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TO THE SCHOOLHOUSE

WREN

T he rest of yesterday was a slow decay of time, sitting in a corner like a tame bird, listening to old men ask each other unanswerable questions.

It’s a brutally stupid game they’re playing, wasting valuable hours until the hunters return with the Father and the other two Councilmen.

They’re so consumed with their own power and privilege that the thought of losing even an inch of what they have stolen has turned them into a nervous little rabbit kits.

So they do what they always do, whittle away my time with meaningless moments, needing my presence without ever asking my input.

They kept me so long that night’s fingertips almost grazed the front door by the time they released me with smirking, self-satisfied faces.

I spent most of the meeting as I usually do, tuning them out and losing myself in the memories that surrounded me.

They had unintentionally chosen my favorite room in the Council House for the session; the corner with my small chair is ribboned with the bones of a group of minstrels from the time before, who were Guided by the first BoneKeeper in the time after, and whenever I am there, I sink into their strange songs, feeling a world away from the present.

The bones in the Council House always pull extra hard at me because I see them so rarely, so it was as easy as breathing to step into their music.

Although, disturbingly, for the first time, it was surprisingly difficult to come back to myself.

The feeling of fighting against them to regain my own body was…unnerving.

It stayed with me all night, crawling along my sleepless skin, curling like smoke in the air.

And, in the dark, the whispers of the bones near the Children’s Garden hung as noiseless echoes in my room.

Be watchful, be wary. There is change coming.

By the time the sky starts to lighten, my head is heavy and heart unsettled.

Putting on my armor with unusual haste, I waste water, washing, and washing, and washing again, until the cool, sharp herbal scent has cleared my mind.

I need…I need to step away from the bones, just until I feel wholly in myself again.

It is early, too early for the Council to have risen and found new ways to make my life a misery, so I take a chance and wander the waking village quietly, watching the faces of the people.

When I look out at the town through a stranger’s eyes, I can see all the things I miss as BoneKeeper.

There is music, and noise, and happiness even in the smallest things.

When you do not have much, you learn to be thankful for any gift.

And you celebrate life in a different way than those who have grown bored and corpulent from luxury.

Not every day can be spent fearing the coming Storms, or waiting for the Vengeance to be paid.

Life pushes through even the driest lands, tiny, pale green tendrils finding a way to grow.

And so it is here. Something that is easy for me to forget when I spend too much time with death.

Just outside the First Gate, a woman near my age is opening the window of a quaint shop with black and white curtains, laughing and holding the small, pudgy hand of a young child trailing after her.

Glancing down at my own fingers, I rub them together, picturing a tiny, dimpled hand reaching for mine, and dream a little of what my life would be like if I were not bound to bone as I am.

I would wear a patterned woolen skirt with a dusty red apron, hands worn from bread and chores, and smile at the little things, like the smell of a flower or the soft curve of a baby's cheek.

And, perhaps, though it is as much of a wish as pure water, someone to love me.

Love me , for myself — not admire because my position, or hold me in awe on a dais, or listen to me only to hear bone.

Just someone who wants my words for themselves, my own thoughts, my own feelings.

My heart lurches in a painful stutter. Who would listen to you?

What do you have to say of interest if not for the bones?

And it is true — it is hard to separate myself from them.

All of my stories are their stories, all of my words their words.

An uneasy feeling of rebellion surges in my stomach.

If I am nothing but an empty vessel for the Gods, why do I have preferences, favorites, dreams…

I would have none of these things if I were not someone outside of what I have been made to be.

The bones around me in the gate warm under my fingers, and I pull my hand from them, frowning.

A passing villager skitters away from my dark look, and I sigh.

Why are people so scared of me lately? Wracking my brain, I try to think through the last few weeks, or months, to find something that I’m missing, but the waking bones around me keep interrupting with mindless chattering about Harvest Month celebrations from their own youths, making it difficult to concentrate.

One of them, a teacher, I assume, from her sing-song voice, starts chanting the Third Lesson, and it sparks an idea in my head.

Touching her in a fond “thank you”, I leave the main road, and quietly drift off through the Second Gate toward the Second village School, leaving the slowly opening shops and streets behind me.

I can hear the children’s giggling as I approach the stone-built schoolhouse, an old, black building that is more menacing than welcoming, but which, for some reason, most of the children who live in the second ring love.

Here, our young are required to attend school during the spring and summer months, through their milk-teeth and no longer.

In the winter the parents trapped inside with their little ones handle things like reading, music, and simple math.

Our school is mainly for husbandry, agriculture, history, and social studies.

It has changed over the years; in the bones’ memories school was very different than it is now.

But there is little use to musical composition if you can’t fix your plow, so necessity overtakes luxury in our world.

The teacher inside rings a soft bell, a gentle echo of the Council’s louder one, and from the far end of the building, maybe forty older boys and girls rush inside.

I’m not good at guessing, but they look like the school’s oldest class, full of ten and eleven year olds, long limbed and gangly, still growing into themselves.

“Settle! Settle!” The teacher is laughing, soothing, and I take a moment to lean against the wall and listen through the open windows. I never attended courses here, and something deep inside my soul shivers in painful longing, before I am able to quiet it.

“What’s today, Miss? Is it boring?” A brazen, high-pitched voice calls out the question, and it startles me in a way. I don’t have much interaction with the young here other than speaking to them for the bone, and it is surprising to hear how…how full of life they sound.

“History, to start! So not boring at all, unless death and dismemberment makes you yawn!” The teacher is far too cheerful if she is to discuss our history.

But she continues in the same, chirping way, a strange counterpoint to the blood and bone that lines the long pathway to our village.

“ Or I am more than happy to review the benefits of pearl millet with you!” The class groans in response.

“That’s what I thought,” she replies smugly. “Let’s begin…”