Maisie also knew, because she had taken the trouble to visit the local planning department to consult their maps and records, that because of some oversight, probably due in part to the relative remoteness of the dale, the barrow was not protected by law as a scheduled ancient monument. This had enhanced its appeal to her: it was a secret known and cherished by herself and only a handful of others. It was, nevertheless, something of a shock when, one cold and blustery January day, she found the planning notice pinned to the gatepost, informing all and sundry of the farmer’s intention to level the mound in order to better facilitate the manoeuvring of his machinery in and out of the field.
Maisie was horror struck, even more so as she knew the farmer, Michael Seebrook, to be one of the most parochial and opinionated inhabitants of the village. She ran home at once.
‘You’d best come up with a plan of action, lass,’ said her mother, when told of the catastrophe. She was having one of her better days. ‘Write a letter to the planning department. That should set the cat amongst the pigeons.’
Maisie went to a lot of trouble over the letter, trying not to indulge in too much special pleading, emphasising instead the age and importance of the burial mound, and the unusual fact that, as the council’s own records had suggested, it appeared to be undisturbed by previous excavation, antiquarian or modern. She dropped the letter into the planning office during her lunch break.
A week or so later she received a reply. It seemed that, because the barrow was not protected by law, the authority was unable to prevent the farmer from levelling it. The notice had been displayed only as a matter of courtesy to local residents and ramblers. But the council was empowered to insist that the mound should be the subject of a full archaeological excavation before its destruction so that it could be properly understood and recorded. A team from York University had been approached to carry out the work, which would begin in the third week of March.
There appeared to be nothing more that she could do. The barrow in Dead Man’s Garth became doubly precious to Maisie because she knew its days were numbered. Despite the cold dampness of January and February, she took to sitting on the mound with a picnic, watching the rooks wheeling in the leaden skies. By the end of February there were lambs in the field, a group of which gambolled up and down and around the mound. She felt she was mourning its loss before it had even gone.
One Thursday evening, early in March, just as dusk was falling and under a crescent moon that hung over the bleached-out, wintry landscape, Maisie stood on the summit of the mound. She had her eyes tightly closed and her arms stretched down close against her sides. It was a still evening, and the cries of returning curlew were the only other sound as Maisie whispered her wish out loud:
‘To the god of the barrow, see that whoever disturbs those that are buried here gets their just reward. And let me serve you in whatever way I can.’
**
The team from York University arrived on Monday morning in a dirty four-wheel drive. They comprised David Grainger, a young Research Associate who was to act as project manager, and three female undergraduate student assistants. They had arranged to stay at the village pub, The Shooter’s Arms, and had booked themselves in, initially, for a week.
Maisie heard about the diggers from her mother when she returned home from work that evening, and she decided to pay a rare visit to the pub. She dressed with some care—not too smart, she decided. Khaki combat trousers and a purple hooded sweatshirt, clothes that suited her slim figure and gamine appearance.
The diggers were in the public bar seated around a glowing coal fire set in the stone-arched fireplace. Maisie bought herself a vodka and orange juice from the bar and, taking her courage in both hands, approached and introduced herself to the team.
David Grainger, who was a tall, well-muscled young man in his late twenties with regular features and curling brown hair, grinned at her appreciatively.
‘We wondered how long it would take before the locals found us. Come and sit down.’
Maisie asked about their work.
‘The actual dig could only take a few days, depending on what we discover,’ said David. ‘But the post excavation work—the analysis of samples, radiocarbon dating, report writing, etc.—may not be complete for several months. But, as I say, it all depends on what we find in the barrow. If it’s been badly robbed out, then the dig itself will take less time.’
The three young women students silently sipped their drinks. One, small and attractive with short carmine hair, had a ring through her left eyebrow and a stud in her nose. The other two were taller and mousier and, without having anything in particular in common, somehow alike. Although Maisie guessed they were not much younger than her, she felt a hundred years older.
‘This is Jess,’ said David, indicating the small girl with the piercings. ‘And these two are Monica and Susan. They’re twins—not really, of course! Would you like to come and see what we’re doing one day? You’d be very welcome.’
‘Oh, yes,’ replied Maisie eagerly, ‘that would be great.’
**
Maisie telephoned the library the next morning and reported in sick. She told the librarian that she had the flu, and might be off work for the rest of the week. Mrs Adamson sympathised and made no other comment. As she had only once taken a day off sick in all the time she had worked there, Maisie felt she was justified in claiming some unofficial holiday.
Her mother’s arthritis had taken a turn for the worse, so Maisie spent the morning helping with the washing, and dusting and vacuuming the downstairs rooms. After a quick lunch of ham sandwiches, she washed and dried the dishes, then put on her warmest coat and, calling goodbye to her mother, who was lying down upstairs, set out on the short walk to the barrow. Spring had not yet touched the dale: it was a cold, crisp day, with the kind of blue, cloudless sky that showed the stone-built village houses off to their best advantage. As she neared the barrow, she could see a small spoil-heap of turf, rubble and soil alongside it, and the four archaeologists squatting down nearby, drinking out of thermos cups. When he saw her, David stood up.
‘Hello, Maisie. You’ve found us, then!’
‘I took you at your word,’ she replied. ‘I hope you don’t mind?’
‘Of course not. Would you like to see what we’ve been up to?’
The three female students finished their lunches as David explained the methodology of the excavation.
‘We’re using the quadrant method, by which we expose any subsurface features while retaining four transverse sections for stratigraphic analysis. Basically, we’re taking out the mound a quarter at a time, leaving narrow vertical profiles between each quarter so that we can see how the mound was made and what has happened to it since. We’re also sectioning the surrounding ditch.’
Maisie could see that they had removed around half the depth of one quarter of the mound. The limestone rubble of its interior was exposed.
‘Have you found any artefacts?’
He laughed. ‘I was wondering when you’d ask that. Nothing too exciting, I’m afraid. A few pieces of worked waste flint. Bronze Age. About what you’d expect. Come back tomorrow and we may have more to report.’ He turned to the diggers. ‘OK, ladies, lunch break over. Back to the fray.’
The three women packed their thermos flasks away in a variety of bags. Jess picked up a board affixed to which was a piece of paper printed with grid squares.
‘This is our site plan,’ she showed it to Maisie. ‘I do the drawing.’
Maisie noticed that Jess’s nose stud was set with a red stone; a ruby maybe, or a garnet? It glinted in the afternoon sun. The twins had already resumed work and were picking up rubble from the mound and carrying it to the spoil heap.
‘Ah, the glamorous world of archaeology,’ mused David. ‘You can help if you like.’
But Maisie could not bring herself to aid in what was, after all, the destruction of the barrow.
Back home, Maisie found her mother still in b
ed and in pain. She fetched some anti-inflammatories and a glass of water and sat by her side, stroking her arm until she went to sleep. Creeping downstairs, Maisie lay on the sofa and day-dreamed until it was time to see about preparing their evening meal.
**
On the second day they uncovered a skeleton in the ditch. Maisie arrived mid-morning to find David trowelling around the vertebrae, the skull above skewed to the right, the rictus grin still filled with soil. He looked up at Maisie excitedly.
‘Look, you can see where this individual’s neck was broken. It’s most likely that he or she (we can’t tell the sex yet—the pelvis is still partly under the soil) was hanged. They were almost decapitated. And, because they were not buried in the mound, and there appear to be no grave goods, we’re pretty sure this is a medieval or post-medieval interment. We know from historical records that a gibbet was erected here—Dead Man’s Garth and all that—so he or she was probably a hanged criminal, denied a Christian burial. But what we can’t answer is why this person was buried here.’
‘What are you going to do with it when you’ve uncovered it all?’ asked Maisie.
‘We’ll record it in detail—photograph it, draw it—then we lift it, bone by bone, and send it back to the University for further study. It’s an integral part of the history of the barrow.’
The twins, Susan and Monica, were down to the last few layers of the stones and soil which made up the excavated quarter of the mound. The spoil heap had risen accordingly. Today they were dressed almost alike, in pale fleeces and jeans. Jess, in Gothic black, was perched over the barrow with her drawing board, a camera slung around her neck.
‘We’re getting to the business end now,’ explained David. ‘By tomorrow we should begin to see some evidence of the primary, Bronze Age burial, with any luck.’ He waved his trowel at Maisie. ‘Shall we see you in the pub tonight?’ His eyes, she noticed, were a luscious, chocolatey brown.
When it came to it, Maisie couldn’t face the pub. She told herself that being around David only emphasised her shyness, and the student diggers didn’t seem particularly friendly. In any case, her mother’s condition meant that she couldn’t manage to put herself to bed without help. As she had many times before, Maisie successfully jollied her mother out of her medication-induced stupor, and they managed to have a pleasant enough evening together in front of the television.
That night, after taking what felt like an age to get to sleep, Maisie dreamt that she and a group of villagers—people she had known all her life, including Michael Seebrook—were ranged around the barrow, silently watching a small, shambling man in a leather hood being led towards them. On top of the barrow was the angular wooden tree of a gallows, the noose ready in place and swinging to and fro in the breeze. She was close enough to hear the rasping breath of the man, interspersed with a strange muttered chanting. His captors shoved him roughly up the mound and stood him next to the knotted rope. From somewhere a slow, rhythmic drum-beat started up, and dogs began to bark in the distance. Then everything swirled around: it was night, and in place of the barrow and gallows was a level area defined by a circle of stones on which was set a low-burning fire. In amongst the embers were some irregularly-shaped objects which Maisie gradually realised were the dismembered parts of a human body—the subcutaneous fat sizzled in the flames, and a porcine aroma wafted towards her. The villagers were singing an indefinable tune in low voices and swaying from side to side. David Grainger danced naked around the fire, attended by the twins and Jess, his face and body streaked with charcoal. Suddenly the flames leapt up, licking the star-pocked sky, and from the watchers arose a climactic shout. Grainger flung himself to the ground, and the three female attendants raised their arms and faces to the heavens.
**
Maisie awoke bathed in sweat. It was already light, and as she came to, she could hear the sweet song of the thrush that sat every morning in the apple tree in their small garden behind the cottage. As she showered and dressed, the dream stayed with her, and it coloured her thoughts as she prepared breakfast. Her mother seemed a little better this morning, the cruel pain and stiffness in her joints came and went as their doctor had said it would, although he had also explained that the condition was progressive and could never be cured.
Maisie read her library book until lunchtime, forcing herself to wait until the afternoon before she made her way to the excavation. It was a mild day, but dull and overcast, and a thin drizzle sprinkled her hair as she walked up through the village. Outside The Shooter’s Arms she met Michael Seebrook, the farmer who owned Dead Man’s Garth.
‘Now then, Maisie Rawlings, how’s that mother of yours?’ He looked as if he’d had a few pints, and didn’t wait for an answer. ‘I heard she’s only fair to middling. But you look well enough. A bonny lass you’ve turned out to be! Are you on your way up to see what those archaeologists are up to? You know, I’m glad they’re levelling the damned thing for me, though they’re taking their time about it. And no doubt I’ll have to get rid of the spoil. Have you got a boyfriend, lass, only that Grainger fellow is a good looking chap! Ha ha!’
Maisie felt herself blush. ‘The sheep’ll be missing you, Michael. You’d better get back to them.’
David was crouched near the middle of the barrow. The original ground surface was now exposed, revealing a large irregular area of darkened, burnt soil. At the centre could be seen part of a squarish stone-lined grave containing a large, crude pottery vessel with incised decoration, partly exposed. Grainger was using a brush and a small trowel to tease away the earth that still clung to it.
‘It’s a Bronze Age funerary urn, Maisie, and it seems to be intact. It’s fantastic! There should be cremated human bone inside. We won’t be able to take it out until we’ve excavated the rest of the mound. And we’ve found some grave goods.’
He put down his implements carefully and strode over to the twins. Susan handed him a small rectangular box. Inside was the beautifully fashioned bronze blade of a dagger—the hilt had rotted away. There were also a few worked flint implements, including an archer’s wrist guard.
‘But what’s really unusual, considering the fact that these things indicate a male burial, is this …’
In another box, proffered by Monica, were elongated beads and lozenges of the blackest jet, part of what must have been an elaborate, chunky necklace.
‘This is very definitely a female item,’ said Jess. ‘So, what’s it doing in a male grave? Or is there perhaps more than one individual buried here? But all these grave goods seem to have been placed around this urn, which we know from other examples elsewhere is likely to contain the burnt remains of only one person. Perhaps the necklace belonged to someone special to him.’
‘And we’ve three-quarters of the barrow left to dig,’ said David, ‘so there may be plenty more to find.’
He moved closer to Maisie, his head on one side, his tone playful.
‘Won’t you come to the pub tonight, Maisie? We’d really like to see you there, wouldn’t we girls?’
The twins nodded mechanically. Jess simpered, ‘Oh, yes, do come, Maisie. David would so love it.’
‘I might,’ said Maisie. ‘If I can get away.’ She smiled into David’s bottomless eyes. ‘Will it be worth my while?’
‘Well, he might buy you a drink if you’re lucky,’ laughed Jess.
At a quarter past seven that night, Maisie, dressed in a sheer sweater and a long, paisley-patterned Indian skirt, walked the short distance up the road to The Shooter’s Arms. It was a cool, still night, the drizzle from earlier had cleared away and she could make out the gauzy blanket of the Milky Way in the sky above her. In the public bar were two local farm workers and the archaeologists, seated around the fire just as they had been two nights before.
David stood up as she entered. ‘How good to see you! Draw up a pew.’
He bought them a round of drinks, and then sat down next to her.
‘Well, Maisie, you’re the only local who’
s shown any real interest in the excavation. A few others have had a quick look, and then, once they see that we haven’t unearthed any buried treasure, they go away and don’t come back. We’ve lifted the skelly from the ditch. He’s in a box upstairs, awaiting collection by our colleagues at the University. At least we think it’s a he, although that may be revised later. Why won’t you come and help?’
Maisie explained how she felt about the destruction of the barrow.
‘I know, but it’s only by excavating it that we find out what’s really inside,’ commented David. ‘It’s a pity we have to destroy the site in the process, but that’s science.’ He put his hand on Maisie’s knee. ‘Don’t you like science, Maisie?’
She removed the hand gently, but firmly. ‘I think that, like so many things, it depends upon how you use it.’
Jess giggled. The twins frowned at David.
‘Shouldn’t we be checking the context sheets?’ asked Monica.
‘And we need to clean our boots,’ said Susan.
David sighed. ‘Well, I’m not stopping you, am I?’
All three women stayed where they were.
Maisie bought another round. The men at the bar raised their glasses.
‘Now then, lass. You tell ’em what’s what!’
Maisie drank deeply—she was unused to much more than the odd glass of wine at home and the vodka was going to her head. Still, it felt pleasant, so long as she didn’t get too much out of control.
‘What do you think the hanged man did to deserve his punishment?’ she asked.
‘It could’ve been any number of things, from sheep stealing to rape to murder,’ replied David. ‘Perhaps he just didn’t fit in somehow, and that’s why they buried him in the ditch. We’ll never know the exact crime, of course. There won’t be any records.’
The Old Knowledge Page 7
