Bones of the Lost

and scarred. I couldn’t guess their ages. Each had the look of living stone.
    “I’ll do the talking.” Welsted circled the Humvee and advanced a short distance.
    The men paused six feet from her. Solemn greetings were exchanged. No smiles.
    Watching, I couldn’t help but wonder. Was I looking into the face of the loathsome Taliban? Were these men who would beat women, cut off their ears and noses as they begged for mercy? Shoot them in their school buses for expressing their thoughts? Maim and shun them for being victims of rape? Men who would destroy schools lest little girls learn to read? Kill volunteer workers lest they supply vaccinations against polio?
    Or were they simple farmers just trying to get on with life? With the struggle of herding goats, growing crops, and raising kids?
    As Welsted conferred with our welcoming committee, I looked around.
    Windows stared back at me, silent and empty. Or were they? Were hidden eyes tracking our every move?
    An AK-47 propped open a door. Old, but undoubtedly functional. A lethal doorstop.
    Here and there men in twos and threes watched with suspicion. Boys stood frozen, play forgotten. There wasn’t a female in sight.
    After a brief exchange, the trio withdrew, talked briefly, then returned to Welsted. The tallest of the three spoke. Welsted replied. The tall man hesitated, then nodded assent.
    Welsted returned to the Humvee.
    “They say there’s been tension between U.S. troops and some ofthe locals. In light of the incident. He says the exhumation must be performed with caution and—”
    “Dignity,” I said.
    “Exactly.”
    “Please tell them I’ll treat the bodies with reverence.”
    Welsted translated. Again the men conversed. Again the tall one nodded.
    “Let’s get this freakin’ show on the road.” Blanton’s eyes were bouncing from building to building, alley to alley, curious face to curious face. Veins were pumping in both his temples.
    Two kids were summoned. Teenagers with long ropy limbs and wispy beards. Each carried a shovel on one bony shoulder.
    The boys looked wary but excited. Digging in a graveyard. Forbidden, blasphemous, on this day condoned.
    Eyes on the tall man, Blanton spoke to Welsted.
    “Be sure this muj understands I’ll be filming everything. I don’t want any flak about pissing off ancestors or hijacking souls.”
    Welsted explained about the photography. The man responded.
    “Don’t film any women,” Welsted relayed.
    “There goes my fashion spread in
Cosmo
.” Blanton spat in the dust. “Tell them to get their asses in gear.”
    “Lose the attitude, Mr. Blanton.” Welsted’s tone was toxic.
    Blanton and I gathered our cameras, shovels, and other equipment. Welsted got the screen. The tall man gestured toward goat alley. Our driver moved to the front of the line, Shotgun to the rear. Both looked anxious, like deer in an open field.
    As we moved in single file toward the western edge of the village, I felt unseen eyes on my back. Heard only our own boot falls and a wind chime somewhere out of sight.
    The cemetery lay a few hundred feet outside the wall. The rocky outcrop loomed above, overshadowing the site like a mini-Masada.
    The burials were modest, no ornate tombstones or carved statuary as in old-style American graveyards. A few had crude markers of the same rock used to construct the wall. Most were simply outlined with stones arranged in rough ovals.
    Some burials were still mounded, but most slumped. The newly dead, the long departed. All were aligned in rows, as in a farmer’s field. But bones, not seeds, lay beneath the ground.
    Wordlessly, we wound our way to each of the graves. Aqsaee was buried just inside the cemetery entrance. Rasekh lay so far back his oval of stones sloped up the base of the hill.
    Welsted looked at me. I told her we’d begin with Rasekh. No reason. We were gathered there.
    Bodies coiled, eyes jumpy, the marines took up positions by the cemetery entrance. I wasn’t sure if their tense vigilance heightened or lowered my sense of security.
    As Blanton shot video and stills, and the boys removed the perimeter stones, I used a long metal probe to check for differences in subsurface density to determine the configuration of Rasekh’s grave.
    Then, after brief instruction from Welsted, the boys sank their shovels into the dry desert soil. As they worked, feet spread, arms pumping, I squatted by the deepening trench, alert to color changes in the soil that would indicate