The Bone People (38 page)

The shush of my heart in my left ear.

The sea hath all my right --

Tide Out

"You going out in your bare feet?"

The boy nods.

"Well don't expect any sympathy when you come back with a cold," says Joe grimly.

She looks up from the morning paper.

"Don't worry. Kids don't have the same sort of nerves as we do. I think they grow more feeling as they grow

older."

Simon blows a raspberry at her.

"Nerves are one thing and cold germs quite another."

Kerewin shrugs. She looks at Sim and shrugs again. He shrugs happily back at her and vanishes out the door.

"And do you know something else?" growls Joe.

"King lists for the Egyptian dynasties, how to construct an octopus lure, when--"

"No, damn it. People with your kind of kidneys and constitutions shouldn't be allowed."

He wraps another blanket round himself, honks, sips more lemon drink, and goes on angrily incubating his

cold.

She giggles gracelessly.

"How could I know you'd develop a cold last night? Anyway, I'll buy you another bottle of whisky to dilute

that lemon ick as soon as I finish the paper. Promise."

She goes on reading, whistling to herself, not quite under her breath.

He sighs. No sign of a hangover after drinking the better part of a quart of whisky.

Healthy, thriving, glowing indeed, in this damnable cold. And Haimona, rushing barefoot out into what's

practically snow. When the good Lord made me a Maori and sent me to the cold island, why didn't he ensure

I was fat? A neat happy stereotype? Or at least, germ-resistant?

He shivers and coughs hoarsely.

Speaking of the good Lord, keep an eye on my giddy child please, I can't. I'm going back to bed.

Aloud. "I'm going t'bed."

"Okay."

She turns a page, keeps on whistling.

What do I have to do to get sympathy from her. Die?

He goes disconsolately back to the old bach.

Simon walks along the high tide line. The sand is soft, sand rather than gravel. He hasn't been along this

beach before. For that matter, he hasn't been beachwalking by himself before. The other days, Joe, or

Kerewin, or both of them, have come too. There's nothing to worry about, walking by the sea, says Kerewin.

"One of these times I'll tell you about ponaturi and krakens and other toothy and interesting greebles, but in

the meantime, wander in happy ignorance. You may find a seal or two, sunbathing. That's all."

Rather than seals, he's looking for green stones.

Kerewin said she had picked up a pendant along this beach. "An old one? Her, that's interesting." Joe had

been enthusiastic. "Have you got it here? Can I see it?"

She had closed up. "It's at home," she had said cautiously. Joe had sighed. "That's one thing I've always wanted. Nana had an earring, but she left it to my grandfather. That was the only piece the family owned, eh."

Kerewin had pursed her lips, as though wondering whether to say anything more. Finally, she had said,

"There's a lot in my family's hands. The great grand fatherly progenitor was Ngati Poutini, and so was one of

my grandfathers. They didn't exactly eat off pounamu plates, but they left quite a bit to us all. You'll have to

come and look, help yourself to something when we get back, eh?" But that hadn't been what she had been

going to say at all. Funny, thought Simon, and forgot it.

At the moment, he's got to decide which way to look. By the cliffs, or in the sea? He scans the beach.

Something flaps on the sand by the sea's edge.

Kerewin finishes the paper and makes herself a coffee. Then she drives to Hamdon, and buys more whisky.

She stops at the tavern for a quick drink. It's just eleven, but there's a scattering of fishermen and farming folk

having the alcoholic equivalent of smoko. She notices that the signs that used to be everywhere, warning

minors and those on prohibition orders not to come in, have gone. The barman says goodbye civilly though

she only has a single beer.

Must go for a decent session there, before we leave, she thinks, driving in a leisurely fashion back to

Moerangi.

He can't see what it is.

It looks quite large.

He decides to go that way, looking for green stones on the way. He finds several, but none with the water

look of Kerewin's rings. Maybe polished? thinks Simon, and edges closer to the shore.

The thing flaps again.

She makes a tumbler full of whisky toddy and takes it to Joe. She kneels by the bunk and blows a stream of

whisky fumes at the huddle under the blankets.

"A kill or cure machine has arrived and is waiting for you."

"Gur?" "Whisssky." "O...thagyou."

"Sweet hell man, drink it quick. It sounds like the germs are winning." Snigger. "O?" says Joe, with considerable restraint.

What do I do? What do I do?

Get them.

It's a long way back.

The bird struggles again, the ruined wing beating sluggishly, the wounded body scuffling in the sand.

Its head tilts further to one side. The beak opens and darkish froth drips out.

A stone. I could throw it hard.

He readies one of the green pebbles in his hand.

I might miss, I might just hurt it.

He drops it.

Clare, do something, hugging himself in misery.

The beak opens and shuts soundlessly.

If I wait, it might die quickly.

The bird flops forward, wing drawn up convulsively, scrabbles again in the sand.

It is trying to get away from him.

She puts a leg of mutton on to roast, and prepares the vegetables ready in pots.

She helps herself to a whisky, clears away the morning dishes, and sweeps out the bach.

Positively domesticated we are, this morning.

Glancing at the clock,

this afternoon.

This afternoon? Where's the urchin?

She goes to the old bach.

"Hey Joe, wake up a minute."

He is woozy with cold and a septuple whisky, and he doesn't know which way Simon went.

"Doan worrym, he'll comg bag."

"Oath, it's an entire new dialect."

She grins. "I think I'll go look for him anyway. The sandhoppers might have nibbled away his toes, and he's

hirpling back on his anklebones."

I can't leave it.

I can't watch it die like this.

He drops to his knees beside the bird, closes his eyes, the stone tight in his hand, and hits until he can hear

nothing, feel nothing moving any more.

Smell of the sea and the smell of blood.

The bird is reddened. The one wing curves, moves in the air towards the earth. It comes to rest at an awkward

upbent angle.

Simon puts his head on his drawn up knees. There is a singing in his head, and a bitter constriction in his

throat. He tries to swallow and his gorge rises. He dry-retches repeatedly.

I can't cry.

Kerewin hunkers down so she can see all the footprints in the sand backlit as it were. There it is, the barefoot

trail, heading south. Would you believe everyone else is shod?

He's not on the first beach round from the kaika. The footprint trail begins again after the rocks that mark the

beginning of the south reef, and still heads purposefully south.

She follows, swinging the harpoon stick alongside.

Two youths on the clifftop wave to her. One carries a rifle. She waves back.

That's one of the nice things about being back in me old home. The natives aren't suspicious here.

One of them, both of them, may know her by sight, though they would have been children the last time she

was here.

She rounds the corner of the beach called King and Queen. Two rock towers give it the name.

And there it is, one Gillayley gremlin, in a desolate-looking hunch on the sand.

What's the betting its feet have dropped off from frostbite?

She lays a large whisky to a lemon drink against it, grinning as she does.

After a time, he begins to shiver, with cold and shock. This place is getting too much.

He opens his eyes and looks at the mutilated dead thing at his feet.

It is quiet and still.

He digs a hole, scraping in the sand with his fingers so the thin bird blood is rubbed off.

He uses the stone to lever and roll the body into the hole. It was the kind of bird Kerewin called mollymawk,

and Joe, toroa. Its brown eyes are still open. He drops sand on it, avoiding the eyes as much as he can. He

searches for fine sand, then gravel, heaping it over Until there is no sign at all except the mound on the beach.

Then he sits back on his heels, keeping his mind dark, and sings to it.

It is a thin reedy sound at first, nasal and highpitched. It is the only sound he can make voluntarily, because

even his laughter and screaming are not under his full control, and it is as secret as his name.

The singing rises and builds atonically.

To Kerewin, walking catfooted on the silent sand, it has the strange heady purity of a countertenor.

She squats down three yards behind him and waits, not moving a muscle. Not even breathing loudly.

God, if only I had my guitar with me--

A brilliant green-armoured blowfly zzzes onto the mound and picks its way across the wet sand. The singing

stops.

The only sound is the pulse of the sea.

She hasn't moved but somehow he is suddenly aware she is there. His head snaps forward, and he cowers

against the sand, his bowels loosening in his terror. She doesn't move. Nor does she speak.

She sits, rock steady Only her fingers grasping the harpoon stick have tightened until the pressure hurts.

Slowly, fighting against the horror, he drags himself upright again. His body is jerking spasmodically.

I do anything, talk, sing, touch him,'anything. I'll push him into convulsions. Wait it out, o soul. God, I'm

sorry for you, child.

His mouth drawn down in a rictus of fear, he waits. For lightning, blows, the darkness. Nothing happens. The

sea rolls in, the sea rolls out. A gull keens over the island. Kerewin sits unmoving, watching him. The green

fly gives up its search and buzzes away. Nothing happens.

The wind blows a little: he feels it shift his hair. His feet are numb with cold. I've hurt my thumb. I've shit

myself. Joe'll be mad.

He lets his breath out in one great shuddering sigh.

Nothing happens.

Nothing happens to him at all.

He shivers again, but this time from fiery exultation.

He kneels up, holding himself tightly, but the wild shivering goes

on.

Mother of us all, just when I thought it might be over.

The child's face is the colour of tallow, and all the colour has gone out of his eyes, except for the black of

pupil.

Nothing! She heard me singing! But nothing! What the hell can I do? Knock him out? Any time, I can sing!

She swings quickly to her feet, and in the same moment, Simon stands shakily. He staggers to her and clings

as though he is drowning. Kerewin slides her hand gently down his neck, as though in a caress. Her fingers

rest a second, press there and he'll got out like a light, but just before she applies pressure, she looks into his

eyes.

The greenblue irises are enlarging by the second, and they are shining, afire with joy.

She moves her hand smoothly away, laying it on his shoulder.

"Child, you're full of surprises--"

She kneels so their eye-level is the same, still holding his shoulder.

"That sounded very good... you okay now?"

He's still shaking but nothing in his face shows he is suffering any longer.

Icansing!Icansing!Icansing! it sifts him like a wind, a tumult in him like the rush of music... smiling and

crying at the same time isn't the way to show it to her, but it's all he can do for the moment.

She waits. She says very little, and whatever she says sounds like the sea. But her words come more clearly

as the joyous chaos in him settles.

"... and there you were. Marvellous--"

A little later she asks, "What happened?" He looks at the nearby mound.

Bird, he says, hands beating as wings, then makes the cutthroat

gesture.

"Dead when you found it?"

No he says, his eyes sombre suddenly.

'You had to put it out of its misery?" Her voice is so gentle it doesn't sound like Kerewin at all.

"Aue," she says to his Yes, "I've had to do that a few times, with animals... it is always bad at the time."

The shadow stays on him a few seconds longer, but then excitement sweeps through again. You hear me?

touching her face, his ear and mouth, making the circuit twice.

"Of course I heard you singing," now it sounds exactly like Kerewin. "What do you think I was doing?

Contemplating the scenery or some damn thing? And yeah, you're a wonderful brat... if we don't get home

soon though, lunch'll be cooked to a cinder and Joe will be lurching round, spreading the dreaded lurgi

everywhere."

Speaking of lurching: just standing the child is so unsteady, he drags on her hand for support. His feet are a

dull purple colour.

Gonna have to be a carry job, Holmes... cold and panic and relief and whatever else this little executioner has

been inflicting on himself, have about got him down.

She stands, saying, "Simon Pi Ta Gillayley, and translate that how you like -- I can think of fifteen meanings

for ta, and quite a few for pi but only one of each that fit -- if you've given yourself frostbite, and I have to

drink a glass of lemon juice in consequence," picking him up without a visible trace of queasiness, "I'm

gonna get drunk tonight just to wash the taste outa my mouth. And a drunk Holmes is a mean kind of spider."

He leans cosily close. Ah, it's all good... he doesn't give two knobs, as Piri says, for drunk spiders or Kerewin