Keri Hulme - The Bone People

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."