emerge. “It’s a covered pot of some kind. And it’s intact.”
The dig staff saw the crowd gathering at the end of the site and hurried over to see what was going on. Miss Sanders, Professor Crutchley’s assistant, a middle-aged woman with light ruddy-brown hair, leaned over Keith’s shoulder to watch as the pot emerged.
“Carefully now. It could be very fragile. Stop using the brushes now, and use your fingers instead. Clear away the earth from its sides with your fingers. There might be small handles, and you could break them.”
“Yes, ma’am,” both youths breathed, working more slowly.
“Stop, Keith Doyle,” Holl’s voice came softly in Keith’s left ear. “I can feel cracks in the fabric. It’s only hardened clay. Stop now and move outward. You’ll have to pick it up from below.”
Keith glanced up at Holl, and pulled away from the edges of the brown jar’s rim. “Matt, let’s move out and break up the dirt. It might widen out further down. We don’t want it to smash just as we’re getting something at last.” He dragged his fingertips along the ground until the pressure of Holl’s hand on his shoulder told him to stop. Matthew, shooting him a curious glance, followed suit, and started breaking up the soil.
“Good, good,” the assistant encouraged them. “Now, lift …”
A collective sigh of joy gusted from the crowd. Between their fingertips, Matthew and Keith held a glazed clay jar with a small round lid crusted in place by more dirt. Its shape was slightly reminiscent of an amphora, except that the foot was flat, and instead of the earlike handles, it had only pinched-looking tabs under the curled rim. At Miss Sanders’ instruction, they set it down in an empty pan on someone’s outspread handkerchief. The assistant dropped to her knees beside Keith and whisked at the jar with a soft brush until the lid came free and rattled in place.
“Well done, you!” Miss Sanders exclaimed. “Someone get the camera.”
Another assistant hurried up. The jar was photographed in the pan. A ruler was laid and chalk powder dribbled around the location in which it was found, and the assistant took another exposure. Dr. Crutchley beamed down on his workers as proudly as if he’d thrown the pot himself. He was a man in his late fifties, with perfect wings of white in his dark brown hair. Between those dramatic temples, wiry eyebrows stood out, just barely not touching above a beak-like nose.
“A perfect example of corded ware, Miss Sanders. I never did expect this site to be another Jorvik, but it is encouraging to find fine specimens of this nature. Very gratifying. It’s an Irish style vessel, isn’t it, except that there are well-preserved traces of paste ornamentation, and the firing is much finer than you would expect. And a lid … not a seal or a stopper. Most unusual.”
“There’s something broken off inside,” Keith said. “I felt it sloshing around when we picked it up.”
The professor gently lifted the lid, and set it down on the cloth. With two fingers, he extracted from the jar a long string of globular, translucent golden beads. “Amber! An amber trading string.” The aged, blackened cord began to deteriorate as he lifted it, and he scooped his other hand underneath to catch the beads before they fell. “A small fortune in tally beads. Well, a good omen as a first find, I’d say.”
“Someone’s cache, sir?” Miss Sanders inquired, picking up the pan containing the jar and lid.
“Impossible to say until we’ve examined the entire site. It might have been interred with a shallow burial, not uncommon for wealth as grave goods.…” The two scientists drifted away to the table, offering speculations to one another, and exclaiming over the artifacts. The second assistant followed respectfully with the camera. Matthew and Keith watched them go with open mouths.
“They’ve forgotten all about us,” Matthew said, a little indignantly. “We passed a miracle,
The dig staff saw the crowd gathering at the end of the site and hurried over to see what was going on. Miss Sanders, Professor Crutchley’s assistant, a middle-aged woman with light ruddy-brown hair, leaned over Keith’s shoulder to watch as the pot emerged.
“Carefully now. It could be very fragile. Stop using the brushes now, and use your fingers instead. Clear away the earth from its sides with your fingers. There might be small handles, and you could break them.”
“Yes, ma’am,” both youths breathed, working more slowly.
“Stop, Keith Doyle,” Holl’s voice came softly in Keith’s left ear. “I can feel cracks in the fabric. It’s only hardened clay. Stop now and move outward. You’ll have to pick it up from below.”
Keith glanced up at Holl, and pulled away from the edges of the brown jar’s rim. “Matt, let’s move out and break up the dirt. It might widen out further down. We don’t want it to smash just as we’re getting something at last.” He dragged his fingertips along the ground until the pressure of Holl’s hand on his shoulder told him to stop. Matthew, shooting him a curious glance, followed suit, and started breaking up the soil.
“Good, good,” the assistant encouraged them. “Now, lift …”
A collective sigh of joy gusted from the crowd. Between their fingertips, Matthew and Keith held a glazed clay jar with a small round lid crusted in place by more dirt. Its shape was slightly reminiscent of an amphora, except that the foot was flat, and instead of the earlike handles, it had only pinched-looking tabs under the curled rim. At Miss Sanders’ instruction, they set it down in an empty pan on someone’s outspread handkerchief. The assistant dropped to her knees beside Keith and whisked at the jar with a soft brush until the lid came free and rattled in place.
“Well done, you!” Miss Sanders exclaimed. “Someone get the camera.”
Another assistant hurried up. The jar was photographed in the pan. A ruler was laid and chalk powder dribbled around the location in which it was found, and the assistant took another exposure. Dr. Crutchley beamed down on his workers as proudly as if he’d thrown the pot himself. He was a man in his late fifties, with perfect wings of white in his dark brown hair. Between those dramatic temples, wiry eyebrows stood out, just barely not touching above a beak-like nose.
“A perfect example of corded ware, Miss Sanders. I never did expect this site to be another Jorvik, but it is encouraging to find fine specimens of this nature. Very gratifying. It’s an Irish style vessel, isn’t it, except that there are well-preserved traces of paste ornamentation, and the firing is much finer than you would expect. And a lid … not a seal or a stopper. Most unusual.”
“There’s something broken off inside,” Keith said. “I felt it sloshing around when we picked it up.”
The professor gently lifted the lid, and set it down on the cloth. With two fingers, he extracted from the jar a long string of globular, translucent golden beads. “Amber! An amber trading string.” The aged, blackened cord began to deteriorate as he lifted it, and he scooped his other hand underneath to catch the beads before they fell. “A small fortune in tally beads. Well, a good omen as a first find, I’d say.”
“Someone’s cache, sir?” Miss Sanders inquired, picking up the pan containing the jar and lid.
“Impossible to say until we’ve examined the entire site. It might have been interred with a shallow burial, not uncommon for wealth as grave goods.…” The two scientists drifted away to the table, offering speculations to one another, and exclaiming over the artifacts. The second assistant followed respectfully with the camera. Matthew and Keith watched them go with open mouths.
“They’ve forgotten all about us,” Matthew said, a little indignantly. “We passed a miracle,
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