “C’mon, Eddy, you don’t really want the guy to help us, do you?”

“Oh, he’s not so bad. Methinks the lady doth protest too much.”

I shot her a stabbing glare.

“Hamlet, act —”

“No more Shakespeare,” I protested. “Otherwise I’m walking back to Aunt Norma’s.”

Eddy snickered, but we spent the rest of the drive in silence. I felt like pinching myself over the idea of having to spend the next day excavating with Tristan. I was definitely going to lose sleep over this one.

As I climbed out of the truck in front of Aunt Norma’s place, Eddy handed me a large brown envelope. “Here’s a little easy reading for you. And don’t worry, it’s not Shakespeare.”

I grinned back. “Aw, that’s too bad. The cat’s litter box needs some fresh paper lining. So what is it?”

“Oh, just a short history of Golden and some stuff about the previous excavation. Should make good bedtime reading.”

I watched as Eddy drove off in her junky old red truck. She seemed to be laughing about something — probably all the dumb things Shakespeare Boy had said. Then I glanced at the package in my hands and felt all the irritation slip away. I was eager to get my teeth into this project and knew the contents of that envelope were the gateway to an exciting adventure.

~

William Maguire closes his knapsack and flings it over his shoulder, being careful not to look into his mother’s eyes swollen with tears. He fears just seeing them will weaken his resolve, and that must not happen. It is his job now to look after the family — Father made him promise.

“I will write as soon as I can, Mama. And I will send money along from Farwell when I get my first pay.” Will briefly presses his cheek against hers and then gently touches Henry’s and Emily’s heads before leaving. The blank stares on their faces betray minds incapable of absorbing any more pain. How could they when their father is far away in a jail in New Westminster — nary to be seen again in their life — and the folks who were once like aunts and uncles now shun them when they go to town with Mother to buy the few scraps of food she can afford. And now this — their older brother going away, too — leaving them to work in a silver mine two days’ journey from home.

There is only one other person Will wants to say goodbye to, but he dares not for the shame it might bring on her.

“Mama, if you see Rosie, tell her goodbye from me.” Since Father’s conviction, Will has not even seen the girl. He is not certain her feelings toward him are unchanged, and for this reason cannot bear to promise to write her.

Will plods along the road with heaviness in his heart and boots. He recalls those times he wished he could leave home on an adventure — to strike out on his own, explore the world beyond Golden. Only in his imagination he never pictured leaving quite so soon, or being so young, or having to carry the burdens of the world on his shoulders.

A sudden chilly wind comes up from behind. Will pulls up the collar on his wool coat and buries his face in the scarf his mother knitted for him last Christmas. It was made from an old sweater of Father’s, and if he breathes deeply, it still smells of him.

How things have changed these past nine months since the family was all together. But even when they were all under one roof, he could not exactly say they were happy times. For, in fact, they were all nearly starving. Father made excuses that it was because an avalanche in the mountains had cut off access to the supply train from Calgary. But Will knew it was because their crops had been poor again that year — no surprise when there was barely a trickle of water running through their land. And Will knew no amount of complaining by Father had helped. The town elders knew full well that David Craig had diverted the creek from the Maguire farm, but no one would speak out against the man or lift a finger to help the family.

It was in a state of near-starvation and madness that Kenneth Maguire met David Craig on the road that fateful day in March 1888. Will should have known what frame of mind his Father was in and stopped him from leaving home. He should have been there to prevent the angry words and threats that led to the vicious fight — the fight that ended with shots fired from his father’s rifle. But he did not know … and he was not there to stop the two men, or to stop the bullet that ended one man’s life and led to the imprisonment of the other.

Will’s heart feels as if it is being crushed by a steel vise. He feels such despair that were it not for the promise he made to Father he would crawl into the ditch and let the icy water freeze him solid. For now he must push his misery aside and quicken his pace. If he is to make the noon-hour train, he must hurry.