by V. S. Holmes
“Sacrificed? That’s not their style.”
“OK, not sacrificed. The thing looks like it was butchered—like, for food—several weeks ago. Probably off of someone’s trash heap.”
He rested a hand on her shoulder. To the crew it looked like a pat on the back. Truly, it was a firm anchor while her mind whirled in a roiling sea of anger. “I’ll take some pictures and clean this up. We need to open C-transect today.”
She nodded once, then twice, finally clearing her throat and rubbing her palms together. “Alright gang. Mikey will take care of this. Everyone else, get caught up on paperwork, fill out your artifact tracking sheets, and we'll go through the typology book together.” Her voice was a distant sound through the rage roaring in her ears.
“I FEEL LIKE SHIT, MIKEY.”
“What’s up?” He eased into the porch seat beside her, adjusting his shorts before leaning back.
Nel softened a moment. Mikey was good at listening. Anyone else would assume why she was upset and rattle a litany of advice and optimism at her. Mikey, though, he’s got empathy down to a fucking science. “Well, I’m angry about the vandalism, obviously, but I also have this level of guilt. This is their land. I can’t pretend it’s not. This is their home. As hard as I try, I can’t pretend I belong here. I’ve met these people’s children, eaten their food, but I don’t know them. Part of me feels like I have no reason to be upset.”
“I feel you. It’s hard, coming down here. We’ve got a different language, different backgrounds. I could pass as Hispanic, but hell, you’re a different color. That makes it look even worse if someone wants to pick. I think you’re seeing things, though.”
Nel sighed. “Really?”
“Yeah. You got the permits. You didn’t hire locals for the manual labor, and the times you have you haven’t paid them a pittance. There’s very little gentleman explorer about you.” He reached over and patted her hand. “I know it doesn’t make you feel any better, but I think you’re safe from being tossed onto the bigot train.”
Nel laughed. “I very much would like to avoid the bigot train. With the kinds of people on it, I’d never get laid.”
Mikey grinned. “Nonsense, I know plenty of racist lesbians. Plus, you wouldn’t have to go far to start bunking together. It’d be a dream come true.”
Nel snorted. “Not every lesbian moves in on the second date.”
“Really? Which ones?”
“The ones who got fucked over the last time they ran instead of walked.” She stuck her tongue out at him. After a moment she glanced over. “When do you think you’ll find someone?”
“Maybe I don’t want to.”
“I know you do. You like having a warm bed and someone to talk to. Half the time we talk it’s because you’re lonely.”
He shrugged, dark eyes narrowing in thought. He scrubbed a hand over his short hai. “I don’t know. There’s no one on the horizon. I think I need to be in a different place. This job doesn’t suit monogamy.”
“You’re telling me.” Nel reached over and took his big hand in hers, turning it over to look at the dark patches of callus. “She’s going to be tall and curvy. She’ll have a good job, something selfless, but she’ll drink you under the table. You’ll meet in a bar and she’ll be swaying to Hozier or George Ezra.”
Mikey snorted, eying her with wounded humor. “You a palmist now?”
“Hardly, I just know what you look for.”
He grinned and leaned back, staring at the stars. “I’m glad I have you, at least. You make it easier.”
“Make what easier?”
He shrugged. “You’re going to find someone badass and driven, someone who runs as fast as you do, and suddenly you'll realize you’re running in the same direction.”
Nel made a show of snuggling into the chair. “Oh, do tell me more, Uncle Mikey! Will she have legs for days?”
“If you want.” He laughed softly, the weight of the day dissolving as his laughter tumbled from him in a gentle cascade. He squeezed her hand as the mirth faded slightly from his face. “Living, Nel. You make living easier.”
She turned away, following his gaze to the stars. His loneliness was contagious sometimes, but she enjoyed the emotion and nostalgic melancholy. He didn’t. She squeezed his hand back. “You make everything easier too.”
FIVE
SUN-FIRED SOIL CRUNCHED under Nel’s boots. It was almost surprising when there was no vandalism. Perhaps they stayed out late the night before, and were too hung over to trash her site. She opened her field book, changing the partners around. She glanced up as Mikey's shadow fell over her. “Alright, get Henri set with those two units, then I want you running the total station for this.”
Mikey rolled his eyes. “I’ve got to re-calibrate it, but it’ll be ready when you are.”
The battered yellow case of the total station was something more common for DOT road surveys, but it was worth its considerable weight in platinum. Nel started doing the walkover, eyes glued to the ground. The sounds of hard earth and metal and the buzz of insects were a favorite song. She never grew sick of it. The western end of the site was normal enough—the roughly semi-circular layout faced south-east, toward the river and backed against the windbreak of the hills. It was the eastern part that bothered her. She frowned at the unusual landform. It was too flat and too straight for anything natural, even a flood. Besides, it would have flooded west, into the ocean. Instead, it widened to the east, a great flat, long funnel.
She paced along the northernmost edge. It was bordered by rocks, large ones that would have been hard to move. As if the landform wasn't odd enough. She sketched the rough shape of the wall, following it until it petered out several hundred meters away from the site. She turned around, stepped a few paces from her last path, and walked back. Walkovers were meditative and having real eyes — not a camera or a fly-by’s aerial shots — was always best. The human eye saw things nothing else would. On her first survey, someone found a point—rich black obsidian with a green vein. The knapper had shaped it in a way that made the green run straight down the center of the point. Humans were nothing if not artistic. If she liked the shape of a hill, it was likely someone fifteen thousand years before would have too.
“Nel, all set!” Mikey jogged over with the total station pole—a red-and-white striped staff with a prism set at the top. It looked uncannily like a wizard’s rod from Magic the Gathering.
Mikey handed it to her, his features schooled into practiced sobriety. “With great power, comes great responsibility.”
Nel grinned at his quote and took the staff. One day she would figure out how much of their conversations were just repeated annually. She guessed more than half. “I’ll write the points, you record the coordinates, K?” When he nodded, she headed to the nearest corner and planted the steel point at the top of the first rock. She stared absently at the level bubble. She could do this in her sleep. She moved down the line, choosing the largest rocks or those from non-local sources. It took two hours to record the entire formation, and by the time she was done, her eyes hurt from the sun and her crew had already taken lunch. She trudged back and perched on one of the boulders at the side, copying Mikey’s coordinates into her field book.
She stared at the drawing, brows knotted and half of a smashed sandwich forgotten in her hand.
“Nel, we’re packing it in, you good to go?”
She glanced up. “What?” The sun was low and the crew looked as tired as she felt. “Shit, yeah sorry.” She tossed her tools and the paperwork into her pack and pulled herself back onto the jeep. “You got the finds?”
Mikey nodded. “Got some good ones today. Might even be some diagnostics in there.”
She grinned. “That’s what I like to hear.”
THERE WAS A THIRD UPSTAIRS bedroom, across from the bathroom, that held the artifacts and maps, anything too precious for the Jeep or the site. Finally clean, and with a cold beer in hand, Nel pulled out the day's bag of artifacts and
propped the door open with a brick. A tiny portable speaker muttered out Shing02, and Nel upended the bag over the desk. Every level of every quad of every unit received its own bag for chipping debris. Nel went through each, washing the smooth stone and re-bagging it. It was tedious work, but meditative and something she preferred to do alone, or at least without conversation. She washed the chipping debris and placed it into a cataloging box. Only the tools were left. Each had their own, double bag, complete with a packet of soil. Tools were diverse across location and time periods, and much could be determined from their shape and material.
The advent of microscopes, however, had brought a slew of new information. Tiny nicks on the edge of blades and points, invisible to the naked eye, could determine the material on which the tool had been used. Protein analysis would tell, sometimes within a genus, what meat may have been cut.
Granted, if a crewmember touched the tool, analysis would be just as likely to pick up their own protein or that of the roast beef sandwich they had for lunch. Many of the tools weren’t pretty — fragmented or of poor-quality material that degraded easily. The crew found two point types on the site. The first was the broad fishtail, the other Clovis-style fluted points. The second had a channel knocked from the center of the base to help wedge the stone into a split spear shaft. The combination of the two wasn’t common for younger sites, but Nel grinned. This site is old, then. The controversy of Monte Verde made any archaeologist leery of ambiguous data from the region, but Nel was confident this site wouldn’t cause any paradigm shifts.
Someone knocked softly and pushed open the door. “Hey, Dr. Bently, can I talk to you?”
Nel glanced up. Annie stood in the doorway, shifting from foot to foot. “Of course, everything OK?” Nel was no stranger to crew drama, but it was not high on her list of favorite things. She reached over and paused her music before leaning back in the chair. “What’s up?”
Annie perched on a chair opposite her. “I’m kind of worried about the looting. And I don’t know what to do with my career.”
“Those sound like distinct issues.”
“I guess. Maybe. The first class I took with you, I decided I wanted to be you when I graduated. Like, I wanted to run my own site and all. But with the looting and seeing how angry it makes you and how you handle things, it makes me think I couldn’t handle the same thing.”
Nel frowned. “That’s flattering, Annie, thank you. I think your worries are good concerns to have at this point. Archaeology isn’t an easy field. We snipe at each other, it’s a small world, and burning bridges is very easy. The hours are long and the travel is tough and the weather can suck. What is your favorite part of this job? Is it the learning or the digging?”
Annie shrugged. “I guess the digging. I like working outside and I like the methodical work and the idea that we’re allowing people to know more. I mean, school is great, but I don’t ever want to teach.”
Nel grinned. “You're done with classes. All that's left is your thesis. Try CRM—cultural resource management. It's all digging and no teaching. Many places will take you with just an undergrad, so you'd be golden.”
“I just don’t know where to start.”
“Tell you what, let's get through this season. When we get back I'll make some calls. I know people who might need help on their crews.” She watched Annie’s face a moment. “Is there anything else bothering you?” When the girl shook her head, Nel pushed a bag towards her. “I’ve got some artifacts from yesterday that need washing and cataloging. Wanna help?”
Annie grinned and scooted closer. “Do we have to listen to angry Japanese rap?”
Nel snorted, “No, but whatever you put on damn well better not be Top 40.”
SIX
MIKEY HEAVED HIMSELF on to the barstool next to her. “You know, this place has all kinds.”
“What makes you say that?”
“There’s this girl, met her down at the grocer’s. She’s got this whole idea of bringing chocolate to the states.”
“I’m pretty sure we have chocolate in the states. I wouldn’t have lived through my teen years if we didn’t”
“No one would have lived through your teen years, Nel. But, no, I mean real chocolate. Like, the beans roasted and ground and all that. She wants to set up shop near her hometown.”
“Yeah, where’s she from?”
“Petersburg or something.”
“That’s in Russia,” Nel reminded him.
“I’m sure there’s more than one. Anyways, I thought I’d help her with backing when she gets it more underway.”
“For sure, that sounds interesting. Always good for people to know the origins and processes of their food.”
Mikey turned to her, waving a motherly finger. “Speaking of which, you were up late last night—you went out?”
“No, just looking over the site maps. Something isn’t setting well with me. The layout, it’s not like the other paleo sites.”
“It’s your oldest one so far, right?”
“Based on lithics, yeah. I’d like to get some dates though.”
“Those dates are so vague, the margin of error is hundreds of human generations. When you’re determining when these folks lived, that’s a big difference.”
“Makes the money-bags happy though.” Nel stretched. “Seriously though, the shape is all wrong. That big flat plain and everything — it’s weird.”
“Maybe they had a flood.”
“Mikey, there are no alluvial sands, no flood strats, no clay.”
He tipped back his beer. “Well, you worry about strats, I’ll worry about chocolate. We’re opening up another two trenches, right?”
“Yeah, tomorrow. I was going to put George and Sally on A21 and Henri and Kat on B20.”
“Sally’s banging George. Might wanna shake that up a bit.”
Nel groaned. It was archaic to think sex would change people’s working habits, especially in a field with rampant hook-ups and drinking. Still, undergrads had less experience being professional. “Seriously? Every time I make a perfect crew someone has to get randy.”
“I’m just surprised. He could do better than Sal.”
“Standards aren’t as big a deal. It’s sex, not a binding contract.”
“Well, for some of us they’re the same thing.”
“I’m so glad I never slept with you.”
“I think I lack the appropriate number of tits and have one too many dicks for you.”
Nel glanced over, eyeing him up and down. The yellow light of the bar cast his tan into a rich brown. He wasn’t half bad, for a guy, but she hadn’t been with a man in close to a decade. Mikey certainly wasn’t how she was going to break that streak. “If you keep eating homemade chocolate, you might have bigger boobs than me.”
Mikey shoved her off her stool playfully. “That’s not hard, shovel-bum.” He frowned suddenly. “Speaking of trowels for hire, you hear Chad’s coming in?”
Nel frowned. “What? When? Why?”
“Martos apparently called in a favor and got him transferred here, full pay. Our funder asked for another set of eyes — not because yours are lacking, but to help.”
Nel shrugged. “Chad won’t step on any toes, even if he’s asked to. He’s a good guy, it’ll be nice to see him again. Curious what exactly they want, though.”
“You can ask him yourself by the end of the week.”
Nel rose with a groan. “I’m going to turn in. Last night's catching up with me.” She dropped a wad of crumpled bills on the bar. “Don’t stay up too late.” She waved and headed out into the balmy night air. The air was the same temperature as her skin. A soft wind that she could barely feel raised the hairs on her arm. She grinned. As much as anyplace, this was home.
She broke into a jog, enjoying the feeling of hot blood pumping through her legs. She was tired, but not ready to return to the house just yet, despite what she had told Mikey. She turned right and followed a private road towards the hills. It was a lon
ger walk overland, but far more pleasant. She slowed to a walk where it ended and climbed past the quiet rows of houses and into the hills on the southern edge of the town.
The lights below were a tiny golden galaxy in the warm black of the landscape. Beyond, the moon spilled a white staircase across the dimpled ocean surface. She was passing Padritos when she heard gravel crunch. She paused, but the sound stopped. The moonlight yielded nothing behind her, save for the spindly silhouetted trees. She continued along the crest of the hill, steps quiet despite her boots. The footsteps followed her, an echo to her own, just off enough to send awareness skittering up her spine.
Another minute's walk brought her within sight of the house. The steps quickened with her own. She broke into a run, stumbling down the slope into the sanctuary of the flood lamp buzzing by the back porch. Cold, dry fingers brushed down her neck. A scream bubbled in her throat, bitten by her clenched teeth. Her hand found the doorknob.
She did not take the time to look before bursting into the hall and slamming the door behind her. She slid down it, legs and hands shaking. I just imagined it. Still, she didn't look out. When her heart was steady again she moved quietly upstairs. It was the first time in years she locked her bedroom door. Despite the beautiful breeze, she slammed her window and slid the lock home.
She perched on her bed, scrolling through webcomics and news articles until well after midnight, unable to sleep.
The next morning, Nel climbed into the hills before breakfast. The bright sun burned away last night's fear and glinted off the ocean in the distance. She paced along the ridge, eyes narrowed on her tracks from the night before. Gnawing dread chased away the sun's warmth. Another set of boot prints followed hers down the hill. They circled the building before disappearing onto the asphalt of the road. There was a deep impression at the side of the building where someone had waited for several minutes. Nel glanced up. They stopped directly below her window.
