burial. Fortunately, the water table here is high. That helps preserve things. I’ve taken out several pots with holes knocked in them. The holes let out the spirit.” He rose, and then bent down, hands on his knees. “The pot hunters got a few all right, but they weren’t big time dealers. They worked with long handled shovels, not back hoes.”
“There’s a market?” Brandy swatted several mosquitoes on her jacket sleeve.
“Sure. Private collectors will pay. Maybe some museums, if they don’t know the sale items are loot. Here, look down.” She bent over the shaft. Even in the warm April sun, she felt a sudden chill. She could see bones, not an articulated skeleton, but what looked like diminutive leg bones laid side by side, a ragged piece of cord still binding them to earth-colored fiber. Near the slender bones Brandy could make out a fragile jaw bone, a few tiny teeth, parts of a small, broken skull.
“Skulls are sometimes stored separately. Sometimes set on the bones,” he said. Brandy’s voice dropped, as if in church.
“They seem so little.”
Grif Hackett stood and stretched. “A small child. Probably a girl. Kids had a high mortality rate. They led a hard life.” Brandy turned away from the opening. She wondered if the grave goods had included a doll, perhaps, or a toy necklace. She didn’t ask. After all these generations, what else could be left besides bones and clay and shell?
“You’d be surprised,” Hackett added. “There’s even a market for Indian bones.”
Brandy stood and faced away. “That’s barbaric. If this is the work Fish-hawk doesn’t approve of, I can understand.”
Grif pulled his lower lip down in disapproval. “To scientists bones are just a mixture of calcium carbonate, calcium phosphate, and fibrous tissue. Nothing to get upset about. But I’ll keep the bundle burial moist to preserve it, and Fishhawk will re-bury it with the proper ceremonies.” He gave a crooked smile. “Superstitious stuff, of course. He has to consult the committee and decide where. Probably not here again. Too isolated.”
“Pot hunters might come back?”
“Remember, bones have been sold.” He pointed to a small one-room clapboard shack half hidden among the cedars. “That’s what’s left of a fisherman’s old place. That and a dry cistern. I’ve stored some pots in the shack before I take them to the lab.” He glanced once more into the damp shaft. “This burial ought to be studied. For one thing, I found blue beads with this child. Shows these Indians did contact the Spaniards. We can even tell from the bones what their diet was.”
Brandy knew that until a few years ago excavations were commonplace; museums had been filled with aboriginal artifacts and bones. “And the great find you made?” she asked “The one that won’t bring any money?”
“You’ve just seen it—a bundle burial. Much better preserved than ones found near here in the fifties. Now re-burial is the law, if burials are disturbed at all.”
Brandy thought again of her study of Shakespeare. She remembered a line from the epitaph on his grave, and murmured, “Curst be he who moves my bones.” The meaning was plain enough for the most illiterate gravedigger. Indians weren’t the only ones who thought bones were sacred. A slight wind stirred the cedars, then the air became still. Brandy shuddered. How many skeletons were buried here? The very air seemed charged. She could understand why Fishhawk did not want to be here, maybe Bibi, too. The feeling welled up again that she experienced at Tiger Tail Island, waiting for the detective.
She tried to put the renewed sensation out of her mind. “And what exactly is a bundle burial?”
Hackett gave her a wry grin. “You won’t like this. These Safety Harbor people weren’t the only ones to use bundle burials. Anyway, the corpse was kept until it decayed, then the remaining flesh was boiled off, the bones arranged properly, bound by cordage in
“There’s a market?” Brandy swatted several mosquitoes on her jacket sleeve.
“Sure. Private collectors will pay. Maybe some museums, if they don’t know the sale items are loot. Here, look down.” She bent over the shaft. Even in the warm April sun, she felt a sudden chill. She could see bones, not an articulated skeleton, but what looked like diminutive leg bones laid side by side, a ragged piece of cord still binding them to earth-colored fiber. Near the slender bones Brandy could make out a fragile jaw bone, a few tiny teeth, parts of a small, broken skull.
“Skulls are sometimes stored separately. Sometimes set on the bones,” he said. Brandy’s voice dropped, as if in church.
“They seem so little.”
Grif Hackett stood and stretched. “A small child. Probably a girl. Kids had a high mortality rate. They led a hard life.” Brandy turned away from the opening. She wondered if the grave goods had included a doll, perhaps, or a toy necklace. She didn’t ask. After all these generations, what else could be left besides bones and clay and shell?
“You’d be surprised,” Hackett added. “There’s even a market for Indian bones.”
Brandy stood and faced away. “That’s barbaric. If this is the work Fish-hawk doesn’t approve of, I can understand.”
Grif pulled his lower lip down in disapproval. “To scientists bones are just a mixture of calcium carbonate, calcium phosphate, and fibrous tissue. Nothing to get upset about. But I’ll keep the bundle burial moist to preserve it, and Fishhawk will re-bury it with the proper ceremonies.” He gave a crooked smile. “Superstitious stuff, of course. He has to consult the committee and decide where. Probably not here again. Too isolated.”
“Pot hunters might come back?”
“Remember, bones have been sold.” He pointed to a small one-room clapboard shack half hidden among the cedars. “That’s what’s left of a fisherman’s old place. That and a dry cistern. I’ve stored some pots in the shack before I take them to the lab.” He glanced once more into the damp shaft. “This burial ought to be studied. For one thing, I found blue beads with this child. Shows these Indians did contact the Spaniards. We can even tell from the bones what their diet was.”
Brandy knew that until a few years ago excavations were commonplace; museums had been filled with aboriginal artifacts and bones. “And the great find you made?” she asked “The one that won’t bring any money?”
“You’ve just seen it—a bundle burial. Much better preserved than ones found near here in the fifties. Now re-burial is the law, if burials are disturbed at all.”
Brandy thought again of her study of Shakespeare. She remembered a line from the epitaph on his grave, and murmured, “Curst be he who moves my bones.” The meaning was plain enough for the most illiterate gravedigger. Indians weren’t the only ones who thought bones were sacred. A slight wind stirred the cedars, then the air became still. Brandy shuddered. How many skeletons were buried here? The very air seemed charged. She could understand why Fishhawk did not want to be here, maybe Bibi, too. The feeling welled up again that she experienced at Tiger Tail Island, waiting for the detective.
She tried to put the renewed sensation out of her mind. “And what exactly is a bundle burial?”
Hackett gave her a wry grin. “You won’t like this. These Safety Harbor people weren’t the only ones to use bundle burials. Anyway, the corpse was kept until it decayed, then the remaining flesh was boiled off, the bones arranged properly, bound by cordage in
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