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Promptly on Sunday morning, without even eating, they drove back into town. They had a few delicate inquiries to make. They discovered that the town's only telephone was in the shop. A slimy, battered black phone, so ancient it had a rotary dial, was anchored to the wall next to the door. There was a notice above it that said "All calls $5, pay at cash". It seemed everywhere was long distance from Camel Station. The shop had a vast collection of goods and the owner, a dirty, mumbling fellow named Dolf Muncho, skittered about nervously. The sheer variety that the shop's shelves proffered was outrageous for a tiny town like this. True, there was only one or two of each item, but the shop had almost everything a traveller might want, including such improbable selections as fresh bread, complex flashlights with fidgety bits and stamps. It even had a portable generator and several canoes. These last was surprising. There were no navigable rivers anywhere near here, and the lakes were totally inaccessible. The closest that any of the local waterways came to being navigable was the Mad River, a tributary of the Kwadacha, but that was only a relative description. Most of the rivers started high, raced through mountain valleys, gorges and over rapids and waterfalls until they dumped themselves unceremoniously into isolated fjords on the coast. Both of the canoes were heavy with dust. Obviously, no-one who came here needed one. The shop only had one paddle in any case. Christa smiled at the store-owner. "Excuse me, but do you know where all the townspeople are? We need to ask a few questions." "Yeah, well, you see, most of us left after the fire. Not too many here now. I don't get a lot of business." "The church is still in use. There must be a few left.", Sam said. "Yes, we go there every Sunday. The minister's gone, but we still read from the book when we can. Very religious, upstanding people in Camel Station. But you' better be careful, pretty woman. Heh heh", he laughed, amused at some private joke, "Don't get many buxom young vixens round here. Hee hee hee." Somehow, Christa found that easy to believe. Not that she had to be warned, in any case. "We need to talk to someone. We're archaeologists working near Thudaka Creek. We need to know who did some work there recently, clearing trees. Do you know?" He seemed to mull over her words for just a moment too long. "Well, don't know anything about archee-ology. I think you should talk to the Mayor. He'd know." It was obvious he knew something he wasn't saying. "Well, will everyone be here this afternoon, at the Church?" "Yep. But I don't think anyone'll be able to help you but the Mayor. Just ask him." "Right", Neal said, and then asked, "Um, why do you have canoes?" "Well, I bought them from a salesman a few years back. Bought four, and sold one that same year. Now they just take up space. "Is there anywhere to use them around here?" "No, no. Except when the river floods, and leaves little ponds everywhere. Good fishing. Salmon." "Salmon? But the river doesn't empty into the ocean." "Sure does. You get there by following little rivers and crossing swamps. I know, 'cause we get salmon. Can't argue with the facts", he said, grinning. "Science." Neal examined the one paddle the store had, hefting it. "You know, you'll need more paddles." Muncho grinned. "Not 'till I sell a canoe, eh? Heh heh heh. Want one?" "Uh", Neil responded, "Thanks, but no." "He's a real crackpot", he said once they were outside. "Like they've been cutting trees, and it's illegal, eh? He must think we're Parks people." Incredibly, it was open, but there were no cars parked anywhere. They stepped inside the barely lit building. When their eyes adjusted to the darkness, the three of them realized a roomful of people were staring intently at them. A choking blue haze of smoke hovered over the heads of the twenty or so men variously arranged on seats and barstools. Most of them were scruffy and unshaven. Nondescript country music was playing, its tinny notes wafting with difficulty through the thick air. Very slowly, the men turned back to huddled conversations over what was obviously, by its stench, very strong beer. A labouring metal fan turned above the bar. Dirty glasses and coloured bottles rested behind the grimy counter on the wall and a big picture of the Queen was currently being used as a dartboard by two unlikely anti-monarchists. There was no cash register. There also didn't appear to be any washrooms. Sam thought it unlikely that hygiene was a vital part of these men's daily routine, in any case. There were no women. This obvious fact was not lost on Christa. Especially as she was the centre of attention. She wasn't wearing much clothing, and she now found her ragged shorts and T-shirt uncomfortably revealing. The men closest to her cast hungry glances at her figure, and sized up her companions. Sam shifted, moving so that he and Neal were standing in what they hoped appeared like a possessive manner on opposite sides of Christa. This bar was exactly where they didn't want to be. The bartender got up from one of the tables and sauntered casually to the other side of the bench. "Well, there, what can I do for you?" Christa walked forward, Neal and Sam in cautious tow. "Yes, well, we were looking for people." "You've found them, I guess, eh?" He smiled a broad, toothy grin. "We're archaeologists, working at Thudaka River. We wanted to know if people in the town have been there recently." The low-level chatter seemed to quiet for the briefest of moments and immediately resumed. Had she not already been so alert, she wouldn't have noticed. No-one she could see showed overt interest in what they were saying, but Christa got the impression that someone in the room was definitely listening. "Well, no one I know, but a couple of years ago a tourist got lost up the creek, swimming. Her friend found an Indian burial ground. I guess that's why you're here. Heh. Just be sure you don't go for a dip. If you get carried into the Mad, well, ..." Neal looked at Sam. This was ridiculous. "Look, sir, all we want to know is who cut down the trees on the hill where the native town was, and who dug the pits at the site. Someone here must know." Suddenly, raising his voice, the barkeep spread his arms wide. "O.K. everyone, this fellow has a question. Who cut down the trees near Thudaka?" The assembled characters in the bar stopped talking for a moment and sat still. One or two laughed, another coughed, and then they returned to their quiet murmuring. The barkeep smiled again. "So, then, what can I get you?" "Uh, well, that's it, I guess." Once outside, Sam grabbed Christa's arm in relief and Neal stood and stared at them, eyes wide. "Man, you'd think cutting down trees was a crime. All we want to know is why. Weird." All three of them were unsettled. They decided to try the Mayor's place. Clouds were starting to obscure the sun, and a storm seemed to be approaching. In the gloom, the Mayor's house radiated unwelcomeness. If it was possible, he was even less chipper than before. "Eh", the old man mumbled from his doorway after they knocked, gesturing for them to follow. It was clean and well-ordered. The floor creaked noisily, but otherwise it might be any house in Vancouver or Toronto. He led them to his study. It was a wood-panelled room. Interspersed with Lower Egyptian pot sherds and bits of stone carvings were a few relics of the local Native civilization, mostly stone tools, intricately carved wooden boxes and exquisitely designed totems. In the corner, an empty Egyptian sarcophagus, its lid resting against the side, was covered with a plastic case. A humidity meter scratched a thin red line on graph paper inside. The native artifact collection was remarkable. Countless rare objects littered the study, most of them with white number-stickers. One wall was covered with carved masks. They were decorated with hair and other preferably unidentifiable substances. They were all wonderful examples of late Tatlatui craftsmanship. But whatever purpose they'd served at one time, it certainly hadn't been aesthetic. The contorted features and grotesque half-animal expressions were deeply disturbing. The luckless Tatlatui had been chased away fifty years before by unscrupulous prospectors and loggers. Smallpox and abuse almost annihilated them, and they were settled on swampland by the invader's paternalistic government. They'd left quite a bit behind, and while they had no intention of moving back to the isolated Kwadacha region, the Tatlatui Nation wanted to preserve as much of their heritage as possible. The Anthropology department at Okanagan had been more than happy to collaborate with them, as they had large research grants from the Ministry of Native Affairs and half a dozen students who needed thesis topics. This valley had been mostly inaccessible even to the Tatlatui, but there were legends that a big, fortified city had been built here by their ancestors and abandoned when disease ravaged the population. The discovery of preserved wooden structures near Thudaka Creek by campers two years before had inspired this particular expedition. And apparently, the Tatlatui legend was true. But most of the items in Grimsley's collection were either from Egypt or distant coastal cities. Puttering in a way only people with little human contact can manage, Mayor Grimsley made some attempt to show off his collection. Neal interrupted him. "Why do you have so many Egyptian artifacts? I mean, they're all in really good condition. I would've expected them to be in a museum in Vancouver or Toronto, or something." Looking for something on a cluttered desk, he said, "Founder of the town, Cather, grew up in Egypt. Eventually ended up here, and moved his collection up. He left his collection to the town museum. When we shut it down, I moved it all here, so I could look after it. Lucky, too, because the museum burned down a few weeks ago." Grimsley eventually left them in the study, saying that he was going to return with some of the local townspeople to answer their questions about the Thudaka River site. As soon as the old mayor had left, Sam walked over to the other two. "Woah, is he really spooky. Look at this place. You'd have to be insane to live in a house like this. It's like a suburban museum." Christa grimaced. "No, not a museum. A mausoleum. Look at that coffin. Neal, can you read the heiroglyphs?" "Uh, no. Not really. They're first dynasty. There's people at the university who could read it, though. It's a shame it's here. But he seems to know how to look after all of this stuff. I'd have expected, like, musty drawers and moldy cabinets. There's more to this guy than we can see. I bet he ran the town museum." Sam laughed. "Yeah, right, and he's probably the fireman, clerk, postman and Chief Returning and Electoral Officer, too. And librarian, by the looks of it." The trio took the opportunity to study the room's artifacts more closely. Several lengths of wooden posts lay in bits on the table with other scattered stone and wood objects. Some of them were clearly Tatlatui, but others were unidentifiable. An open book lay on the table and someone with beautiful, delicate handwriting had begun entering descriptions of the items. On the table was a long log, carved with intricate designs. It took little inspection to reveal that they were writing of some kind. Christa picked up a delicately incised bone ornament. "This is why everyone's keeping secrets. They're raiding the site for saleable aritfacts. The mayor's likely the one organizing it, too. Our arrival must have put a damper on their plans." Christa picked up another chipped stone object and examined it, thinking. "You know, I think we should make a telephone call." The trio left the house, but when they were outside, they heard shuffling noises coming from somewhere upstairs. Sam called out, "Mayor Grimsley... Mayor Grimsley..." Instantly, a person appeared on the balcony above. The three students jumped back in surprise. It was a woman. She must have been old Grimsley's mother. Her ancient, withered form peered disapprovingly down on the three archaeologists. When she spoke, her voice sent chills up Christa's spine. It had a reedy quality she was sure only existed in legends or in movies. "You, what do you want? Go away. We don't need you." Christa looked at Sam. "Uh, are you Mrs. Grimsley?" "We don't need you, now go away!" They were momentarily silent. Sam addressed her this time. "We have some things to leave for Mr. Grimsley. Equipment." The woman paused for a while, thinking. "Eh? Yes? Well, just leave it there." She pointed to the garage at the side of the house. "Just put it there, and go away." Abruptly she turned and walked back into the house. She moved quickly for a woman who was obviously very old. Sam chuckled, and said laughingly, "This place really is a museum, eh?" Dealing with this town was frustrating, and they'd been sleeping in damp sleeping bags, in a cemetery, for a week. They dumped the equipment they didn't need and sat in the suburban, anxious but exhausted. "Right. Well, what are we supposed to do now? We have to find out what's been going on here," Sam said. He was tired and his skin was raw from thousands of mosquito bites. Scratching his wrist, he said, "I have an idea. You go back and get our notes, and I stay here to wait for Grimsley. Come and get me in a couple of hours." Neal, sensing another opportunity to examine the study, added, "Yeah, and I'll stay here too. You get the laptop, and we can fax Sandor our notes. There's an idea." For her part, Christa just wanted to get out of the town. "O.K., sure. I'll be back in a few hours. Don't let the woman eat you for dinner, eh?" Christa got into the vehicle. It wouldn't start. The smell of oil was worse now. "Shit." She popped the hood and got out to examine the engine. Neal looked on. "You know, maybe we should just park it here and walk back. Not like anyone'll steal it. Where would they go?" Taking out her water-bottle, she poured some water into a greasy tube sticking up from the engine. Thankfully, it started. As she drove the labouring vehicle away, Neal and Sam walked back up to the house. The woman didn't come downstairs, so they settled into the study again. This time, they could examine the pillaged artifacts in more detail. Eventually, Neal set about trying to decipher some of the writing on the Egyptian artifacts, and Sam was reading from some of the older books. There was a good collection of Egyptology texts dating from the early 1800's. He gravitated to the table, and traced the lines of the odd symbols on the pole. Writing, or at least something very similar. This find was going to change the face of Tatlatui archaeology overnight. Neither of them noticed, half an hour later, when the door to the room snicked shut. At the snapping of a bolt they both looked up. Neal glanced over. "Hey, the door's closed." The two men shared the same sinking feeling. In a swift, efficient movement, Sam sat up and tried the door. It was locked. He pulled on it. The glass handle shook back and forth uselessly. "Oh, shit. Neal, I think we're locked in." "What?" Neal started banging on the solid door, but Sam grabbed him. "Look, the door's too thick, we couldn't break it down if we wanted to." They heard the sound of shuffling of feet moving back up the stairs. |