Because of Jake’s flashing smile set off by a deep tan, Elizabeth decided that he must be Spanish or Italian. He set his plate down and shook hands with her. After a disinterested hello, Victor wandered off to refill his plate.
“Is this your first dig?” Jake asked her.
Elizabeth nodded. “I’m really looking forward to it.”
“Yeah, me too,” said Jake. “I want to specialize in this kind of work in a couple of years. Eastern Indian archaeology, I mean.”
“Not me,” said Milo. “You guys could dig all day and find nothing to work with. Now in forensic anthro we start out with a body, so there’s no sense of futility.”
Jake winked at Elizabeth. “Why do you hang out with this ghoul?”
Elizabeth smiled. “It’s never dull. So you’re interested in Eastern Indian cultures. Tell me, are you disappointed by the Cullowhee?”
Milo started to laugh, and Elizabeth expected to hear another tepee joke, but Jake answered, “I knew what to expect. I’m from western North Carolina, and the Cullowhees are pretty well known up here in the mountains because of the Moonshine Massacre.”
“The what?”
“Shh! I think Dr. Lerche is ready to start. I’ll tell you later.”
Comfrey Stecoah, who had spent most of the meal conversing jovially with various cooks but eating little, was beginning the meeting. He rapped on the table for silence and waited until the assemblage had seated themselves in chairs or on the floor.
“Like to thank the reverend for the use of the church, even though he’s not here to receive it.” He glanced at the bewildered faces of the visitors and decided that further explanation was in order. “Preacher works in the towel factory and only comes back here on weekends. Now, most of you’uns know that these people are here to save our land from the strip miners.” This exaggeration drew scattered applause and a startled look from Lerche. Ignoring this, Comfrey continued: “The professor here is going to talk about what he’s doing, and I wanted you all to hear him out so that if any reporters or tourists was to ask you, you’d have your facts straight. So you mind what he says.” He sat down, motioning for Lerche to come forward and leading a ripple of polite applause.
Alex Lerche blinked at the brown faces staring up at him from a rainbow of polyester. Knowing that he could not use technical jargon with this audience inhibited him. He gripped the wooden Bible stand, which had been set on a card table for an improvised lectern, straightened his tie, and said diffidently: “This is the last time you’ll see me dressed up.” The laughter the line always drew from college audiences was not forthcoming. With a slight cough, Lerche began again. “As you know, the purpose of this dig is to find out who you are, so to speak. Now as I told Mr. Stecoah when he asked me to do this, I am not an expert on Eastern Indians. I did my early work with Plains Indians, but my specialty is forensic anthropology, so I do a lot of consulting work with law enforcement agencies.”
Briefly he explained his work and how the technology used to identify murder victims could be applied to the identification of the bodies in the old cemetery. The blank faces of the audience made him wonder if they understood, or were even listening. As he talked, he studied their features: green eyes, brown eyes, dark hair of every variation, every shape of face. The Cullowhees couldn’t have been as isolated as they seemed. From the look of them, they had originated the traveling-salesman jokes. Still, these people were not his concern; it was their ancestors he must identify, and if his theory was correct, they were very special people indeed. He found himself looking at Mary Clare’s upturned face, and for a moment he forgot where he was. Perhaps they could go for a walk later. With an effort of will, he returned his attention to the lecture.
“Since I was asked to help the Cullowhees, I have been doing some studying of the archaeology of this region, and I have a theory about your origins. Mind you! It’s just a theory at this stage.” The excitement in his voice belied his warning. “Now, as some of you may know, the Cherokees were not the original inhabitants of the Southern mountains.” From the startled faces of his listeners, Lerche could see that they had not known-but they wanted to hear more. “The Cherokees were a branch of the Iroquois tribe who invaded this area around four hundred years ago. There were other tribes here before them. The Algonkians and the Croatans were along the coastline, and a Siouan tribe occupied the Piedmont. We know something about these tribes from the writings of European settlers. But the people of the Southern highlands were never seen by the colonists. By the time Europeans got to this part of the country, these first people had vanished and this land was the Cherokee nation.”
The room was unusually quiet. He had them now.
“Now, nobody knows anything about those first Indians. Not their name, their language-nothing. The only traces of them are some bits of pottery made of limestone and crushed quartz. Anthropologists have divided up the Southeast into different regions according to the tribes which occupied them. This area is Zone Six, and these people are known simply as the Zone Six people because nobody knows what else to call them. They are a complete mystery.” He paused for effect. “I think you might be what’s left of them.”
Elizabeth thought that the cheering and applause might have gone on for half an hour, but for the quelling effect of a late arrival. Like the bad fairy at the christening, she later described it. She had been wondering how to waylay Comfrey Stecoah after the meeting to ask about Amelanchier, when the sudden silence brought her back to the present. All heads were turned to the doorway, where a wiry little man in gray work clothes stood scowling at them. Although he was not particularly large or powerful looking, the man’s malevolence chilled the room.
“I reckon anybody can address this prayer meeting,” he remarked to no one in particular. He looked around as if waiting for a challenge, but received none. “Don’t nobody bother to give me the minutes of the meeting, because I know what’s going on. The people of this valley stand to make good money by cooperating with the mining company-and there’s going to be jobs, too! But prosperity wouldn’t suit certain people.” He looked meaningfully at Comfrey. “Guess some people think poor folks is easier to boss around. And they’re willing to do some mighty ugly things to get their way.” He pointed at Lerche, who looked confused and embarrassed. “Now I don’t know what kind of Indian curse will befall those who do not respect the graves of our ancestors, and I don’t know what the penalty for grave robbing is in this state, but I aim to find out. And in the meantime, I advise you outlanders to remember the Moonshine Massacre. We don’t take kindly to meddlers up here, no sir.”
As he turned to leave, he walked past the table where the slide projector was set up for use later in the lecture. Before anyone could stop him, he had stumbled-or lunged-into the table, sending the machine crashing to the floor. With that he was gone.
Elizabeth saw that the stout woman who planted love vines was seated in the row behind her. “Shouldn’t somebody call the sheriff?” Elizabeth whispered.
The woman shrugged. “He’s in Laurel Cove. All we got up here is a deputy.”
“Well, couldn’t you call him?”
The woman permitted herself a grim smile. “Honey, you was just a-looking at him.”
CHAPTER FIVE
Dear Bill,
They can’t arrest archaeologists for graverobbing, can they? Could you check your law books and get back to me on this?
Ditchdigger’s hands may be the least of my problems on this dig. Night before last some guy named Bevel Harkness crashed Dr. Lerche’s lecture (and his slide projector) and threatened us for interfering in this land business. Mr. Stecoah told Dr. Lerche that this Harkness guy owns property next to the land the mining company wants, and he thinks he can sell out to them and make a fortune. You should see him. He’d make your skin crawl. To top it all off, he’s the deputy sheriff for this part of the county! I thought the deputy would be Mr. Stecoah, if anybody; but it turns out that he’s only been back from the service a couple of years (career Army), and Harkness’ term doesn’t run out for another year. They’re in some sort of power struggle for tribal leadership, I guess. The Stecoahs are respected because of Amelanchier (I was right about Comfrey; he’s her son!), and the Harknesses’ claim to fame is the Moonshine Massacre. (I’m coming to that.)