Lovely In Her Bones

by Sharyn McCrumb

  Martyred in the Name of Science,

  Elizabeth

  THE MOONSHINE MASSACRE (Collected from Jake Adair)

  The Cullowhee Indians of Sarvice Valley had never been a particularly law-abiding group, and they were known for moonshining. Because of the prejudice against Indians in those days, the deputy sheriff in charge of Sarvice Valley was never a Cullowhee, but always a local resident appointed by the county sheriff. This practice changed after the Moonshine Massacre of 1953.

  The deputy sheriff at that time was a Korean War veteran, just back from overseas. One afternoon he was driving down one of the dirt roads in Sarvice Valley and he passed a weathered old mountain graveyard. Two miles down the road, the deputy realized why the image of that graveyard was still stuck in his mind: it hadn’t been there before he went off to war. When he went back to investigate, he found that none of the names on those old stones were familiar to him either. Suddenly he noticed convection currents coming from a fencepost beside the cemetery. A few minutes’ examination revealed the secret of the old graveyard: it was an elaborate cover for a moonshine operation. One enterprising Cullowhee had gone north with his truck (probably on a moonshine run) and had seen an old cemetery being broken up for a building project. He’d bought a truckload of old tombstones and set them up on a hillside in Sarvice Valley on top of an underground distillery. The vent pipe was disguised as a fencepost. Unfortunately, the deputy did not live long enough to report his discovery. The moonshiner saw him sneaking around the graveyard and shot him in the back.

  When the deputy did not report back to the sheriff’s department, searchers were sent out to look for him, and they didn’t come back either. The moonshiner had decided that the best way to have a convincing cemetery was to provide a body for each tombstone. He buried the deputy under one of the headstones and was looking forward to furnishing the rest of the graves with likely passersby. This exercise in verisimilitude was finally halted by the Cullowhees themselves. The sheriff had called off the investigation due to lack of volunteers for further search parties, when a member of the Harkness family showed up in Laurel Cove and volunteered to bring the moonshiner to justice in exchange for the job of deputy. Harkness later claimed that his reason for doing so was the fact that the next grave to be filled was that of a small child, and he was afraid that the moonshiner might be a stickler for accuracy. Some of the Cullowhees claim that the Harkness’ tendency to bully people was also a factor in their desire to become the law in Sarvice Valley.

  After that the deputy job stayed in the Harkness family until 1972, when an obstinate sheriff insisted on appointing his nephew as the deputy of Sarvice Valley. Two weeks later the nephew disappeared and was never found. The Harkness family resumed the job and has kept it to the present day.

  “Here’s another skull for you, Elizabeth,” said Jake, adding a carefully tagged specimen to the wooden crate in front of her. The rest of the remains were placed in separate cardboard boxes to be reburied later when the study had been completed. The tag ensured that the skull would be reunited with the correct set of bones.

  “I don’t suppose it could be Victor’s,” grumbled Elizabeth, setting down the one she had been measuring.

  Jake laughed. “What’s he done now?”

  “The usual. We were talking about folk medicine, and he said that his great-grandfather invented penicillin in the 1880s but never bothered to market it.”

  “Well… it could be true.”

  “Oh, sure, it could. And Princess Diana might have babysat for his little brother; and he might have had a dream about a body walled up in a church tower and told the authorities about it, and they investigated and found one-”

  “He said that?”

  “He did. He says he has the pictures at home to prove it. They’re in the same album with the snapshots of his white pony with the horn in its forehead.”

  “Old Victor has had an interesting life, hasn’t he?” smiled Jake.

  “Probably not. I expect he’s had exactly the sort of life he looks like he’s had. He’s an overweight nerd with no particular talent who wants to be the center of attention, so he’s trying to be as interesting as possible. Instead of getting mad at him, I should feel sorry for him. But he is so exasperating!”

  “I know. You can’t catch him in a lie. He once told me that Geronimo was Chief of the Seminoles, and I told him he was crazy. Finally I went to the library and photocopied the encyclopedia entry that said Geronimo was an Apache.”

  “How could he argue with that?”

  “I made the mistake of letting him read the article. It said that after the U.S. Cavalry captured Geronimo, he was imprisoned in Florida. Victor swore that the Seminoles made him an honorary chieftain then. He claimed to have a book that said so.”

  “At home, of course.”

  “Of course. Naturally, he couldn’t come up with the title or author. I know what you mean about him. I wanted to strangle him that time. But you’ll get used to him. Pretty soon you won’t believe a word he says, and it won’t bother you at all.”

  “Shh! Here he comes.”

  Victor Bassington, blissfully unaware that he had been the topic of discussion, waddled up to Jake and Elizabeth for no apparent reason other than the possibility of hijacking a conversation. His round face had the look of damp cheese, and his squinting in the sunlight made him look even more piggy than usual. “Jake, is it your turn to cook tonight? I wanted to remind you that I’m allergic to onions.”

  “I’m not likely to forget,” sighed Jake.

  “I may also be coming down with sun poisoning,” Victor announced with mournful satisfaction. “Since Dr. Lerche has pitched a tent up here to store the finds in, and since he isn’t around to use it himself, maybe he’d let me work in it.”

  “I wouldn’t ask if I were you,” Jake advised him. “Mary Clare’s the site manager, and you know how she feels about delicate fieldworkers.”

  “She really is most unsympathetic. In England, when I worked with Heinrich Schliemann-”

  “Ah-ha!” yelled Jake, pointing his finger disconcertingly close to Victor’s nose. “Heinrich Schliemann died in 1890. I’ve got you!”

  Victor blinked innocently at the finger. “Of course he did, Jake. I was going to say Heinrich Schliemann III, who is with the Royal Archaeological Society. Very nice fellow. But you may be right about Miss Gitlin. I suppose I’ll have to brave it out until I drop.” Mopping his forehead with a rumpled white handkerchief, he ambled off in the direction of the water jug.

  Jake was grinding his teeth. “Now, I know there is no Heinrich Schliemann III in the Royal Archaeological Society, but in order to prove it, I’d have to find a Dictionary of National Biography or a membership list, and by the time I’m in a position to do that, I’ll have forgotten the whole argument, or else he’ll swear he didn’t say it.”

  “I thought it didn’t bother you any more,” said Elizabeth in a carefully neutral tone.

  “I was plainly mistaken,” snapped Jake. “Someday, somehow, Victor Bassington is going to play Mr. Know-It-All to the wrong person, and he’s going to get nailed to the wall with the facts. I just hope I’m there to lead the cheers.”

  “Good luck,” smiled Elizabeth. “By the way, I may be late for supper tonight. I’m going to see Amelanchier after work. What are you cooking anyway?”

  “I don’t know, but there’ll be onions in it; I promise you that.” Jake picked up his trowel and headed back to the trenches.

  Despite the painstaking precautions taken to filter the soil and check for unexpected finds, the work at the gravesite had gone unusually well. The four daytime volunteers were diligent workers who made up in enthusiasm what they lacked in experience. By the beginning of the third day, the site tent contained several boxes to be analyzed by Dr. Lerche, and Elizabeth had been able to practice her measuring techniques on eight new skulls. She was not convinced that her results were accurate, but her skill in using the instruments increased as she be
came accustomed to working with the grisly objects.

  Elizabeth examined the latest acquisition-missing quite a few teeth for one as young as the cranial lines indicated-and decided that it was too late in the day to begin another measurement. This one could wait until morning. Perhaps by then Dr. Lerche would have finished his computer work and could double-check her original findings. If she hurried, she would have time to find Amelanchier and get acquainted before supper, leaving the rest of the evening free to spend with Milo.

  Elizabeth stowed the crate in a corner of the site tent. “I just put my folks to bed,” she told Mary Clare. “Do you need me for anything else?”

  Mary Clare shook her head. “I’m about ready to pack it in myself. Maybe the guys will be back from town by now.”

  “Well, if they are, tell Milo I’ll see him later. I’m going to find the Wise Woman of the Woods.”

  “More power to you,” laughed Mary Clare. “I’ve got all the wise guys I can stand right here.”

  Although she had acquired a certain regional reputation, Amelanchier Stecoah was by no means easy to find. Outlanders seeking her advice had to park their cars at the church and follow a footpath through the woods, which, after a twenty-minute walk, mostly uphill, stopped in a clearing sheltered by a wooded ridge. At the end of the path, a crudely hand-lettered sign, the twin of the one on the highway, proclaimed: WISE WOMAN OF THE WOODS LIVES HERE. Smaller printing below advised: “If Door Locked, Ring Yard Bell or Rad a Note.” A large brass bell was mounted on a post in front of an unpainted wooden shack. Elizabeth decided to try the porch door before ringing the bell.

  “Hello?” she called out. “Anybody home?”

  “Just got back!” answered a cheerful voice from within. “Come on in.”

  Elizabeth edged her way past an old wooden icebox and a cardboard box full of letters. The room was small and crowded, but the sprightly old lady in jeans and a denim workshirt was no martyr to poverty. Her eyes sparkled behind gold-rimmed glasses, and she jumped up to greet Elizabeth.

  “And who might you be?” she asked in a tone suggesting that she’d be pleased to meet you whatever the answer.

  Elizabeth introduced herself and explained that she was with the dig arranged by Amelanchier’s son.

  The old lady nodded at the mention of Comfrey’s name. “He’s the ambitious one of the bunch. Allus was.”

  “He said that it would be all right for me to visit with you. I’m very interested in herbs.”

  “I reckon you came to the right place then. Will you be wanting to go out gathering? I was just fixing to go get me some ginseng.”

  Elizabeth’s eyes widened. Ginseng had been discussed in reverent tones in her folk medicine class. Hailed as a cure for everything from the common cold to cancer, it sold for $140 a pound for export from the Orient. “Do you think you’ll find any?”

  Amelanchier snorted at such a tomfool question. “We got a woods full of poplar trees. That’s where it grows. ’Course we’ll find some. Pick up that basket and follow along.”

  She led the way past a small shed beside her house, picking her way up the ridge through underbrush and around fallen logs. “Now you only want to pick the old plants,” she told Elizabeth, lecturing as she walked. “Them young ones won’t bring much nohow. Their roots are no bigger’n a peanut. And another thing: when you pick sang-ginseng, you folks call it-you always want to pick off that red berry that grows between the twigs, and you want to plant it. If you do that, why, there’ll be a plant growing there the next time you go a-hunting it.”

  Elizabeth nodded, wishing she’d had the sense to bring a notepad with her. “How did you learn so much about wild plants?”

  “Handed down in my family,” said the old woman. She stooped to examine a small three-branched plant near the base of a tree. “My grandfather did the root medicine when I was a girl, and he taught me. Indians allus been close to the land. You know how there come to be healing plants in the first place?”

  Elizabeth shook her head. She knelt beside Amelanchier and watched her uproot the small plant and carefully rebury the strawberrylike fruit.

  “You want to watch how you kneel down out here in the woods,” Amelanchier warned her. “Those copperheads blend right in with the underbrush. And you oughtn’t to jump up quick like that, neither. Slow, steady movements is the best. Got to look out for snakes this time of year; bears mostly minds their own business. Animals aren’t our friends, though, the way the plants are. That’s how the healing plants come about. Back in olden times, when people could still talk to other living things and be talked back to, there was peace among us. But by and by, man began to get above hisself, wanting bearskins to keep him warm, and deer meat for supper, fish for fertilizer. Man became a danger to his fellow creatures. So all the animal folk of the world had a meeting and decided that something would have to be done about it.”

  “What did they do?”

  Amelanchier dropped another root into the basket. “They brought disease into the world. The bear clan called down rheumatism on every hunter who killed without apologizing to the hunted one, and the deer people wished influenza and colds on those who were ungrateful for the animal hides that kept them warm. Pretty soon every beast and bird had come up with some ailment or another to wish on brother man, till it looked like there wouldn’t be a soul to survive it.”

  “What did man do about it?”

  “Wasn’t nothing he could do. That would have been the end of us if it hadn’t been for the fact that the plants were our friends. When they heard all these awful things being called up by the animal clans, they decided to help man out. So every tree, shrub, grass, herb, moss-every growing thing decided that it would cure one of those evils. And they do, right down to this day. And when you learn which plant cures which evil-why, you’re practicing medicine.”

  “So plants are our friends,” mused Elizabeth, looking at the basket of roots.

  “Yep. That’s why I named every one of my young’uns after one. There’s Laurel and Stargrass and Yarrow and Comfrey. He’s my youngest, Comfrey is. Rest of ’em went off and got jobs in the big city. Reckon they’ll be back when they get to be my age.”

  “Does Comfrey live with you?” asked Elizabeth, thinking of the tiny cabin.

  Amelanchier smiled. “He couldn’t hardly stand all the company I have. No, Comfrey’s got him a little place down in the valley. He comes up to see me, though, ’bout ever’ day or so. He sure is worried about this mining business the Harknesses are pushing for. He reckons it’ll come to us losing the whole valley.”

  “We’re not going to let that happen,” Elizabeth assured her.

  “Now how do you’uns aim to prove that we’re entitled to the land? We don’t have proof like the Cherokees got-stuff that looks good in a museum for the tourists. We come from the Unaka people, and them folks in Washington ought to take our word for it.”

  Elizabeth smiled at Amelanchier’s idea of the workings of the federal government. She explained the basics of forensic anthropology, and the amazing process of determining age, sex, and race from the examination of a skull. In her enthusiasm, Elizabeth sounded much more expert than she actually was, but Amelanchier did not seem particularly impressed. She continued to scour the ground with a practiced eye, occasionally uprooting a small plant or picking a few leaves from a shrub.

  “I’m doing the skull measurements myself!” said Elizabeth triumphantly.

  “And you can tell all that?” murmured Amelanchier politely.

  “Well, no,” Elizabeth admitted. “Dr. Lerche can, of course. I just make measurements for him to check over later. So far he hasn’t had time to look at them. He’s setting up a computer in Laurel Cove.”

  Amelanchier straightened up and looked at the fading sky. “I reckon we ought to be starting back,” she announced. “You come on back with me, and we’ll talk some more about plants if you’ve a mind to. Is there anything in particular you’d like to know?” She eyed Elizabeth appraisi
ngly. “I’ve got a sody cure that’ll take weight off’n anybody.”

  Elizabeth blushed. “I’d like to hear it. I wish I could get another one of our diggers up here to see you. He’s allergic to everything. Food, dust, bees, cats-everything! Do you have any medicine that would help that?”

  “Why, ginseng ought to help some with it. I’ll give you some of my powdered stock, and you take it back there to your camp and burn it, and make your friend inhale the smoke.”

  “Is it expensive?” asked Elizabeth doubtfully. She knew that ginseng brought fabulous prices, and that Victor was not worth a fraction of such an expenditure.

  “Shoot far,” scoffed Amelanchier. “I don’t charge nothing. Plants just grow wild in the woods, don’t they? They don’t cost me nothing. Now, how would you like to stay for supper? I got a coon Comfrey shot laying up in my freezer, and we could have him with beans and cornbread.”

  Elizabeth hesitated. “It’s very kind of you to ask me, but I’ve never… I mean, what does raccoon taste like?”

  “Just like bear!” was Amelanchier’s instant reply.

  CHAPTER SIX

  THE MOONLIGHT did not illuminate the gravesite. From the granite ridge above, it looked like a large black square set down among the trees.

  “I don’t guess you can tell too much from here,” said Mary Clare.

  “I didn’t come up here to look at it,” Alex answered. “But I’ve inspected at closer range. You’re doing a fine job as site manager.”

  “I enjoy it, Dr.-Alex.”

  He looked up at the night sky. “This whole experience of roughing it out here makes me feel young again. You know, when I was still a grad student, Tessa and I used to spend summers in the desert…” He stopped, realizing that Mary Clare had stiffened at the mention of his wife’s name. “I guess those days are gone,” he finished lamely.

  Mary Clare touched his arm. “They don’t have to be.”

  “It’s not the same any more. When you’re first starting out, you think you’re going to be another Darwin. Revolutionize the field. But after a while, you’re like those poor beasts in the La Brea Tar Pits: you’re bogged down in mortgages and lectures and bridge games.”