Keri Hulme - The Bone People

She breakfasts on coffee and the first of a new batch of yoghurt. After that, a desultory picking at things to do. She makes the bed for the first time that week, picks up her golden guitar, but puts it down without playing anything. She goes upstairs and touches the shelved rows of charcoals and inks, chalks and felt-tips, tubes of oils and watercolours and acrylics; touches them all, no more.

It's the bad mood I woke up in. It makes for an oppressive quality to the day.

She wonders briefly if anything is wrong with any member of her family.

We used to have links… but now?

She opens another bottle of dandelion wine, but only drinks a glassful.

Not even in the mood for drinking? Hell my soul, you must be in a bad way-

Looking down at the sunlit sea through the great sweeping curve of window, Fishing? Nope?

By the sill, in a heap and scatter of shining stones, is the rosary Simon gave her.

Been playing with it, brat? Or you're an indian giver? Where'd I leave it? Ah yes, up a floor in the box with my rings… you been secreting away a few of those too, fella? I better check, later-

She picks the beads up, runs them through her fingers. Amber and gold, turquoise and gold, bloodstone and coral and still more gold. Redolent with luxury: not the sort of thing she could envisage swaying next to a sackcloth habit.

Who owned you? Prayed with you? Played with you?

What prayers said, in what moods? Joy, or grief? Love, or anger, Or tears?

The beads slide by her fingers.

It's a long time since I prayed this way, she thinks. Why not today? Give deity some prayer-flowers. Say hello to the most gracious lady of them all, sister to tuakana sister, blessed among women,

Hello Mary.

She folds the beads in a triple coil round her neck, and walks downstairs, and outside, and away along the beach.

The door is open.

He sidles inside.

He whistles as shrilly as he can.

No answer. No-one home?

The entrance hall is cool and quiet, full of shadowy green light. The crucifix on the rounded back wall is in a pool of light, like it stood under shallow water.

He looks at the brittle metal man, stripped to his pants and nailed to the wood. His face is turned to one side. Right, he wouldn't want anyone to see what was in his eyes.

There is a hole in the brass chest, on top of the swelling ribs. But the metal man's fingers aren't curled tight against the pain.

They stretch out, open and loose, still as prongs.

He shivers.

Why does she keep a dead man nailed on the wall?

Ask her Claro. But keep the smile on, Claro.

He keeps straight, and he walks well, and he smiles in case she comes round any of the stony bends.

But there's no-one upstairs.

The fire is out.;

Ah hell, no-one cares.

He stalks over to the dropleaf table.

There's this bottle on it, full of shivering gold drink. Pale gold, sunlight shot with silver.

The smell comes lazily out, sweet and compelling.

He listens carefully.

No footsteps. No noise.

Besides, she doesn't mind if he has a drink, she's given him plenty of glasses.

So, into the cupboard, squinting over the cups… that's the small orown mug with the blue sigs?… urn, listening carefully to his head, situations whatever the hell they are.

He's had it before. It's the right size, tika size, fitting his hand.

It'll do.

Methodically, he pours a cup, drinks it down steady in one long heady breath, and pours another. And five cups after, he's feeling fine, thank you, easy in the stomach and pleasantly relaxed in the shoulders and back. Only trouble is, the bottle's about shot.

A marine, says Kerewin, throw that marine away.

He wanders to the cupboard, and looks the full bottles over.

That squat and bulbous one, full of green… stuff. Grass juice, maybe?

He screws the cork out of it. The sides of the cork are sugary and they grit as it turns.

And if that's grass juice, spit spit urrkk, it's not the clean healing smell of grass.

It's a rank bitterness, something decayed then pickled.

I'll try anything once, but that's had its chance… how could she possibly drink that? Maybe someone swapped the real drink for rat poison. Cat's milk, piss, like Piri says… something horrible, anyway.

He moves on to the next bottle, and swigs a sample.

Too sour. His tongue is numb under it. He purses his lips and spits the mouthful back into the bottle.

This?

Another gold drink, a darker gold, the yellow of dry gorse flowers nearly. It smells as musky as gorse. He rather likes gorse.

I sat in the middle of that bush one whole afternoon, and nobody could see one damn thing of me-

("Simon! You don't come here censored immediately. I'll I'll I'll….")

They couldn't get in. They would have got scratched to pieces getting through that hole, I did.

Haven't gone there for a while, Clare.

Too wet.

It's a place strictly for summer.

So he pours a cupful of the gorse drink, tastes it… slightly sour, but it only tingles on the lips and tongue… and it goes down smmmoooooth… could stand more of that, Clare.

So?

You got that berloody cup, boyo hokay? Why does she always hokay okay?

It's sokay hokay okay ay? he sings in his head. And tokay… that was another one, tokay.

A drink fit for kings, she says. The Sun King especially. And no, you can't have any. Youth needs juice neither for longevity nor aphrodisiac. Sun king maybe, sunchild no way.

I'm the sunchild, because of my hair… he shuffles his free hand through the length of it.

Struth mate, that mop needs cutting. Six inches more and you'll be treading on it, hah!

… and there'll be another fight.

He shudders.

I can't help it, it's too much… there can't be a fight. I won't. This time, I won't. I'll ask her to say she cut it.

He went to turn round and bumped into the cupboard door. Sat down involuntarily on the floor. It doesn't hit him as bad as he thought it would.

Claro?

Echo.

I think you're getting drunk… the voice that says it recedes through his head back out into… he tries following the voice with his eyes, looking backwards and up into his head until it hurts. Caint be that drunk, stuhupid Clare… he croons, an audible outside singsong to the inside talk.

When you're really full, you don't hurt anymore, and you don't care anymore, says Joe. That's why, tama. Even though you gotta come back for tomorrow, for the night you're safe and sound.

Sound?

Listening carefully, There's no sound.

C'mon, she comes home, you'll get a thick ear or something.

So what's new?

He splashes more of the gorse drink into the cup. Most of it's pouring on the floor, but he keeps going, wobbly as hell, until enough gets into the cup to fill it.

That all tastes rather good. Especially good. Bloody good. He smiles happily and blearily for quite a while, and then frowns.

Why am I happy?

Joe don't get no happy.

Joe gets bloody mean.

Shitty's the word, he thinks sourly. He gets sooo berloody shitty… stop crying, you. I can hear it.

It's me. I always do the wrong thing. I don't, I don't try to, it don't matter what I do, it's always wrong.

He sniffs through a maudlin stage to a realisation that the bottle he's cuddling is empty.

He goes to stand, and slips in the puddle of gorse juice.

That's strange… I'm floating-

It seems to go on for minutes, and then Thunk. Hard on his hip on the floor.

Godbloodyshitandhell.

It hurt. It hurt him a lot.

He picks up the fallen bottle and snarls, I'll show you, throwing it away with all his strength.

A fierce crack! somewhere, and then an odd muted splintering sound, like ice ringing on stone.