Page 22 of The BoneKeeper's Daughter

I don’t have long — when not with the Council, I should be reading for the people of the village, but they have been unusually quiet lately with their requests. The whole of the Hunt, longer than a month, the Council kept me in their chambers daily, and it feels a storm’s age since I spoke to anyone for bone. Still, I can’t help but lean my head against the wall and send a longing look down the main street; Tahrik is the son of a miller, and should be here soon to trade grain and flour. By the sun, if he is not late, then I may have missed him already.

I could ask the bones under my fingers, but Tahrik is a small piece of normalcy to me, a place where he is a boy, and I am a girl, and there are no bones whispering between us. It is a nice feeling, this waiting, this nervous anticipation. It is…human. So I wait, and watch the movements of a waking village, drink in the sounds of the people around me.

A woman catches my eye; she is laughing with a pink cheeked child, and the sound is like fresh water. The mother pauses by a shop, then, with caution to the youngster, enters. Her daughter remainsoutside, drawing patterns in the dust, until she is distracted by the noise of a small clutch of chickens on the far side of the street. In a strange twist, our village, where all must pay their due, values children to such a degree that none would dare harm a young one. Outside of the Reaping or Rendering, children are protected by the entire village. As such, most children are permitted quite a bit of freedom, and the little girl wanders from the door to chase one scrawny chicken down the dirt road. She is not paying attention to anything, though, and my eyes narrow in concern as she veers off course, heading towards a small paddock where the Hunters’ ponies are kept during the outside months. The bony bird flaps through their hooves, startling the shaggy creatures, but the child only has eyes for the chicken until it is almost too late.

Keeper! Keeper!The bones at the gate of the paddock are screaming a warning.

I am moving before I can think, running through the street and knocking people out of the way, who stare after me in amazement. The girl’s crying now, backed up against the edge of the paddock, paralyzed with fear as the ponies rear in front of her. She is inches from an ironed hoof when I am able to grab her and pull her to safety. Wrapping my arms around her, I rock back and forth, crooning a song I remember from my own childhood, a song about the sun and moon falling in love, and sharing the sky. She is still tear stained and hiccuping softly, nuzzled in with a curved cheek and soft skin against my chest, when her mother rushes up, frantic.

“Oh Gods above and below. I’m sorry, BoneKeeper!” She bows low before me, panicked and penitent, before carefully reaching out her hands to take her child. I cannot help myself — I tighten my grip slightly, stealing what little comfort I get from this rare human contact, and the child reaches up with a pudgy hand to pat my cheek. The woman makes a distressed sound, and apologizes again. “I…it was only a moment…she was gone before I…I just heard the yelling…I’m tremendously sorry, Keeper.” She is scared. “We mean no disrespect.”

Disrespect?When has a BoneKeeper ever been worried of respect inany way, other than for the bones? I tilt my head, surprised at her words, and the girl clambers from my lap as my grip loosens.

“No offense taken, of course. I was happy to help.”

“How did you know?” she asked, the words bursting from her mouth before she could stop them. Eyes wide with fear, she slaps a hand over her lips as though to forcibly stop any further questions.

I smile gently in her direction, and reach out a hand to touch the bone door in the stone paddock walls. “She crawled under the door. The bones called to me.”

Reaching out a tentative hand, she runs it along the door as well. “Can I…should I say ‘thank you’?” she asks, and I shrug.

“It’s appreciated, but not necessary.” Smiling, I take her hand in my own, and press it to the bone. “They were happy to help. And they like being visited.”

“They?” she replies hesitantly, and I nod, a little grin on my face. Reaching out my hands toward the girl, I offer, “Would you like to hear a story?” The girl nods, and climbs back into my arms with all the confidence of childhood. Her mother wavers unsure, but a story from the BoneKeeper is a gift she is not willing to turn down. Making her mind up, she settles herself in the dirt before me like a schoolchild, spreading her skirt around her and leaning forward in curiosity.

There is a murmur of sound from the road, and several other people who had been watching the events unfold come over, hovering on the edges of my vision, trying to overhear the story without drawing attention to themselves. It is not often I speak for the bones without request, and even more rarely in a group setting, unless it is for the Council. Come to think of it, I cannot remember the last time I told a story for the bones — when I was younger I would do it almost weekly, sharing their memories, tying the villagers to their history. But then the Council suggested I could better spend my time elsewhere, and scheduled the visits, rather than letting me drift through the village on my own. At the time I didn’t care; it seemed a simpler way than just wandering, and was angry at the people’s eagerness to see me only for bone. No one would ever call my name or ask after me as a child; they would only bow respectfully to a BoneKeeper andbe grateful for me as a vessel, not as a person. So I didn’t look too deeply at the Council’s reasons, and, suddenly flushed with shame, realize I didn’t look too deeply at the results either.

I frown. There are some fifteen thousand people in our village and its outskirts. Each area and age is assigned a day — children from anywhere in our cities’ boundaries are Sun Day, the lower villagers Moon Day, then the First Ring on Sea Day, the Second Ring on Winds Day, those in the main walls on Earth Day, and the Council only on Fire Day. An entire day, just for twelve people. The final day, the week’s end and its beginning, is Soul Day, when I used to visit the Elders’ Houses. I haven’t been in too long, however; the Council temporarily shut down my visits when a sickness went through the halls there, most of our old ones too weak to spend energy speaking with bones. A month faded to two months, perhaps longer, and I feel a pit in my stomach.

Time doesn’t mean much to me; it is a kind of blindness I have. Days pass quickly by myself, lost in bone stories; often when I am left to drift away from the living world, only Lorcan or the Hunter call me back to myself. It is not that I can’t return, more that I don’t want to. So when my Soul Days became open, and I was left to go to the quietest corners of the village and drown myself in memories of scents I have never known, colors I have never seen, food I have never tasted, I did not mind. When I have spare time, I spend it with the bones anyway.

But before this structuring, people would wander to me at any time, and sit at my feet as I leaned against a white wall, and I would regale them with stories from the past, of our village and its history. The stories were for all, not carefully parceled out in private moments. And they connected the people of the village, rather than divided them further.How did this happen? How did I let this happen?

The girl pats my face, noticing my distraction, and her mother hushes her. “If it’s too much trouble, Keeper…if you’re too tired….” but I shake my head and smile back.

“No. I was drifting. And they wish to speak. They’re arguing so loudly at the moment I’m surprised you cannot hear them.” I make aface, feigning exasperation, and she laughs, though more in relief than anything else I think. Pitching my voice louder so all around me can hear, I pat the door to the paddock with my free hand, the other still snuggled tightly around the child, who looks up at me with jewel-bright eyes. “This door is made of Old Antony and Old Peter.” I point to a line down the center, where two sets of bones meet and overlap. “Here is Peter, here is Antony. Peter was from…hmmm…does anyone know an area that used to be called ‘Swansdown Street?”

There is a soft rumble in the still growing crowd around me, people growing more brave and moving closer. “I do, Keeper.” A tremulous voice, shaking with age, calls from the back of the group. “It’s Swainslane now, but when I was a child, my great-grandfather told me that it used to be Swansdown, named for a white bird, white as bone, with a long neck and a black face.” There is a murmur in the audience as an old,oldman hobbles his way through to the front. His great-grandfather must have been well into his sunset years even at that point.

I nod. “Thank you, Old One.” The title is an honorific not often used anymore in our village, but an honorific none-the-less. Old One, to recognize the gift of your age and wisdom. Ancient One, though I have never met one so old, to recognize and honor your life. “Will you sit, Old One? Perhaps to help me interpret the story? A chair?” There is a collective gasp from the crowd at my words, and I look toward them to see surprise and worry warring on their faces. Frowning, I deepen my voice when I do not hear a response. “A chair?” I repeat, and there is a burst of movement.

“Here, BoneKeeper.” Tahrik emerges smiling, drags over a cut stump, and places it near the gentleman. “Here you are, ah, Old One.” Thinking quickly, he takes off his padded coat and places it over the wood to help cushion it, then helps the man sit. He risks a quick look my way, then shrugs off his undercoat as well and spreads it on the ground. “BoneKeeper. A place for you and your young charge. A summer flower like this one should have a softer spot than dirt to sit.” Winking at the little girl, he unleashes the full force of his smile upon her, and I watch her light up, echoed by her mother beside her.

We shift, and I murmur quiet thanks. He glances at me again through heavy lashes, and offers a sweet smile in return, and steps back, disappearing into the crowd of villagers. Beside me, the elderly man adjusts with a muffled groan, then turns to me, a rueful note in his voice. “I don’t know how much help I’ll be, BoneKeeper, but I’m honored to be asked.”

“I am honored by your assistance,” I reply, bowing my head, and again, there is a small intake of breath around me.What is happening here?But I do not have long to wonder, for the chattering of the bones drowns out almost all other sound.

“Alright, alright,” I say, tapping the bones, forcing myself to smile to relax the nervous energy in the crowd. It is awkward and uncomfortable, but seems to help the people near me settle. “Peter was from Swansdown Street, now called Swainslane, and Antony from Rye Court.”

“I’mfrom Rye Court!” a surprised voice shouts from the crowd before he is shushed, and I grin. This is a perfect story for an autumn day, where the air is clean and crisp and the Storms are at bay.

“Antony grew up just a short walk from Peter…hmmm. Stop talking over one another,” I chide the bones, shaking my head. “A hundred twenty years or more and you’re still squabbling like children.” There is a spattering of answering laughter from the crowd. “Antony and Peter were best friends. And Antony loved Maryrose, a girl in the village. Some of you may have known of her family. She had seven children, each of whom had seven children.” People in the crowd nod in response, though no one speaks. “Buteveryoneloved Maryrose. She was as clear water to most of the boys in her dancing years.” People are sitting closer now, no longer hanging at the edges. “Antony was mute.” A surprised flutter of sound from the audience. “And Peter had a tongue of gold, but he and Antony had a special language with their hands that they had created. I think…maybe many of their friends knew it as well? It’s hard, this story. Peter is clear, but Anthony’s voice is different. Hmm.” Tilting my head, I’m distracted for a moment by the way Anthony sounds. “Yes. Everyone knew…oh! They created the language, then…Anthony’s mother was a teacher in the Second Ring, and they learned it in school. So all the children of the village knew it.”

There is a scuffle in the quiet group, grasping hands, and then a boy, perhaps nine or ten, stumbles forward, and taps his mouth frantically. Behind him his father rushes up to catch him, eyes darting anxiously between his son and me. “My apologies, BoneKeeper. I’m sorry. I tried to keep him back.” He’s almost frightened, his voice shaking, but the boy less so, reaching forward to take my hand. He guides my fingers to his mouth and taps them lightly against it. His father’s words tumble over themselves in explanation, while trying to pull the child away from me. “I’m sorry. Caleb is also mute, but has no way to speak to us.”

I frown, and touch Antony’s bones. Sometimes when I touch them, if they are very old, it is easier to hear. I listen carefully, then make a motion with my hand. “Caleb, this is ‘hello’. It’s not perfect — it’s hard to interpret that sort of movement, but can you do this?” The little boy nods seriously, and mimics my movement. An idea strikes me. “Can you dothismovement?” I whisper to him, and he mimics me again. I speak softly in his ear, so only he can hear me, and he turns with a luminous smile to his father, and makes the movement for a third time.

“What is he doing?” his father asks me, bewilderment and a cautious hope warring in his voice. “What does that mean?”

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