THE
ANCIENT DEAD
An
Amanda Doucette mystery
The rains of ages have laid bare
The ancient dead once
buried there,
Far, far below in
limestone vault.Ó
—Charles
H. Sternberg, 1911
Chapter One
Beneath the dry, cracked soil,
the tufts of sage and prairie wool, lay the graveyard of the ancient dead. Even
after weeks of exploring the wide-open range, Todd Ellison still shivered at
the thought, as if ghosts were walking at his side. The sun blazed in the
cloudless blue sky and a fitful wind billowed in from the west, swirling dust
in its path. After a relentlessly dry summer, the land was parched.
The
weather was still hot in late August, but Todd had packed a pullover and
windbreaker in his backpack. This was Alberta, after all. Full
of surprises.
He
tilted his cowboy hat back and turned in place to take stock. The rolling
grassland seemed to stretch on forever, broken only by a scattering of Hereford
cattle, occasional clumps of trees and farms, and an oil derrick bobbing lazily
against the distant horizon. His backpack stuck to his sweaty back as he pulled
it around to get at his water bottle and binoculars. He needed shade and rest.
According to his GPS, he was not far from a coulee, which carved a deep crevice
through the ancient sandstone.
Coulees
promised the shade of bushes and outcrops, but more importantly, they were
where some of the best secrets lay.
He
trained his binoculars toward the eastern horizon, where a smudge of grey humps
suggested the edge of the coulee. Nearer still was the slumping shape of an old
outbuilding. Exactly what heÕd been looking for! After a quick swig of water,
he looped his camera around his neck and slipped his pack back into place. With
a fresh burst of energy, he started forward, picking his way through the sage
and keeping an eye open for the vicious spikes of cactuses.
The
wind blew in gusts against his back, tugging at the dry grass and driving fine
sand into his eyes. His hiking boot struck something hard. He parted the grass
to reveal a smooth stone partially buried in the soil. A quick search revealed
other stones arranged in a circle about twelve feet across. Excited, he
photographed them, taking care to capture the iridescent oranges and greens of
the lichen and the sharp shadows of the sage. Once, the Blackfoot had roamed
unhindered across this prairie, hunting buffalo, but now these occasional stone
circles were all that remained of their camps and tepees. The stones would make
a spectacular photograph for his book.
Closer
to the outbuilding, a pair of craggy grey posts poked up out of the grass, and
soon he could distinguish bits of rusty barbed wire still clinging to their
sides, remnants of a long abandoned fence put up by a farmer or rancher in
earlier times. Todd poked his boot into the soil, which was too dry and sandy
even for grazing here. Like the stone circles, the fence posts were testament
to long-dead dreams. A title for his photographic history book was beginning to
take shape: Ghosts of the Ancient Dead.
Snapping
photos, he walked around the posts and adjusted settings and filters as he
knelt to highlight them against the sun. Subtle hues of lichen glistened in the
light. He studied the effects on the screen and smiled. This was going to be
good.
As he
drew nearer, details of the outbuilding took shape. Barely fifteen feet square,
it listed badly as if weary of its battle against the relentless wind. Its
sun-bleached walls still propped one another up, but its roof had long since
fallen inside. The door hung open, creaking in the wind, its wooden hinges and
bolt splintered as if someone had tried to break it down. Holes gaped where the
two small windows had been. Todd peered inside. All but a few primitive
furnishings had been scavenged, but a willow sapling was flourishing in the
relative cool of the shade.
After
taking dozens of photos outside, Todd bent his head to squeeze his six-foot
frame through the door and adjusted his camera to capture the gloom. He noted
now the scorch pattern on the wall where the woodstove must have been, the
nails in the walls where the few clothes and implements would have hung, and
the single shelf on which sat some chipped cups and an empty whiskey bottle
caked in dust and oddly out of place. A message had been carved into the wall
next to the window. He leaned in to photograph it. It was barely legible, and
he blew the sand out of the cracks. A horizontal line, and next to it Snow, March 1907.
More
ghosts. Todd smiled as he photographed it, documenting history. In March 1907,
some poor beleaguered pioneer must have been nearly buried in a spring blizzard
that had blown in from the Rockies. He had probably been forced to crawl out
through the window. Todd wondered whether heÕd been alone or whether heÕd had
to rescue his entire family from the storm. A trip to the local archives or
land registry should tell him the identity and fate of the settler whoÕd once
tried to survive on this land.
He retreated
back outside to look for more clues about their early life. There was almost
nothing left except a nail keg and a broken sleigh runner. He dictated his
impressions into his phone. First impressions and a dose of imagination made
for powerful reading.
Afterward,
he checked his watch, mindful that he had to retrace his steps to the range
road before nightfall. In August, the days were already getting shorter and the
nights cooler. But it was just past two oÕclock, still plenty of time to reach
the coulee. The best pictures would be there, amid the old cottonwoods, the
ripples of eroded, multilayered rock, and the curving shadows of light. With
any luck, maybe even a dinosaur bone or two.
He came
upon the coulee quite unexpectedly as the prairie floor fell into a yawning
crevice of barren hills and steep slopes down to the ancient riverbed. In the
spring, snow melt would tumble down through the gully into the Red Deer River
farther east, washing silt and debris with it, but in late August, the riverbed
was dry. Willows and gnarled cottonwood trees clustered along the shoreline to
sap the last drops of water from the parched soil. The v-shaped valley snaked
ahead into the distance, forming an eerie moonscape of colours and shapes.
The
wind picked up as it swept through the gully, racing over the barren hills and
tearing at the bushes nestled in the crevices. Tufts of sagebrush and prairie
grass clung to the desolate southern slopes, but hardy green and gold bushes
grew in the lee of the north-facing hills. Todd picked his descent carefully
down a crevice through sandstone and popcorn rock that crumbled underfoot,
dislodging cascades of debris. Amid the debris, rocks and pebbles glinted in
the sunlight. He bent to pick them up, looking for bits of ancient shellfish,
seeds, and bones, imprints of leaves and flowers, the ancient dead from a time
millions of years ago when this had been a swampy, inland sea teeming with
life.
As he
walked along the sandy riverbed, he scoured the banks for larger fossils.
Dinosaurs had walked these marshy shores seventy million years ago, and these
Alberta plains had one of the richest collections of dinosaur bones in the
world. Fossil hunters had been excavating bones for over a century, but new
finds were still being made. A well-preserved dinosaur bone would be the
highlight of his book, and if it were a new species, it might even be named
after him. Ellisonsaurus!
He
photographed as he walked, focussing first on the expansive vista of sunlight
playing over the striated hills and on the comical silhouettes of hoodoos.
NatureÕs sandstone sculptures loomed like caped sentinels over the valley,
their stone caps perched precariously on their heads. Then he switched lenses
to capture the tiny fossil fragments that had washed down from the valley
walls. The afternoon sun baked the stone, turning the valley into an oven. The
wind evaporated the sweat from his face as soon as it formed, and before he
noticed, he was parched. A wave of dizziness swept over him. Quickly, he pulled
out his thermos and headed for the shade of an ironstone overhang.
He sat
on the sand below the overhang, took off his hat, and drank a deep, grateful
gulp of water. Then he rubbed his wet hands over his face and poured a little
water over his head. The dizziness had passed, but he decided to wait awhile
before venturing out into the sun again. He ran his hands through the rough
sand and shale, letting it trickle through his
fingers.
His
fingers struck a hard stone. Curious, he brushed the sand away to uncover a polished
round knob bleached grey with time. He tried to pry it loose, thinking it was a
rock, but it wouldnÕt budge. He dug more sand away, revealing a thin grey
shaft.
He
sucked in his breath. He traced his hands along the hard, pitted shaft, and his
heart beat faster. Could it be? The answer to his wildest
hope?
[SPACEBREAK]
Amanda Doucette peered out the
side window of the rented Ford SUV. Grey and amber fields stretched to the
distant horizon. ÒMan, itÕs empty!Ó
Chris
Tymko smiled as he accelerated past a lumbering transport truck. Their SUV was
more than two thousand kilograms of steel, muscle, and high-tech gadgetry.
Compared to her nimble Kawasaki motorcycle, it was a behemoth, and she had
nicknamed it the Hulk. But Chris loved it. He drove it with the casual
confidence of a cop, one hand on the wheel and the other propped on the open
windowsill. His leather cowboy hat was tilted low against the sun, and behind
his large sunglasses, his expression was serene. HeÕd had that look ever since
theyÕd embarked on their prairie odyssey.
ÒThis
is home,Ó heÕd simply said.
They
were driving west on the TransCanada Highway, a divided four-lane highway that
angled northwest across the Alberta prairie toward the Rockies. Once theyÕd
left the outskirts of Medicine Hat, the highway was almost empty as it passed
through acres and acres of open range. There was nothing to see but cattle and
a scattering of oil derricks and grain bins. Amanda chafed.
ÒLetÕs
get off this highway.Ó She peered at the faint lines on her phone map. ÒLetÕs
take some back country roads up to Drumheller through some of these little
towns so we can see what real rural Alberta looks like.Ó
He
chuckled. ÒThis is it. At this time of year, with the grain ripening, thereÕs
also a patchwork of golds and greens. But itÕs all
fields.Ó
ÒStill
ÉÓ They caught up with another transport truck, and Amanda peered inside at the
cattle in the trailer. ÒHeaded toward the slaughter house?Ó
He
shrugged. ÒWelcome to real rural Alberta.Ó
ÒOkay,Ó
she muttered, humbled. ÒBut we arenÕt meeting the people from the Royal Tyrell
Museum until tomorrow, so weÕve got lots of time to poke around the back roads
and see what AlbertaÕs famous farm and ranch country looks like.Ó
He
lowered the HulkÕs visor against the glare of the late afternoon sun before
glancing at her. ÒPretty much like the Saskatchewan farm country we drove
through earlier. Fifteen minutes is all youÕll need.Ó
ÒIÕll
take it. Maybe we can find a place to stretch our legs. Kaylee could use a
walk.Ó
The dog
had been fast asleep on the console between them, her head resting on her paws
as if even she was bored with the monotony. At the word walk, her head shot up.
Chris
laughed. ÒOkay, I give up.Ó
ÒOh, so
you wonÕt listen to me, but you listen to her!Ó
He
shifted his hand to caress her thigh. ÒIÕm just in a hurry to find a place to
stay in Drumheller. Four days in the spare bedroom of my parentsÕ tiny condo
sure put a damper on our sex life.Ó
She
caught his roving hand. ÒEyes on the road, Corporal. Behave. Who knows, maybe
we can find an old-fashioned roadside motel in one of these little villages.Ó
She
turned her attention to her phone GPS and directed him to take the next side
road north. After a few hundred metres, the paved road gave way to a flat,
straight arrow of gravel flanked on one side by wheat fields that rippled in
the afternoon breeze. She studied the rolling vista. Far into the distance, the
land shone amber in the sinking sun. Huge sprinkler systems stretched across
the fields like giant centipedes, and round bales of hay lay ready for
collection. Some homesteads were a cluster of abandoned buildings surrounded by
overgrown brush, but most were modern and prosperous, with sheltering clumps of
trees, shiny grain bins, and expensive farm equipment.
On the
other side of the road, however, the stubby grass and weeds were withered to
brown and grey, and only a few dozen head of cattle ranged in the distance.
ÒWow,
what a difference!Ó she said.
He
nodded. ÒOne side is just used as pasture and maybe some dryland
farming. The other side is irrigated. By this time of year, sometimes there
hasnÕt been any rain in three months. Before irrigation, farmers lived on the
edge of bankruptcy half the time.Ó
ÒWhere
does the water come from?Ó
ÒFrom
the Bow River, through a system of canals and pipes.Ó
ÒWhat a
lot of water they must use to irrigate all this!Ó
His
brow furrowed in faint irritation. ÒEasy for you to say, coming from Ontario.
You have endless lakes and rivers, and itÕs green everywhere. This is a very
different reality, but this prairie feeds a lot of our country.Ó
She
fell silent. He was right. Who was she to judge? She was here to explore, to
learn, to understand, and ultimately to finalize her next Fun for Families
tour: an educational adventure for high school students from a couple of remote
Northern Alberta towns. Their area had been hard hit the previous summer by
wildfires that had ravaged their lands and wreaked havoc with their livelihood.
With the catchy title Time Travel,
she hoped the weeklong adventure would give the students a glimpse into life in
Southern Alberta through the ages, from the dinosaurs to the First Nations to
the early ranchers and settlers. But in order to instil some love of this
bleak, big sky landscape in their hearts, she first had to find it in hers.
Although
Chris had been posted in the north and more recently in Newfoundland, he had
grown up on a Southern Saskatchewan farm. This past week had shown her that he
loved the vast blue sky and the golden seas of wheat as much as she loved the
sparkling lakes and rolling green hills of her own Ontario home. Canada was a
jewel with many facets, and every one deserved its share of light.
At the
end of a long lane up ahead, she spotted a cluster of gnarled old trees
surrounding a small homestead. As they approached, she saw the little saltbox
house was long abandoned. The steep roof had lost half its shingles and the
porch across the front had faded to flaking grey. It sat amid dust and dried
weeds that passed for a yard. To one side was a
collection of equally decrepit sheds and barns, a corral, and a field of
rusting tractors, ploughs, and trucks of 1970s vintage. Adjacent to the barn
were two round, rusty grain bins.
Behind
those, the remnants of a rutted track led out into an empty field.
ÒThis
place looks deserted. Maybe we can park in here and take Kaylee for a walk out
across that field.Ó
He
nodded as he pulled into the lane. A faded For
Sale sign lay blown over at the entrance. Amanda wondered how long it had
been there, forlorn and forgotten like the house.
Chris
jackknifed his tall frame out of the Hulk and stretched his back with a groan
before tipping his hat back and strolling over to peer through the only window
that wasnÕt boarded up. As she watched him, an old memory stirred. Where had
she seen that image before? In a picture frame somewhere. An old orange-tinged
photo of a farm like this, set against a barren field as grey and flat as an ocean.
The sunlight had cast sharp shadows across the figure of a young man leaning
against a fencepost, his cowboy hat tipped back at a saucy angle.
She
riffled though her memory. SheÕd seen the photo in the Laurentian cottage she
rented from her Aunt Jean. When her aunt was home from assignment, she used it
as her touchstone in Canada, and the tiny, rustic place was stuffed with
mementoes from her sojourns in remote lands. The photo had been in a wooden
frame on the wall above her bed, among pictures of the Great Wall of China and
of candles floating on the Ganges. Amanda had assumed it was taken on some
plain sheÕd passed through, perhaps in Mongolia or Russia. One dry plain could
look much like another.
But now
she wondered at the similarities. The windswept field, the saltbox cabin, the
outbuildings, grain bins, and corral. Even the cowboy hat.
Where had that photo been taken? And more important, why had her Aunt Jean kept
it framed on her wall among iconic world-class scenes for all these years?