Page 24

“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 in any 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 and be 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 a face, 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, old man 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’m from 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.