Keri Hulme - The Bone People

I'll bet he threatened the child with murder if he revealed his wounding. And the urchin flinched the first morning I knew him.

(And where did you learn that luverly block? Conditioned reflex, ma'am.)

And by the look of the scars on him, it's all been going on for a long long time. Man, I wouldn't bash a dog in the fashion you've hurt your son.

I'd shoot it, if the beast was incorrigible or a killer, but never lacerate it like that.

Aue, Joe.

From the nape of his neck to his thighs, and all over the calves of his legs, he is cut and wealed. There are places on his shoulder blades where the… whatever you used, you shit… has bitten through to the underlying bone. There are sort of blood blisters that reach round his ribs on to his chest.

And an area nearly the size of my hand, that's a large part of the child's back damn it, that's infected. It's raw and swollen and leaking infected lymph.

That was the first sign I had that something was wrong. Despite his soaked clothes, his T-shirt stuck to his skin.

He didn't make a sound. All his crying was over.

And he wouldn't meet my eyes.

Somehow Joe, e hoa, dear friend, you've managed to make him ashamed of what you We done.

Neat job.

She wiped up the puddles from the matting — the tatami is tightly woven and more or less waterproof — and scrubbed away the stain the creme de cacao had made.

She gathered the shards of bottle, and tapped her nail against the cracked window.

She went and rang a Christchurch number and ordered a new pane of glass. They yelped with surprised joy, Yes Miz Holmes, consider your pane on the way-

… Pane? A massive bowl-like curve, specially made, specially transported, and specially installed. Costly, rather. But the crack was unsightly, a blow to the eyes, although the pane would still keep out wind and rain.

She sat down with a cup of coffee at the ready, and made a fire for company.

Simon is upstairs, sleeping I hope.

(Washed and dried with extreme care: ointment, anointment, much good may they do him. Covered with padding and gauze, all the places where the cuts are open or bone deep A dessertspoonful of milk of magnesia to stop his retching.

"Happens when you drink that much," she lied to him cheerfully, while praying in a cold way that he hadn't been hit too hard in the stomach. The child had managed a sickly grin.

And a cup of warm milk to help remove the taste of the spoonfuls of painkiller and sleeping potion he had obediently swallowed.)

Dammit, I could have fed him ground glass and he'd have passively opened his mouth and sucked it in… may the painkiller work. I can't stand the way he kept on shaking, then wincing.

She sipped the coffee thoughtfully.

Joe will be at the Duke. God knows when he'll get away from there, but he'll probably turn up here soon after. Heaven keep me from kicking the bugger to death when he finally arrives. So, gentle soul, you still have a few hours to decide what to do next. And what can I do?

I can do nothing.

Make Simon keep quiet about this discovery. How?

Say nothing to Joe — at the moment, I'd have to bite my tongue

through.

Tell nobody — let it continue, let the child endure it by himself.

No way.

I could tell Joe, but not tell anyone else.

Who else to tell anyway? The fuzz? The welfare? That means the experts get to wade in, but how does the section in the Crimes Act go? Something about assault on a child, carries a sentence maximum five years, child removed from environment detrimental to physical or mental health and wellbeing… sheeit and apricocks, that's no answer.

But just telling Joe wouldn't do any good… I'd have to look out for the child, and that means getting heavy. Getting involved.

She shivered.

It always happened.

You find a home and you lose it. Find a friend, grow a friendship, and something intervenes to twist it, kill it.

So what the hell can I do?

She takes down a long narrow black-silk wrapped bundle from the niche by the guitars. Lights incense, arranges the table, and manipulates the yarrowsticks. Forty-nine stalks worn to the smoothness and oily shine of muchfingered bone, and somehow they assist a contact with an ancient, compassionate wisdom.

The hexagram given is Kuai, Advancing Again. 'One who is determined to proceed must first demonstrate the offender's guilt in the high court,' it says. 'At the same time, one must be aware of the peril such action will place a person in. As well, one's followers must be made to understand how reluctantly one takes up arms. If this is so proceed, and good fortune comes-'

Peril and guilt and reluctance-

And the mysterious lines of the Duke of Chou, hideously apt, but dismaying:

One walks slowly and with hardship because of flaying. If only one could act as though one were a sheep, and let the decisions be made by a companion, one could still accomplish something of the plan. But advice is not listened to, and alone one can do nothing-

The pine scent of the incense is cool, acrid, remote.

Alone, one can do nothing-

She rocks to and fro.

The amplifying hexagram, made from the moving lines, is Hsu, Biding Time.

Simon stamping along the beach and grizzling audibly. He's

tired and it's cold, and his arms ache from carrying two pieces

of driftwood. (She is carrying what feels like half a ton

deadweight of rata, and Joe is bowed under a mighty pile.)

"We'll soon be home, tama."

"Not long to go now, Haimona."

"Just a little way now, eh."

The snivelling goes on.

Suddenly Joe swings round and down. He crouches in front

of the boy, reaches out and touches him briefly on the lips.

Hush up… in Simon's language. The boy gives him a brilliant

smile. Attention, attention, he loves it.

"Okay, come on up, sweetheart," Joe lifts the child, one-armed,

sets him on his hip, and staggers on down the beach.

She gets down the golden guitar for the second time this nightmare day, but this time picks out the ragged beginnings of a tune. Then it swoops, it flies, it glides… it sounds thin, only the guitar's voice singing the overture to La Gaza Ladra. It needs an orchestra, a synthesiser to do it justice. Or even that music box.

She opens the lid to the gaudy little box, and the melody jangles

out.

"Well well, me favourite piece among others… overture to The

Thieving Magpie and where'd you get it?"

Joe grins. "It's not mine. Himi picked it for himself." He touches

the fluorescent pink lid. "Okay taste in music but eecch colour

sense eh… I was buying smokes last month and he was with

me. Started playing with Emmersen's display of these boxes while

I was talking tips. And Emmersen said suddenly, Hey look at

your kid, he's dancing, and there's Himi showing — "

"Sim dancing? That I've got to see."

"He does it a lot… play the tune, and you'll see soon enough. Anyway, he fell in love with this thing, and I like to see him happy. I said leave it alone, but gave Emmy the wink and he picked it up without Himi seeing and stuck it in with the rest of the gear."

He beams at her. "You should've seen tama's face when I unloaded it. He still plays it about twenty times a day. When he's home."

She thinks, I'll wait. I'll do nothing except watch out for the brat. Say nothing to Joe but wait for a good time to tell him my mind on the whole bloody thing. Preferably with my fists.

And I feel eyes on me.

She turns to the door.

"Hullo."

What else to say? Somehow, knowing about the Crosshatch of open weals and scars that disfigure the child has made him back into a stranger.

He's wan and unsteady and there's a look on his face as though he's just chewed bile. Very sour, very surly brat. He stands there scowling, wrapped in one of her silk shirts.