Keri Hulme - The Bone People

WHAT DO YOU SEE AT NIGHT?

"In dreams?"

He shudders and shakes his head emphatically.

"In the dark you mean? What do I see in the dark?"

No. He waves the paper, WHAT DO YOU SEE AT NIGHT?

"Okay, what do I see at night? Stars?"

No.

"The night itself, like darkness?"

No, no.

"Ah you mean something that can't be seen, like ghosts?"

No, a lot, frowning.

"Hell Simon, I see the same things I see during the day except they are, they seem so dark as to be deprived of colour. I don't see anything different."

He tries again.

ON PEOPLE? scratching his head with the pencil, frown still in place, writing again finally, ON PEOPLE.

"I don't see anything on people. Do you?"

He nods wearily. Then he keeps his head bent, apparently unwilling to look at her.

Kerewin's turn to frown.

What the hell would you see on people in the dark. Shadows in the daytime, yeah, but at night?

It's the word shadows that gives her the answer.

"Wait a moment… Sim, do you see lights on people?"

Head up fast, and his bright smile flowering. O Yes.

In the library, the books spread round them,

"Well, that's what they are. Soul-shadows. Coronas. Auras. Very few people can see them without using screens or Kirlian photography. Only other person I've met before who could see them unaided, could see them all the time, night and day. That's where you had me puzzled, fella."

He touches by her eyes.

"No, I can't see them. I'll bet Joe can't either."

Right, says the boy, grinning wolfishly. He writes quickly, SCARED SAID NOT TO SAY.

"Yeah, I can understand why. It's a bit scary when someone can see things about you that you can't see for yourself… if he said not to say, why'd you ask me?"

YOU KNOW. YOU ANSWER.

I know, I answer eh?

She settles herself more comfortably in the bed, crosses her hands behind her neck and stares into the dark.

Well, I do know a lot. Encyclopaedias of peculiar facts and wayward pieces of knowledge. Myths and legends by the hundred… but not generally the kind of things a child wants to learn.

These odd conversations we hold. Glance and gesture, intuition and guess, brief note and long wordy enquiries and explanations… and Sim drinks up answers so avidly. All kinds of answers. Why? is the boy's motto, why does, why is, why not? Food, weather, time, fires, sea and season, clothes and cars and people; it's all grist to the mill of why.

I know a lot and I answer, but increasingly I have my own why.

Why isn't Joe doing the answering?

When I go to the pub these days, the locals talk to me. I have, for example, been fed incredible tales of Simon's wildness by one Shilling Price. Just as well Joe keeps him toeing the line, he says, or we'd all be bowled over eh?

Bill the barkeep says discreetly that old Shillin's apt to exaggerate y'know? Take it all with a grain of salt, he suggests, and then proceeds to regale me with the time Simon set off all the town's lamppost fire-alarms. He's a bit of a devil, that boy, finishes Bill.

Hmmm. I get the feeling that the child's exploits are only tolerated because Joe is well-liked.

He's certainly a mystery.

The more he comes round, the more I'm intrigued.

His background is old hat to the town, to Joe — but it fascinates me. So why not try and find out who he is? I could kill a bird or two thereby: give Sim an understanding of his dark past, that shield against the dread unknown in nightmares he needs. And Joe, who worries about what he's taken on — I suppose you would worry about fostering a moody little nobody, it might turn out cuckoo in more ways than one — Joe could reconcile himself with a known quantity.

I think it's because Joe's afraid of what might be in his child's past that he keeps Simon on so short a lead. Like tonight, all amicability:

"E Kere! Good to see you again!" mmmm, hongi (it's been all of a day). Picks up Sim, kisses him, "You been good, e tama? Had a good day?"

"Weelll," I'm grinning as I say it, because what happened did look funny. This pintsize hero taking on an adult. Not to worry, I assure Joe, it was just that the mail bloke got a bit huffy when Simon badfingered him. "That replacement fella, who's taken over Grogan's run for his holiday, you know him?"

Joe knows, nods coldly, his eyes on his son. Simon's shrinking back against the wall. I don't get to finish the story because the boy gets hit, twice, hard. "I told you before, don't you ever-"

Apparently, digitus impudicus is out, no matter what the circumstances (the new postie was inept: leaning out of the cab of the van, he missed my mailbox altogether and the letters dropped in the mud. I'm swearing O shit and Sim goes round, picks it all up, salutes the bloke rudely, bloke glowers, goes to cuff him, child ducks, bloke smacks hand against my box, swears. Sim ups him again, bloke practically froths at the mouth. He stamps on the accelerator, and stalls van. I get sore cheek muscles from laughing so much.)

I had already learned that any kind of thieving is totally forbidden. So is anything resembling lying it seems, and woe betide the brat if he doesn't do whatever he's told to, more or less on the instant. The matter is settled right then, thump, that's it. It always looks so ridiculous, Joe hefty and twice his child's size — but that's the way we do it in good old Godzone. Besides, the man is tolerant to a fault in other ways, and he's always lavish with praise, with cuddling and kisses… anyway, the hell with it, what business of mine is it how he chooses to bring up his son?

So. We take up an old cold trail — what clues do we have, Sherlock? (Hey, that's good! why haven't I thought of it before?)

A rosary and a ring. A dead boat in deep water, and two dead people. An inarticulate child, a tongue-locked mind.

So, again. Jewellers, libraries, police, hospital records, natter to Dansy, check out boat registration lists-

She thinks about the possibilities for a long time before dropping off to sleep.

The boy turns up every other day now, regular as clockwork with the morning mailvan (Grogan's back).

"Hello," he says, as Simon scrambles out with her letters. "Nearly hit a cow this morning down near Tainuis' bridge. You know it?"

"Bridge or cow?"

The driver guffaws. "Bloody good," he says. "Other than that, no news. O, except they've got a new barman at the Duke. Just hired today. Not a local." To Simon, "You have a nice day, and

thanks for the help."

Boy earns his ride, says Grogan. "Helps me no end, putting the stuff into all those bloody boxes miles off the bloody verge. Inconsiderate bastards." He winks at Simon. "Won't charge you this week, Sim."

One morning, Grogan leans conspiratorially out of the cab and asks in a loud whisper.

"Do you like having him around?"

"Um, yeah." (Simon relaxes.)

"The old lady and me think it's a bloody good job too. About time somebody did something bloody useful instead of just bloody talk." Slaps Kerewin on the shoulder. "Good on yer, girl."

Hot shit and apricots thinks Kerewin, bristling.

"Hooray," says the postie cheerfully.

"Hooray to you too."

Simon gives him the fingers as the van skids in a half-circle away.

"Watch it you." She shrugs. "Ah, hell, a year of being the eccentric avoidable, and all of a sudden I'm in with the locals."

Me image hath gone down the drain.

Writing,

Hello.

It is six and a half years since I last wrote. Well, six years and five months, and an uncertain number of days, 21 or 22, because I lost track of time then, for a weekend or so-

A lot has happened. I have a home, befitting the eccentricity of a Holmes. I am still myself, iron lady cool and virgin. Maybe not lady. But what to call that sport, the neuter human?