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
“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
