ten centimeters along one side of the excavation, no farther than a trowel could cut. Then they would work back toward the far side of the excavation, slicing down that same ten centimeters and no farther until they reached the far side, and the floor of the hole was exactly level at the new, ten-centimeter-lower level. Then they would start again. Over and over again, they cleared every bit of the work face to the new horizon—Livingston was picking up the trade-talk—before going farther down at any point.
Start at the east side of the work face and work toward the west. Cut back the overburden east to west, whittling down a low ridge of dirt that slowly melted before their trowel blades. Slowly fill a bucket with dirt, slowly fill the wheelbarrow one bucketful at a time, empty the barrow on the tarp, and be glad for the chance to straighten up for a moment and get out of the hole.
They were about halfway across on their sixth horizon, the excavation now about waist deep on Livingston, the sun high in the ten a.m. sky—
When Livingston’s trowel hit something.
Something, he knew instantly, that wasn’t dirt.
Something that gave a little.
<>
“Barb!” he cried out, and threw down the trowel. Working with his bare hands, he scrabbled away the dirt, his heart pounding, fingers almost trembling with excitement.
“Stop!” she cried out. “Don’t use your hands. Run and get a brush.”
“A brush?” his hands stopped in midair over the whatever-it-was, and he looked up at her for a split second, as if he had never seen such a thing as a person before. Then he looked back down toward the ground. All he had eyes for was the invisible something beneath his feet.
“A brush! A paintbrush! It’s the best way to clear the dirt away. Didn’t I remember to tell you to get—oh, the hell with it! Come on, there must be some in the garage!”
Livingston got the idea. They scrambled out of the hole, and both of them nearly tripped over the grid lines on their way out. They broke all records getting to the garage, but there wasn’t anything remotely like a brush in any of the neat cupboards. They drew another blank in the garden shed, and pounded hell-for-leather through the breakfast crowd in the kitchen to get down to the basement to go banging through all the storage bins. In the last cabinet they tried, Livingston came up with a treasure trove of perfectly kept, good-as-new, soft-as-could-be brushes. Probably they had been right there since Great-uncle Will had last put them away before he had died, ten years before. Never mind. They were already outside again, racing for the site, leaving a trail of curious relatives following in their wake.
They scrambled back over the grid lines again, and Livingston made ready to jump down into the pit—but Barbara grabbed at his arm and yelled “Stop!”
Livingston looked back at her. “But—”
“But nothing! We’re standing right here for a second until we catch our breath and calm down a bit, or we’ll screw it up for sure! Liv, you almost jumped right on top of whatever you just found—and I nearly let you! We’re really close, so let’s not foul up.”
Livingston put up his hands in an apologetic gesture. “Okay, okay.” He turned away from the hole and squatted down on his haunches, doing the breathing exercises he had used to calm himself before a big game. Barbara leaned over and patted him on the shoulder.
After a long, silent moment, she said, “Okay, let’s do it. Calm and cool.” Slowly, carefully, they stepped down into the excavation. Barbara handed her cousin one of the brushes. “Go for it, Liv.”
Almost in a pose of reverence, he knelt down in front of the thing he had found. Barbara retrieved her camera and started to shoot. He started to brush away the dirt, and slowly exposed a tiny patch of a grimy, chewed-up-looking something, something with an oddly familiar, patterned surface. He drew back his hand and stared at what he had
Start at the east side of the work face and work toward the west. Cut back the overburden east to west, whittling down a low ridge of dirt that slowly melted before their trowel blades. Slowly fill a bucket with dirt, slowly fill the wheelbarrow one bucketful at a time, empty the barrow on the tarp, and be glad for the chance to straighten up for a moment and get out of the hole.
They were about halfway across on their sixth horizon, the excavation now about waist deep on Livingston, the sun high in the ten a.m. sky—
When Livingston’s trowel hit something.
Something, he knew instantly, that wasn’t dirt.
Something that gave a little.
<>
“Barb!” he cried out, and threw down the trowel. Working with his bare hands, he scrabbled away the dirt, his heart pounding, fingers almost trembling with excitement.
“Stop!” she cried out. “Don’t use your hands. Run and get a brush.”
“A brush?” his hands stopped in midair over the whatever-it-was, and he looked up at her for a split second, as if he had never seen such a thing as a person before. Then he looked back down toward the ground. All he had eyes for was the invisible something beneath his feet.
“A brush! A paintbrush! It’s the best way to clear the dirt away. Didn’t I remember to tell you to get—oh, the hell with it! Come on, there must be some in the garage!”
Livingston got the idea. They scrambled out of the hole, and both of them nearly tripped over the grid lines on their way out. They broke all records getting to the garage, but there wasn’t anything remotely like a brush in any of the neat cupboards. They drew another blank in the garden shed, and pounded hell-for-leather through the breakfast crowd in the kitchen to get down to the basement to go banging through all the storage bins. In the last cabinet they tried, Livingston came up with a treasure trove of perfectly kept, good-as-new, soft-as-could-be brushes. Probably they had been right there since Great-uncle Will had last put them away before he had died, ten years before. Never mind. They were already outside again, racing for the site, leaving a trail of curious relatives following in their wake.
They scrambled back over the grid lines again, and Livingston made ready to jump down into the pit—but Barbara grabbed at his arm and yelled “Stop!”
Livingston looked back at her. “But—”
“But nothing! We’re standing right here for a second until we catch our breath and calm down a bit, or we’ll screw it up for sure! Liv, you almost jumped right on top of whatever you just found—and I nearly let you! We’re really close, so let’s not foul up.”
Livingston put up his hands in an apologetic gesture. “Okay, okay.” He turned away from the hole and squatted down on his haunches, doing the breathing exercises he had used to calm himself before a big game. Barbara leaned over and patted him on the shoulder.
After a long, silent moment, she said, “Okay, let’s do it. Calm and cool.” Slowly, carefully, they stepped down into the excavation. Barbara handed her cousin one of the brushes. “Go for it, Liv.”
Almost in a pose of reverence, he knelt down in front of the thing he had found. Barbara retrieved her camera and started to shoot. He started to brush away the dirt, and slowly exposed a tiny patch of a grimy, chewed-up-looking something, something with an oddly familiar, patterned surface. He drew back his hand and stared at what he had
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