Page 25

“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.

“But everyone loved 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 Se cond 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 do this movement?” 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?”

“It means, ‘hello, papa’.”

The man’s face crumples, tears filling his eyes, and he drops to his knees to hug the boy.

The boy hugs him back, then taps me, his heart, and the bone in quick succession.

I nod in understanding, ask the bone, and show the movement.

Caleb takes his father’s face in one hand and signs directly in front of with the other.

His father looks to me, and I whisper, “It means, ‘I love you’.” At that, the man becomes completely undone, holding his son and rocking him back and forth, before turning to me with tears thick in his voice.

“Can you teach him and me, Keeper? Even if it takes all of our bone time, could you teach us? So he can speak to us?”

I open my mouth to agree, when, surprisingly, the Old One on the stump speaks up in his reedy voice.

“You don’t need the BoneKeeper for that, son.

My hands won’t form the words perfectly, but everyone my age knew how to sign.

Sure, don’t we have three or four in the Elder homes that are mute? I can teach you, if you’d like.”

There is a heavy silence. How could in two or three generations things like this be forgotten as if they never existed?

But when your life is hardship, and there is no time for leisure, your world becomes small, it narrows to the daily activities that move you from moment to moment.

The Council makes choices about what is taught in schools, what is important to our people, of our culture and practices.

And it strikes me how they have been slowly, without provocation, changing certain linchpins of what makes us who we are as a society.

A cold fear enters my heart as I realize that I am surrounded by bones, who only remember, and people, who are being encouraged to forget.

“We, we would be honored if you have that time to spare, Old One.” The man stutters his reply, and the elder laughs.

“Spare time? All I have is spare time. What good are these otherwise?” He lifts his shaking, age spotted hands before him, staring at them as though he’d never seen them.

“In my youth, I could mine to the Everfire with these hands. Age sneaks up on you, like the coming Storms. One day you wake up and you don’t recognize who you’ve become, don’t know how you got there…

.” He stares into the distance, then comes back to himself, addressing the father in front of him.

“You come to me in the Elders’ home, and I’ll teach you everything I remember.

” Reaching out, he ruffles the child’s hair affectionately.

“It will be nice to be around youngsters again.”

Again? Do the children no longer visit the Elders’ Home at the end of week? My brow creases. I have been kept from the people of this village for too long. Come to think of it, I rarely see any of the Elders for their time with the bones. I do not recognize the old man before me, and address him.

“When did I last speak for you, Old One?” I ask solicitously, and he looks at me through knowing eyes, choosing his words carefully.

“Why, BoneKeeper. We know your Decree of the Ages. And we understand of course. You are pressed for time and exhausted. All those in the Elders’ Homes understand.”

“What decree?” I whisper, pressing my hand to my mouth in dawning horror.

“Why, that you can’t speak for the bones anymore for those in the twilight years, or those in the milk teeth years.

” He smiles gently, his words carrying a purposeful weight.

“We’d never hold you responsible. When the Council came to tell those in the Elder House, we obviously heard their reasoning and would not go against it. ”

My heart skips, stutters, and beats again, a cold anger fueling it with chaotic purpose.

“ Did they,” I reply, a statement more than a question, and everyone in the crowd is silent now.

“Have there been any other decrees from The BoneKeeper ?” I ask, my voice snapping like fire, and here and there hands lift tentatively in the crowd.

“You forfeit time with the bones if you have not harvested the required allotment.”

“Only one family member may visit the bones per moon cycle.”

“The oldest bones are fading and must be conserved, so visits must be limited.”

“Do not speak to the Keeper outside of the bones, as she is a sacred vessel of the Gods.”

“Do not approach the Keeper outside of the bones, as it will weaken her focus and purpose…”

As more and more voices speak up, the fire within me grows to a full blown inferno, sparking on my skin with storm bright electricity.

And as my fury builds, so too builds the fury in the bones around me, the rage looping from them to me and back again in a tornado of emotion, news of the Council’s decrees running along the bone walls of the village.

I put the child from my lap gently to the ground and stand, trembling.

As I stand, the wind around us rises, nothing unusual for this time of year, but it picks up my hair and whips it around my head like a storm cloud, and the people draw back in fear.

I imagine what I must look like to them — a creature of death, white with righteous anger, burning in cold rage.

“I must speak to the Council,” I say. “I apologize for not finishing Peter and Anthony’s story, but I promise that I will. All decrees from the BoneKeeper are hereby stricken from record, and we shall return immediately to as it was previously.”

There is a sort of confusion in the audience, and I wonder how slowly, how meticulously carefully, these “decrees” have been put in place to not alarm the people.

It is how you boil a frog , I think. Cold water, slowly slowly heated, this careful erosion of our society.

“There are no allotments or restrictions. I welcome your questions. The bones love having entire families all at once, so they may share stories. And the oldest bones are fueled by visits from the living. Without them, they lose their purpose, and their soul spark fades. The Council was wrong.”

The crowd is angry now, but cautiously so.

To go against the Council as such is a death warrant.

The lottery for Rending and Reaping is supposed to be random, but no one misses when dissidents are chosen, seemingly out of the blue, so close to when they question the leaders of our city.

Yes, the bones call for the Offering, but in the months where I am sick or stricken, the Council will pull names if I am unable.

And in the times of no BoneKeeper, the Council is responsible for naming any Offering.

It is a sacred task and duty, but better men than our current Council have done darker things for purpose and power.

There is no telling how deep the Void goes when the light is snuffed out.

Shaking my head, I turn to storm toward the Council House, but am stopped by the frail hand of the Old One.

He beckons me, and I lean down to hear him speak.

“Careful, BoneKeeper,” he cautions. “There is poison running through the leaders of our village. I fear for you. Use caution. Take a moment to consider your path before you tear down the mountain.”

Placing my hand over his own, I squeeze his gently, and take a deep breath. He is right. I need to think. To plan. “Thank you for your wisdom, Old One. Would you grant me your blessing?”

He looks startled, then perilously close to tears as he nods, and lays a trembling hand on my forehead.

“The blessings of my family over you, of protection and peace, of blood and bone, of flesh and form. The blessings of water and wind, of Sun God and Earth, of Maiden, of Mother, of Crone.” My eyes widen.

This is an older version than what I have known, and it is not a generalized blessing, but a gift a father would give his child, or a grandfather a grandchild.

There is power in the words that is not contained in a casual benediction.

“The blessing of my name to yours, my heart to yours, my bones to yours, until the Vengeance is paid in full and beyond. And if your soul calls to mine in peril, I shall offer mine in your stead.” He completes the words, shaking, and pulls me down to kiss my forehead.

It is the first time in many, many years that I have felt another’s lips on my skin, and tears spring unbidden to my eyes.

“Now go, Keeper. Remind them of who you are.”