The Bone People (3 page)

"Bleak grey mood to match the bleak grey weather," and she hunches over to the nearest bookshelf. "Stow the book on cooking fish. Gimme something escapist, Narnia or Gormenghast or Middle Earth, or," it wasn't

a movement that made her look up.

There is a gap between two tiers of bookshelves. Her chest of pounamu rests in between them, and above it,

there is a slit window.

In the window, standing stiff and straight like some weird saint in a stained gold window, is a child. A thin

shockheaded person, haloed in hair, shrouded in the dying sunlight.

The eyes are invisible. It is silent, immobile.

Kerewin stares, shocked and gawping and speechless.

The thunder sounds again, louder, and a cloud covers the last of the sunlight. The room goes very dark.

If it moves suddenly, it's going to go through that glass. Hit rockbottom forty feet below and end up looking

like an imploded plum--

She barks,

"Get the bloody hell down from there!"

Her breathing has quickened and her heart thuds as though she were the intruder.

The head shifts. Then the child turns slowly and carefully round in the niche, and wriggles over the side in an

awkward progression, feet ankles shins hips, half-skidding half-slithering down to the chest, splayed like a

lizard on a wall. It turns round, and gingerly steps onto the floor.

"Explain."

There isn't much above a yard of it standing there, a foot out of range of her furthermost reach. Small and

thin, with an extraordinary face, highboned and hollow-cheeked, cleft and pointed chin, and a sharp sharp

nose. Nothing else is visible under an obscuration of silverblond hair except the mouth, and it's set in an

uncommonly stubborn line.

Nasty. Gnomish, thinks Kerewin. The shock of surprise is going and cold cutting anger comes sweeping in to

take its place.

"What are you doing here? Aside from climbing walls?"

There is something distinctly unnatural about it. It stands there

unmoving, sullen and silent.

"Well?"

In the ensuing silence, the rain comes rattling against the windows, driving down in a hard steady rhythm.

"We'll bloody soon find out," saying it viciously, and reaching for a shoulder.

Shove it downstairs and call authority.

Unexpectedly, a handful of thin fingers reaches for her wrist, arrives and fastens with the wistful strength of

the small.

Kerewin looks at the fingers, looks sharply up and meets the child's eyes for the first time. They are

seabluegreen, a startling colour, like opals.

It looks scared and diffident, yet curiously intense.

"Let go my wrist," but the grip tightens.

Not restraining violence, pressing meaning.

Even as she thinks that, the child draws a deep breath and lets it out in a strange sound, a groaning sigh. Then

the fingers round her wrist slide off, sketch urgently in the air, retreat.

Aue. She sits down, back on her heels, way back on her heels. Looking at the brat guardedly; taking out

cigarillos and matches; taking a deep breath herself and expelling it in smoke.

The child stays unmoving, hand back behind it; only the odd sea-eyes flicker, from her face to her hands and

back round again.

She doesn't like looking at the child. One of the maimed, the contaminating--

She looks at the smoke curling upward in a thin blue stream instead.

"Ah, you can't talk, is that it?"

A rustle of movement, a subdued rattle, and there, pitched into the open on the bird boned chest, is a pendant

hanging like a label on a chain.

She leans forward and picks it up, taking intense care not to touch the person underneath.

It was a label.

1 PACIFIC STREET WHANGAROA

PHONE 633 COLLECT

She turns it over.

Simon P. GILLAYLEY CANNOT SPEAK

"Fascinating," drawls Kerewin, and gets to her feet fast, away to the window. Over the sound of the rain, she can hear a fly dying somewhere close, buzzing frenetically. No other noise.

Reluctantly she turns to face the child. "Well, we'll do nothing more. You found your way here, you can find

it back." Something came into focus. "O there's a sandal you can collect before you go."

The eyes which had followed each of her movements, settling on and judging each one like a fly expecting

swatting, drop to stare at his bare foot.

She points to the spiral stairs.

"Out."

He moves slowly, awkwardly, one arm stretched to touch the wall all the way down, and she is forced to stop

on each step behind him, and every time she stops, she can see him tense, shoulders jerking.

Lichen bole; glow-worms' hole; bonsai grove; hell, it seems like 15 miles rather than 15 steps--

She edges round him at the living room door, and collects his sandal from the hearth. It is coated with silvery

flounder slime.

"Yours?"

There is a barely perceptible nod. He stares at her unblinking.

"Well, put it on, and go."

The rain's still beating down. She shrugs mentally. Serve him right.

He looks at the sandal in her hand, glances quickly at her face, and then, heart thumping visibly in his throat,

sits down on the bottom step.

O you smart little bastard.

But she decides it is easiest to put the sandal on. Then push him out, bodily if need be.

"Give us your foot."

With the same fearful stare guarded care he has affected throughout, he lifts his foot five inches off the

ground. Kerewin stares at him coldly, but bends down and catches his foot, and is halted by a hiss. It, sssing

through his closed teeth, bubbles of saliva spilling to his lips.

She remembers the strained walk, and looks more closely, and in his heel, rammed deep, is something; and

the little crater in the sandal comes back to mind. She shuts her eyes and, all feeling in her fingertips, grazes

her hand light as air over the protrusion. It was wooden, old wood, freshbroken, hard in the soft child-callous.

Already the flesh round it is hot.

"We jumped on something that bit," her voice mild as milk, and opens her eyes. The brat is squinting at her, his mouth sloped in a shallow upturned U.

"I suppose I can't expect you to walk away on that," talking to herself, "but what to do about it?"

Incongruously, he grins. It is a pleasant enough grin, but before it fades back into the considering U, reveals a

gap bare of teeth on the left side of his jaw. The gap looks odd, and despite herself, she grins back.

"I can take it out before you go, if you want." He sucks in his breath, then nods. "It'll probably hurt."

"Okay then," hoping she has taken the tenor of the shrug rightly.

She gets bandage from the coffee-cupboard, a pair of needlenosed pliers from the knife-drawer, disinfectant

from the grog cupboard.

"You better ahh tell your parents to get you a tetanus shot when you get home," picking up his foot again, conscious of the eyes, very conscious of pale knuckled fingers gripping her step.

She sets the pliers flush with the end of the splinter, carefully so as not to pinch skin. There's an eighth inch

gap between the jaws when they're closed on the wood. She holds it a moment, setting aside every sensation

beyond splinter, pliers, her grip, and then presses hard and pulls down in one smooth movement. An inch of

angular wood slides out.

The child jerks but might be pulling against a fetter for all the effect it has. She scrutinises the hole before it

closes and fills in bloodily. No dark slivers, clean puncture, should heal well; and becomes aware of the

hissing and twisting and sets the foot free. The marks of her grip are white on his ankle.

"Sorry about that. I forgot you were still on the end of it. The foot I mean." With the careless suppleness of the young, he has his foot nearly on his chest. He broods over it, thumb on the splinter hole.

"Give it here again."

She swabs the heel with antiseptic, bandages some protective padding over it.

Sop for your conscience, Holmes me love. He can limp away easy into the rain.

She stands, gesturing towards the door.

"On your way now, Simon P. Gillayley."

He sits quite still, clasping his foot. Then he sighs audibly. He puts the sandal on, wincing, and stands

awkwardly. He brushes away the long fringe of hair that's fallen over his eyes, looks at her and holds out his

hand.

"I don't understand sign language," says Kerewin coolly. A rare kind of expression comes over the boy's face, impatience compounded with o-don't-give-me-that-kind-of-shit. He takes hold of his other hand, shakes it,

waves tata in the air, and then spreads both hands palms up before her. Shaking hands, you get what I mean?

I'm saying goodbye, okay? Then he holds out his hand to her again. Ratbag child.

She's grinning as she takes his hand, and shakes it gently. And the child smiles broadly back.

"You come here by yourself?"

He nods, still holding onto her hand.

"Why?"

He marches the fingers of his free hand aimlessly round in the air. His eyes don't leave her face.

"Meaning you were just wandering round?"

He doesn't nod, but makes a downward gesture with his hand.

"What does that mean?"

He nods, repeating the gesture on a level with his head.

"Shorthand for Yes?" unable to repress a smile.

Yes, say the fingers.

"Fair enough. Why did you come inside?"

She takes her hand away from his grasp. He has finely sinewed, oddly dry hands. He points to his eyes.

Seeing, looking, I suppose. She feels strange.

I'm used to talking to myself, but talking for someone else?

"Well, in case no-one ever told you before, people's houses are private and sacrosanct. Even peculiar places

like my tower. That means you don't come inside unless you get invited."

He's looking steadily at her.

"Okay?"

The gaze drops. He takes out a small pad and pencil from his jeans pocket and writes.

He offers the page to her.

In neat and competent capitals... how old are you, urchin? I KNOW I GET TOLD SP

"And you keep on doing it? You're a bit of a bloody hard case, boy."

He is staring straight ahead now, eyes on the level of her belt buckle.

He gets told, meaning he must do it frequently... unholy, he's a bit young to be a burglar, maybe he's just

compulsively curious?

"Well, there's a couple of cliches that fit in neatly here. One, curiosity killed the cat. Two, it takes all sorts to make a world. You want some lunch before you go? It might stop raining in the meantime--"

He looks up abruptly, and she is startled to see his eyes fill with tears.

What in the name of hell have I said that would make it cry?

He cripples over to the sheepskin rugs near the fire at her invitation. He sits down carefully, cradling his foot.

She has a suspicion he is exaggerating his hurt.

"You like raw fry?"

Uhh? What?

Is his face really that easy to read, or am I just looking harder because he can't talk? Probably years of

practice at non-verbal communication.

She wonders how many years. He looks as though he might be, ummm? She has no idea how old the brat

looks. She hasn't ever had anything to do with children.

"Raw fry is vegetables and stuff, like bacon or eggs or fish, all cooked together. It tastes okay."

There's no obvious answer.

"Well," she says after a moment, aware now there is an appraisal of herself taking place, "that's all that's going. Like it or lump it."

I wonder if I still look peeculeear?

Heavy shouldered, heavy-hammed, heavy-haired.

No evidence of a brain behind those short brows.

Yellowed eyes, and eczema scarred skin.

Large hands and large feet, crooked only if you look closely.

Everything beautified by me knuckle-duster collection.

Today, greenstone water middlefinger; kingfisher glitter of opal

ringfinger; winedark garnet one little finger, turquoise stud

the other; and that barred charred looking silver hulking hunk

of thumbring.

Encased in jeans, leather jerkin, silk shirt, denim jacket, knife

at side, bare footed. (Which reminds me, they're cold.)

A right piratical-looking eschewball I suppose I look, but what

the hell.

Out with chopping board and cooking paraphernalia. She guts green peppers, slices hapless onions into tears.

She is immune to the eyesting of onion juice

The click and squich of the knife cutting food.

Her breathing.

The steady downbeat of the rain.

The fire crackle.

It is unnaturally silent.

The gutter snipe still watches her, twisted and still like a small evil buddha.

"Urn, you expected back soon?"

He shakes his hair.

Your people know where you are, even?"

All the answer is a well-screened stare that sinks slowly down to his foot level. Mentally she balls fist and

projects thumb. Figs to you, boyo.

There isn't a proper table in this level. The room is for eating in, sure, but also for listening to music, playing

guitars, or quietly dreaming by the fire. Seawatching. Meditating. So, all the table is a dropleaf bench,

attached to the wall. Sometimes she uses it for eating off: more often, she puts her plate on the floor by the

fire. Now, she sets a knife and fork and plate of steaming hash at either end of the bench, and two mugs of

coffee like a line of truce in the middle.

"If you want something to eat, it's here."

He arrives at the table with a stilted gait, eyes the food, eyes her, eyes the stool, and elects to kneel on the

latter, head on one hand, eating from a fork in the other, ignoring his knife and herself. He eats neatly, with