Mythology Abroad (5 page)

“Before you came,” Miss Sanders began, “my lot were turning over the rubbish tip. Once we had an idea of the perimeter of the settlement, we started nosing about downwind. There it was, just about twenty paces behind one of the structures. Fairly extensive.”

“You can’t still smell any of it, can you?” Mrs. Turner asked in alarm, wrinkling her nose.

“Not at all,” the archaeologist answered impishly. “Kitchen refuse becomes quite sanitized after four thousand years. We’ve come up with the bones of many herd animals, and an enormous quantity of remains of fish and shellfish. We take that to mean that the settlement was prosperous, since they weren’t dependent upon a strict diet of fish. Herd animals would be more rare in a poor environment.”

“Doesn’t the amber necklace prove that they were wealthy?” Matthew asked. He took a proprietary pride in his find, and no one seemed to object.

“Amber,” Dr. Crutchley began in a lecturing air, “was both an irreducible tally and in itself valuable. Our ancestors weren’t utter barbarians. They were attracted by the beauty of the substance. Now, without any other evidence to support it, what do you think the pot was doing out there at the bottom of the settlement?”

Encouraged by the professor, the students offered their own conclusions. The professional archaeologists took their theories seriously, discussing the pros and cons of each suggestion. Keith found the give and take stimulating, and volunteered his own theory.

“Maybe that amber string was somebody’s ace in the hole. You know, cookie jar money, and he wanted to keep his advantage hidden.”

The others laughed. Dr. Crutchley let the corners of his mouth curl up. “Very interesting, Keith,” he said. He seemed to harbor no ill will for Keith having showered him with dirt, and even confessed that not only had it happened to him before, but he’d done it to others himself.

“Am I right?” asked Keith eagerly.

“Probably not, son,” said the archaeologist, grinding ash out of the pipe bowl and tamping fresh tobacco into it with his thumb. Keith’s face fell. Dr. Crutchley went on. “But you make me think that you’re heading in the right direction. I am reminded of a book in my library—I must send for it from London—that mentions a similar artifact. You may not have the right answers, but you function nicely as a catalyst for others by making them think. Do remember, there’s no theory so silly that it hasn’t been proposed in quite serious scientific papers by my learned colleagues.” He lit the pipe and drew on it, watching the others humorously through the thicket of his eyebrows. “We are coming to the conclusion that this was a trading village. By its placement, and by the types of artifacts we are finding here, our theory continues to be borne out. What I would like to find, though it is nearly impossible with the dearth of evidence, was what early man thought about.” He looked around at his circle of listeners. “What inspired him? What brought him here? Whom or what did he blame when it rained? Luckily, the Celts and Saxons were inclined to tell stories to us, their extreme descendants, through the decoration and ornamentation of household goods, what they ate, what things they held dear and,” with a wave toward Keith, “what they kept hidden. Yes, I will have to send for that book.”

“I’ve made a note of it, Professor,” Miss Sanders said, flourishing her pen.

From the crest of the hill where they sat, the students could see the shining ribbon of the river leading down to the sea. The hills around them were similar to that one: scattered scrub along the sides and clearings of wind-brushed grass atop the flat bluffs. Most of the land was marked off as restricted sites, cordoned off at road level by twisted wire fences and red printed signs warning away trespassers. Theirs was the only one of the peaks which was unmarked and unfenced.

“This is not a terribly important site, but it is a nice one,” Crutchley continued. “Good, defensible location, but still reachable. As the population grew upriver, the shipping trade routes dealt with cities so much further inland. Wool and iron rejuvenated this area in the Middle Ages, so this site became obsolete. Lucky for us, since we can now investigate a stopped moment in time.”

The teacups were gathered up and washed in a tub behind the tent. Keith and the others picked their way down the hillside to wait for the Educatours coach. Everyone else was chattering excitedly about the day’s work. He sat next to Holl in the tall grass, playing with a straw between his fingers, gazing at nothing, and thinking about Dr. Crutchley’s lecture. To understand a site, you had to make up a story using what was there; artifacts, layout, weather patterns, and hope that nothing you excavated later made the story invalid. The work was backbreaking, but it was fun. He was fond of making up theories. If he was a better catalyst than a scientist, then he’d better come up with some good suggestions. To stimulate the others’ minds, of course.

“Doesn’t really tell you who they belong to, does it?” Keith asked. Holl followed his eyes, and read the Restricted signs swinging on the barbed wire across the road.

“Perhaps the owners want privacy,” Holl reasoned, peering up between the thick bushes and waist-high grass on one obscured hillside. “What could they possibly be building out here among all these private sites?”

“What?” Keith asked, not really paying attention. “Who?”

“Don’t you remember the reason they’re hurrying with this excavation? ‘Right in front of the bulldozer’ was the way Miss Anderson put it. Someone’s building something among all these unfriendly neighbors.”

Keith walked backward and squinted under the flat of his hand toward the crest of the hill across the road. “I don’t know. No buildings. Not even a tent. No one
lives
there, anyway. Maybe it’s a nature preserve of some kind. There’s a path leading up the hill. I’m going to have a look.” He started for the fence.

“A preserve, preserved one hill at a time? What has that to do with bulldozers? In any case, you shouldn’t touch, Keith Doyle,” Holl warned him. “I don’t know what they’ll do to you if you’re caught meddling over here. Think of me stranded here by myself in a strange place before you decide to get yourself tossed in jail.”

Keith grinned. “I guess you’re right. Hello, Mom?” he pantomimed a telephone receiver, “Can you send me five hundred pounds bail?”

“You’ll have to bailout later. Get up. The coach is coming.”

***

C
HAPTER SIX

The dig was the exclusive topic of conversation in the coach all the way back to Glasgow. Miss Anderson circulated up and down the aisle among the tour group, chatting and asking questions. She gave Matthew hearty congratulations on his find, and discussed funerary customs with him. After a hasty dinner which no one really tasted, Keith and Holl joined the other young men for a celebratory pub crawl around Glasgow. Miss Anderson, the two schoolteachers and Narit stayed behind to talk quietly among themselves.

“And I vote for a good pudding, too,” Alistair suggested, as they emerged on the street.

“Huh? Oh, not custard: dessert,” Keith translated. “Sounds great to me. How about the rest of you?”

There was a chorus of approval, and Alistair nodded decisively.

“I know a place nearby with fine sweets and a cellar second to none.” He steered them out of the university complex and around the corner into an alley. An unobtrusive doorway let into a quiet but crowded establishment, with the risible name of the Ubiquitous Chip. The host looked them over cautiously, judging them to be sober enough not to make trouble, and escorted them to a long table.

The restaurant, uncomfortably like an American fern bar in decor, proved to have a genius making desserts in the kitchen. Keith licked his spoon thoughtfully and wondered if he should order a second selection. He decided against it, and amused himself throwing leftover crumbs to the enormous goldfish in the fountain that ran along one side of the main room.

On top of homemade ice cream, mousses, and tortes, the others poured down wine and liqueurs, and discussed with great interest the events of the day. Matthew was acclaimed a hero for his great find, and decided on his own reasons for the interment of the covered jar. He was in a mood to take no prisoners, which the others took as a personal challenge.

“Well, what do you know about it anyway?” Martin asked challengingly. “All you’ve ever dug up before is your Mum’s tulip bulbs.”

Keith and Holl plowed straight into the thick of a loud and passionate argument about whether or not the professor was right in his theories. The languid, sullen pose assumed by most of the boys turned out to be nothing more than a pose. Something important had actually happened, progress had been made, and they were a part of it. Their daily lives must have fallen into one unmarked by change or excitement. They were bored, and pretended they didn’t care. Hard work did bring out the best in some people. Keith grinned to himself. No one who felt like taking it easy would have joined a tour like this to begin with.

As the wait staff began to clear the surrounding tables, Edwin rose to his feet. “Let’s go. We can talk in the pubs until closing time.”

“Where should we go?” Matthew asked. The others started to argue for their favorites.

“How about the King’s Head?” Martin suggested.

“Why not the Black Bull? It’s only across the road.”

“What about the Curlers?”

Keith snickered at the names. “What’s that, a combination pub and hairdresser?”

Charles pushed him toward the door. He was a big youth with heroic looks: a sharply planed jaw, curly brown hair, and mild blue eyes which wore a glint of amusement. “No, you silly git, curling is a sport. You take a big round flat stone, and hoik it up and slide it across a frozen lake, sweeping the ice as you go.…”

“No, they’ve only got Tennant’s lager,” Max said, interrupting them. “Come on, I’ll choose the first one. We’ll go down to City Centre and stop in at the Skye Boatman, and make the rounds from there.” On a chorus of approval, the party turned toward the stop for the Strathclyde Underground.

“Nine for the orange caterpillars,” Edwin shouted, letting his voice echo in the brick-walled station. They trotted down the stairs toward the trains. A man in a rumpled suit detached himself from a group at the ticket machines and followed them unobtrusively into the bowels of the station.

The Skye Boatman was crowded and jolly, mashing its patrons into two small, smoky L-shaped rooms which surrounded the bar. The party had to shout at one another just to be heard over the clamor of the fruit machines and the canned music. Though it was early in the week, the pub was full of men and women laughing over glasses of cider or a brown-red brew which the other students told Keith was bitter ale. Keith tasted a mouthful and ordered some for himself. He was much more cautious this time with his liquor. Where the others finished one pint and ordered another, he nursed a single pint of bitter throughout the evening, and then switched to a St. Clement’s with Holl when they moved on to the next pub.

“That’s no way to drink,” Alistair chided him, when he ordered his fifth orange-and-lemonade, “One minchy pint, and you’re calling a halt? Ooh, you Americans are made of weak fabric.”

“I’m working up my tolerance a little at a time,” Keith replied, good-naturedly, refusing to be drawn into a contest. For all the kidding they gave him, Matthew had confided that they did drink a lot every night. This evening was by way of being a celebration. A good thing, too. The dark ale was rich and heavy, not bitter at all, but Keith could tell by the light feeling in the top of his head that the alcohol content was a lot higher than beer back home. “There is no way I’m going to relive this morning’s headache. That was one hell of a hangover.” And a close shave with disaster, he reflected, catching Holl’s eye. The young elf seemed relieved by Keith’s prudence, and was considerably more relaxed, even among the ever changing mob of strange Big Folk. The others had long ago forgotten his ostensible youth, and had accepted him along with Keith as one of them.

At eleven o’clock, the publican of the Black Bull rang a bell and called, “Time, gentlemen, time. Your wives are waiting for ye!”

Seeing that no one was taking the initiative, Keith got to his feet. “Come on, guys. Someone is going to have to direct me back to the Underground station.”

“I can feel me right leg, but I think me left one’s gone to sleep,” Edwin said, looking surprised as he tried to lever himself out of the booth.

“Don’t you hate when that happens?” Keith asked, helping him up. “That means it’s going to be awake all night.”

With Holl’s aid, Keith managed to steer the others back to the train and home to Hillhead Station. There were few passengers on the late train. Only one man rode all the way to their stop with them, and trudged up the stairs in their wake. The light drizzle that met them as they emerged from the station was bracing, and woke everyone up enough to stagger the rest of the way to the residence hall.

“Whew!” Keith blew a lock of hair out of his eyes with an upward gust as he sagged onto his bed. “And I thought American college students were party animals. Matthew said they do that almost every night!”

“You’d hardly connect the serious archaeologists of the afternoon with the drunken louts we just put to bed,” Holl agreed. He yawned. “It’s late, and we’ve had an eventful day. I could sleep for weeks.”

“Could still be some of the jet lag, too,” Keith reasoned, pulling off his sneakers. “Look at that. My feet are swollen. By the end of this trip, I’m going to be wearing clown shoes.”

“And I’m going to be wearing your discards.” Holl rubbed his own toes. “Blisters. This is my first pair of hard-soled shoes, and it may well be my last if they don’t soften soon. I may survive well enough, as we’re doing all our work from our knees.”

“Are you enjoying yourself?” Keith asked anxiously. “I know this kind of trip wasn’t exactly your choice, since you signed on at the last minute to go with me.”

Holl waved an impatient hand. “I am interested. Realize how little practical experience any of us young ones have with the outside world. I’m as keen as your fellow tourists to see what else we can find up there. It’s nice to know that there’s a past that stretches back beyond the date of my birth, one for which there’s tangible, if unreadable proof.”

“Hmph. Won’t the old folks tell you what life was like before you came to Midwestern?”

“Not much. You can tell it isn’t something they want to talk about. And the younger ones just tell of extended travel and wandering. They’re home and secure and happy now, so the past doesn’t exist. That’s shortsighted, in my opinion.” Disgusted, Holl dropped his shoes on the floor, and lay down, hands behind his head. “I find it frustrating, as do the rest of us born at Midwestern. Don’t you find it an interesting place we’re digging up? You can see why the settlers chose to live there. They get the full sun every day, but they’re not exposed to the high winds. Small game would be plentiful, as would be fish. The fields are sunny. The place is defensible, but not unreachable.”

“Do you suppose that they had any dealings with your ancestors?” Keith asked hopefully. “I mean, I noticed that you could tell that the pot we were uncovering was cracked, without touching it. Did you see something? Was it made by one of your Folk?”

Holl chuckled. “Ah, no. It was just a craftsman’s instincts. I could feel the weakness in the material. It was nearly crying out its infirmity. It had no essence of magic or charm to it. But it was well made, and all of four thousand years old. I admire that.”

“Is there anything in the site which has got the essence of magic?” Keith pressed. “I mean, what do you think? Would these people have had any contact with yours?”

“I don’t know,” Holl mused. “The site is not inimical to it. And there’s almost no iron among the remains, and it’s ages too early for steel. All their metals are bronze or softer, which you might have noticed doesn’t hurt me. That would make it more comfortable for contact … but this is all speculation, Keith Doyle.”

“That’s what I’m best at, speculation and guesses. Besides, the professionals are guessing too; that’s what Dr. Crutchley said. The more evidence we get, the more accurate the picture they can put together.”

“Well, I don’t know what to look for. I’ve barely seen the habitations occupied by Big Folk
this
century, let alone one forty times as old.” The Little One sighed. “There’s no sign of anything belonging to my people. In a way, it makes me feel lost and alone. It’s true that we tend not to leave many marks of our passing, just out of self-protection, but I wish that they would have. That site is dry and cold and empty, so far as I can tell. You’re the expert bogey hunter; what do you think?”

“Well …” Keith mused. “You know, the Little People are hardly likely to have set up shop right next to the Big Folk’s town. You, I mean,
they
would be unnatural creatures.” A sly smile. “They didn’t have the benefit of a library full of … texts, like we do. If they had, they would have been blamed for all disasters, whether or not they were responsible. You guys would be easy scapegoats, if for no better reason than size. You know, they might have lived further inland, in the woods, or in one of those little valleys we passed surrounded by scrub…?”

“Dells,” Holl supplied.

“Right. You can hardly see a hundred yards in any direction. The locals wouldn’t bother to punch through that, not with meadows and bluffs already cleared for them by nature.”

Holl cheered up. “It doesn’t mean they mightn’t have been nearby. We can have a look, if there’s time.”

“Yeah!” the red-haired youth agreed. “According to my legend books, this is the kind of place where wood elves and certain kinds of brownies can be found. They seemed to live just about forever, getting older and more crotchety, or wiser, take your pick. If there’s anyone still here, we can ask them about what life was like 4,000 years back, and give Dr. Crutchley something he can use to spike his competition.”

“If they don’t give us the spike first. I have a feeling that after four thousand years, they won’t likely be too talkative.”

The rest of the week went on like the beginning of the first day. To Keith’s relief and joy, he was moved off his patch to a new one at Matthew’s left, clearing the grass downslope from the site of the lidded pot’s discovery and beginning an excavation there. “We must find that urn, intact, if possible,” Dr. Crutchley pleaded. “If the small jar was undamaged, the chances are good that other artifacts nearby will be in a similarly well preserved condition. I am sure this was a burial, not a cache, and this grass appears to be undisturbed. My textbooks suggest that these amber beads were not personal ornamentation, but the bookkeeping strings of a wealthy trader. I believe some similar pieces are on display in the British Museum.”

The group was impressed. Closer personalization of the people they were investigating evoked a deeper involvement on the part of the team. Keith vowed to find the trader’s burial site, or die trying.

On Wednesday, Miss Anderson made an announcement on the way to the dig. “Anyone who is taking this tour for credit should be prepared to give me his or her weekly essay on Friday. Verbal is acceptable, though handwritten or typed would be welcome. There are typewriters we may use in the Archaeology Department office. I’ll schedule individual appointments this evening.” She smiled around at them, her eyes twinkling behind her thick glasses. “That will give you a day to decide whether or not you wish to go to the extra trouble.”

“Why not?” Keith said. “It’s one fewer course in basket weaving I’ve got to take to finish off my college credits.”

O O O

“Well, Keith, come in,” Miss Anderson invited him. The Archaeology office, set in a row of terraced buildings to one side of the common square, was a couple of cramped rooms filled with books. The teacher had cleared a place at one of the battered desks for her records and the small pile of essays. Keith sat down in a time-worn swivel-back chair beside her. “I have read your paper with interest. I find that your writing style is clear, which is gratifying, but your thesis leaves more to be desired.”

“I researched my facts from the books in the library,” Keith pointed out, a little disappointed. “I do a lot of research at home.”

“Yes, I see that. It isn’t the research which I find faulty. It’s your conclusions. You’re jumping to them.” She turned over the top page and pointed to a paragraph alongside which she had drawn a red line. “You don’t have any basis for making the conclusions that you do about the size of the settlement or its relative prosperity.”