Lovely In Her Bones

CHAPTER FOUR

SARVICE VALLEY, named for the white-flowered trees which covered the hillsides, had been optimistically named by its pioneer discoverers. Strictly speaking, the area was not large enough to be a valley; in local terms, it was merely a “run,” which is the bottomland carved out by a small creek. The encircling mountains formed the community’s boundaries, limiting its population to several dozen families farming a few acres of rocky hillside. A one-lane road turned off the main highway where tiny Sarvice Creek emptied into a stone-studded river, and it paralleled the creek up the run, turning to a dirt track long before it reached the creek’s source: a trickle from a spring in a wooded hollow six miles from the mouth. At the end of the run, where it joined the main road, the hills arched up on either side of the pavement, crowding road and creek into a sliver of land. There was no room to live or farm for the first mile of the run, but after a few rises and turns the land began to level out, revealing frame houses and cornfields on either side. In the widest stretch of bottomland at the center of the run, the community had built its main street: a one-room post office and a general store. Any less basic transactions would have to be carried out in the nearest incorporated town, Laurel Cove, which was eight miles up the highway.

Although Sarvice Valley’s population was 98 percent Cullowhee, there were no souvenir shops or other concessions to tourists. The area was not on the path of the Appalachian Trail and was sufficiently remote to be largely ignored by the sightseers, who confined their interest to the Blue Ridge Parkway or the Great Smoky Mountains National Forest. Those in search of Eastern Indians found the Cherokees conveniently situated to both, so that few outlanders even bothered to investigate the Cullowhees. It was just as well: seekers of colorful Indian folkways would have been disappointed by the Cullowhees, who were indistinguishable from their Appalachian neighbors. Those tourists who did risk their cars’ suspension systems in Sarvice Valley were drawn there by the hand-lettered sign by the side of the main road.

“There!” cried Elizabeth. “Did you see what that sign said?”

“I’m not stopping at any more Antiques or Scenic Overlooks,” said Milo.

Elizbeth pointed to the weathered board, marked in slanting free-form lettering: AMELANCHIER-WISE WOMAN OF THE WOODS-6 MI. An arrow pointed toward the Sarvice Valley Road. “I told you she lived around here,” said Elizabeth.

“This is our turnoff,” nodded Milo. “Be on the lookout for a white frame church.”

“I want to go and see her. She’s supposed to be over eighty, and she knows everything about root medicine. I brought my notebook. Do you suppose she’ll take me out gathering with her?”

“Maybe. But first you’ve got to get moved into the Sunday school room, do your K.P. assignment, and go to the diggers’ meeting that Alex is having after supper. Remember, I’ve vouched for you on this dig. Don’t let me down.”

Elizabeth was surprised at Milo’s serious tone. She had never heard him so businesslike. “I’ll do my job,” she said meekly.

Milo didn’t answer. He seemed intent on the winding road in front of them. It lurched through oak groves and banks of mountain laurel, which parted now and then to provide a glimpse of the creek below. The only sign of human habitation was an occasional mailbox nailed to an upturned log and surounded by clumps of Queen Anne’s lace and tiger lilies. Milo, oblivious to the beauty of the summer woods, wondered why he was so edgy. This was a routine excavation, after all; surely there was less at stake here than there was when he assisted the medical examiner in criminal cases. Why should he be more nervous now? He told himself that it would turn out to be two weeks on a hot, dull job. The glamour of grave robbing was vastly overrated. With an effort of will, he made himself concentrate on the routine tasks ahead.

After a few more miles of gradually broadening bottomland, the road opened up into fenced pastures, and finally to a cluster of houses comprising the community of Sarvice Valley. The church was easy to spot: it sat on a wooded hillside overlooking the village and was actually several miles farther off than it appeared.

Elizabeth looked at the weathered frame houses, whose sagging porches and battered roofs testified to their age. “It doesn’t look like an Indian village,” she said doubtfully.

“Very true. I think the Cherokees mostly have brick homes with carports.”

Elizabeth made a face at him. “You know what I meant!”

“Something out of a John Wayne movie, I expect. The interesting thing is that with the Cullowhees, this isn’t just the effects of civilization on their culture. Apparently, they’ve always lived and talked like everybody else. It would make an interesting study.”

He drove onto a dirt side road, across a narrow wooden bridge, and steeply uphill toward the white church, which flashed in and out of their line of sight as they curved through the woods. On one side of the hill a small meadow had been cleared on the creek side of the church, for picnics and baptisms. Two cars and a van had been parked in the meadow just off the road. Milo pulled in beside the van.

“Everybody’s here already, I guess. Let’s get our stuff unloaded and take it up to the church.”

“I thought we were excavating a cemetery. I don’t see one.”

“It’s behind the church, but that’s not the one we’ll be working in. Those graves with the granite headstones are pretty recent-1930 and on. The old burying ground is farther up the hill, past a little stretch of woods.”

“Have you seen it?”

“No. Dr. Lerche came up here earlier this week with Mr. Stecoah, and he did some preliminary work. He’ll cover that in his lecture after dinner. Do you need any help carrying anything? No?” He slammed the trunk. “Let’s go.”

The Sunday school room had a plank floor, walls of unfinished boards, and a smeary copy of the Last Supper done on black velvet. The wooden folding chairs had been stacked by the table at one corner of the room, beside boxes of food and supplies. Five sleeping bags were laid out in the center of the room, and on one of them sat Mary Clare Gitlin playing a guitar. She had not heard them come in. Her blond hair brushed the neck of the instrument as she chorded the notes to a mountain song: “Love, oh love, oh careless love. Look what love has done to me.”

“Hello, there!” said Milo, more loudly than necessary.

“Hello yourself, stranger,” called out Mary Clare. “What took you so long?”

“Well, that road was no picnic. I never tried to drive over a washboard before. And then I had a passenger who wanted to stop at every tourist trap on the highway.” He nodded toward Elizabeth. “Mary Clare, this is Elizabeth MacPherson. She’s… uh… a friend of mine.”

Mary Clare extended her hand to Elizabeth. “Pleased to meetcha. I haven’t heard a thing about you,” she said with a smile that made the statement patently untrue.

“So, who’s here?” asked Milo, looking around.

“Alex, of course. He’s up at the site poking around. And two guys from my intro class volunteered to come for the experience. I don’t know if you’ve run into them or not. Victor Bassington and Jake Adair.”

Milo made a face. “Bassington. Yeah. He hangs around the department all the time. Know-it-all. But you mean that’s it? Six of us?”

“Six of us staying here. We got four more people coming in for daytime, but they’ll be going home at night. Alex got them from the state archaeological society.”

“Amateurs?”

“Seems like it. College undergrads, at best.”

“What about consultants?”

“None at the moment. The Carolina guy is off at a conference, and the folks at U.T. have a big project of their own going. Maybe one of them will check our stuff later on. Nobody’s an expert on Cullowhees, anyhow. They’re such a small group, and so lacking in distinctive cultural features, that nobody ever got around to doin’ ’em.”

Milo smiled. Mary Clare’s accent was still a mixture of East Tennessee dialect and sociologist’s jargon. Four years of college hadn’t made much of a dent in it, he was glad to see. As an anthropologist he was all for people maintaining their cultural heritage. Too bad the Cullowhees had lost theirs; things would have been much easier if there had been a few clues to go on. Maybe something would turn up at the gravesite.

“Well, anyway, I’m glad you’re here. Milo, why don’t you hunt up Jake and Victor and get the van unloaded while Elizabeth helps me set up Alex’s slide projector?”

Milo looked stricken. “What about supper?”

Mary Clare smiled mischievously. “Why, Milo, it’s real sweet of you to offer, but it isn’t necessary. Mr. Stecoah has arranged a covered-dish supper here at the church so that the Cullowhees can meet us. They’re even going to sit in on Alex’s introductory lecture.”

“Won’t that be dull for them?”

“I don’t know. Alex seems pretty excited.” Her eyes shone. “I think it’s going to do him a world of good to be away from that old college.”

Milo looked uneasy. “Yeah… well… I guess I’d better start unloading the van. See you later, Elizabeth.”

“I guess he’s rather tired,” said Elizabeth quickly. “It was a long drive up here. Why don’t you show me what you want me to do?”

Two hours later, the Sunday school room had been transformed into a dining hall by the addition of two dozen folding chairs and three card tables covered with sheets. The residents of Sarvice Valley had arrived in small groups, carrying bowls of beans and potato salad, meatloaf, pans of cornbread, and homemade cakes. They had eyed the diggers shyly at first, talking among themselves, but finally one stout woman had marched up to Elizabeth and Mary Clare and asked: “Which one of you’uns is married to that professor?”

“Neither one of us,” said Mary Clare just as bluntly. “We’re hired on. His wife stayed home in a big old brick house.”

The woman nodded, satisfied. The answer seemed to fit her idea of the way the world should be run. “You ain’t married atall?” she asked. Why, they must be twenty-one if they was a day, she reckoned.

“Not yet,” said Elizabeth, trying to soften the blow.

“Reckon somebody ought to plant you a love vine.”

“What’s that?” asked Elizabeth, sensing an item of plant lore.

“It’s a flower grows up in the hills. That’s what we allus calls it. Love vine. You plant it and name it after your sweetheart, and if it lives, why, he’ll take a shine to you.”

“Are you Amelanchier?” asked Elizabeth in a hushed voice.

The woman laughed. “Shoot far, no! Why, Amelanchier wouldn’t eat two smidgeons of what’s on them tables. She’s up home, most likely, or out agathering. It don’t take her know-how to plant a little old love vine. I could do it easy. Who would you want me to name it after?”

“Alexander,” said Mary Clare softly.

Elizabeth opened her mouth to say “Milo” when he suddenly appeared at her elbow. She hastily amended her answer to “Robert Redford.”

“Alexander and Robert,” nodded the woman happily. “That ought to do the trick.” She hurried back toward the dessert table.

“Hi,” said Milo. “How’s it going?”

“It’s interesting,” Elizabeth answered cautiously. “I don’t think I’ve met everyone yet.”

“They’re still sizing us up,” Milo told her. “Don’t you find their accents interesting?”

“What accents?” asked Mary Clare.

He laughed. “Anyway, you ought to meet the rest of the team. This is Jake Adair,” he said, nodding toward a dark-haired young man in jeans who was chatting with a pudgy fellow in gray slacks and a blazer. “That’s Victor Bassington he’s talking to. Come and meet them.”

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.”