Behold the Bones

by Natalie C. Parker

  She’s telling herself a story to make this all okay. Maybe Mary’s own madness started like that, as a story she used to soften the horrors of life. I say, “Please, don’t, Nova.”

  She stands and pulls scads of Spanish moss from the surrounding trees, which she then drapes on the boughs of the cherry tree. Then she moves from one to the other, whispering a word that changes the color of the world: fire.

  As flames lick across the pink blossoms, Nova returns to me and kneels once more by my side.

  “When the tree is burned, you’ll be severed from it and my mom can take your place.”

  “But you’re killing the tree!” I try, one final attempt to show her the error of her ways.

  Her smile turns sad. Genuinely sad. “My dad has done a lot of research on sites like these. The amazing thing about the one in Seal Harbor was how resilient it was. He discovered that it burned once long ago and a new tree grew exactly in its place. I think they’re like the Shine Child. When one dies, another is born. And there’s only one way to find out.”

  Terror dawns like a fever. She means to leave me here, bleeding, and easy pickings for whatever predator smells my blood first.

  “Nova,” I call to her retreating form. “Leaving me here is the same as slitting my throat!”

  Silence follows. The kind of silence that pulls everything else into sharp relief—the rope cutting my waist, the throb in my hand, the panic pinching the back of my throat.

  After several agonizing minutes, her voice calls soft from somewhere in the brush.

  “No,” she says. “It’s different.”

  And then I know she’s gone.

  27

  I HAVE DREAMS THAT AREN’T dreams.

  They reach up from the ground and siphon through my ears and take root in the gray matter they find there.

  I float in a murky pool of swamp water with the moon full overhead. My hair—what’s left of it—is silky against my skin. My breath is shallow. On purpose so I can stay on top of the water. I do not want to sink. If I sink, they will see. They will pull me out and smack my face for trying to die. They will be rude for hours and I will sit in my wet shift and dig my toes into the mud.

  As long as I float and only flutter my hands to stay as still as possible, they will not mind. The water in my ears transports me to a place where there are no men with shears and needles and demands. I build it around myself starting with very tall walls. Taller than the sprawling trees. Up and up and up until there’s only a square of sky between them. My sky. It will be mine. I’ll name each star and sweep them into my pocket before the sun rises.

  One of the men calls to me. Though I cannot hear my name through the water, I can tell by the pitch of his voice. In their mouths, my name is a spear and they attack me with it whenever it pleases them.

  “Mary,” they say, and it tells me who I am. I hate it.

  I am dragged from the pool like the rag I am. They will take something else, I think. A toe or a tooth. Having pieces of me—of my bones—makes them powerful, makes them immune to the Shine they use for dreadful purposes. They know what I am, what my bones can do, and they’ll take them until I have no more to give. I am my bones, beneath them is only madness.

  He sings while he steals, “You’re mad, mad, mad Mary, my sweet.”

  I fall into my mind.

  I open my eyes.

  The swamp air feels over-warm against my skin.

  “Candy!”

  How have I never noticed how bright the stars become on a moonless night?

  “Candy!”

  “Nova?” I look for her. It’s not her voice, but I know it’s her. She smells like smoke.

  “No. Candace, look at me.” His voice is demanding but also tremulous.

  I let the constellation of his face come together. Wide watercolor eyes crowding a nose, broad cheeks, strong jaw, bald head. Riley. “Nope.”

  “Candace, fuck.”

  “Okay, maybe.”

  My ropes begin to loosen. Blood rushes into my tingling limbs, bringing fresh pain with it. I shudder.

  Riley pulls me against him and then up. Never in my life did I expect to find myself in Riley Wawheece’s arms, but at the moment I don’t mind. The pain in my hand hasn’t gone, but it’s a dull, almost familiar throb now. I rest my head on Riley’s shoulder. He’s strong and sure as he plods through the swamp. Even in my slippery mind I trust him to know where he’s going. Except he doesn’t know where we need to go.

  “Riley, wait,” I say, pulling my thoughts into focus. “Stop.”

  He obeys, but I feel the tension shuddering through his body. “You need a doctor.”

  He’s not wrong. He just isn’t right. “Put me down. How did you find me? Where are Sterling and Abigail?”

  Reluctantly, he allows my feet to hit the soggy floor. “I was on the way to Sterling’s—I got a text about a party—and saw the smoke. And then I saw her.”

  When I turn, I see Mad Mary. She stands several feet away from us with her feet resting lightly on top of the sludge in which we sink. The tendrils of her shredded skirt float around her as though in water. Her eyes sit firmly on me. She doesn’t speak, but her lips spread in a slow, unnerving smile.

  “She stood in the middle of the road and when I stopped, she, well, she made it clear I should follow. I never made it to Sterling’s.”

  Behind us, the tree burns over the pond. Somewhere before us, Nova is returning without me. I trust Sterling and Abigail and Heath and whoever else is there to stop her, but they don’t know what she’s done or what she plans to do. I need to be in two places at once. I need to extinguish the tree and stop Nova, and since I have no ability to quench a fire on my own, I choose the latter.

  “We have to hurry,” I say, moving in the direction of the Saucier’s blue house.

  Riley doesn’t stop me. He keeps pace beside me and asks, “You gonna tell me what’s happening here?”

  “Later. I’ll tell you everything later. For now, please run.”

  It’s a strange blessing that Riley Wawheece does exactly as I say. We run as quickly as the swamp allows, splashing and slipping furiously on our way to the Saucier backyard.

  My hand throbs, but not as much as it should. My body is healing itself faster than usual perhaps because this wound is so much worse than anything I’ve suffered before. I take that to mean the tree isn’t dead yet, but still mine.

  Mine, mine, mine, this deadly Shine, Shine, Shine.

  I sense her. Mad Mary. She runs along beside me. Her song spins in my mind, but it doesn’t disorient me. Instead, her song heightens my senses. Her goals are mine: someone has taken our bones and we want them back.

  The ground grows more solid and I know we’re close. I will stop Nova King. I will stop her and save my life. I will stop her and save my tree. I will stop her and save my town.

  Before us, light explodes and screams rise from the gathering in Sterling’s backyard. It takes a moment for me to understand what’s happened. Fire licks along the swamp fence. Flames, immediately full and angry, race along the planks in either direction. Soon, my swamp will be ringed in fire, as my tree is bathed in it.

  If not for the gate, I’d be trapped, but there’s a gap between the flames and through it I see Nova where she stands in the yard, hemmed in by the crowd. Sterling, Abigail, and Heath confront her, their faces streaked in fire and shadow. Sterling lifts her hands and with a pushing motion shouts, “Stop!”

  Nova struggles, but her feet are rooted where she stands. “This isn’t a game,” Nova shouts in return. “I will hurt you.”

  My heart races, my hand throbs, and beside me, Mad Mary groans, “Bones, bones, bones, my bones, bones, bones!”

  I aim for Nova and I run. Mary runs with me, and before us the crowd blooms with terror and breaks.

  People scream and peel away, racing for the front yard and the street beyond. Others stand frozen in shock, their eyes wide. Still others brace for impact, Leo and Red among them.

/>   And in a moment of clarity, I know they see an army of ghosts. Me and Riley and Mad Mary and every ghost the swamp holds. They are Mary’s ghosts and she’s used them to gain my attention in pursuit of her bones. Now she uses them in pursuit of mine.

  Nova growls, “Free!” And breaks the spell Sterling used to fix her in place.

  Before I reach her, there is Gage, rushing toward us, chewing up the distance with furious paces.

  “Gage!” Nova shouts, moving to his side in triumph. “I have it! We can save Mom!” She pulls the reddened plastic sack from her pocket.

  Gage flinches away and looks to me in a panic. “Oh God,” he says. “Nova.”

  “Bones, bones, bones.” Mary’s voice carries with unearthly volume.

  “Give me back what’s mine!” I shout.

  “You won’t leave here until you do,” Abigail threatens. Sterling and Heath stand firm at her side and behind them, Red and Leo and a handful of others join ranks, confused and curious.

  Then, a crack like thunder snaps over the swamp. It hits my chest like a hammer. I double over, gasping and burning and dry as though I were a river that was suddenly drained.

  Screams.

  Mine.

  And Mary’s.

  And Sterling’s.

  Our tree has died.

  28

  RILEY’S HANDS REST ON MY back. The pain in my chest radiates through my body. The tree has died. My tree has died. The Wasting Shine has died. I never felt its presence, but I feel its absence and it burns like the cold, cold, cold of space. I will lose myself to it. Not now, but in time. As Mrs. King has.

  “What have you done?!” Sterling shouts.

  It’s a struggle to raise my head, to focus my eyes on Nova standing between Sterling and me. Sterling, who grips Heath and Abigail but hasn’t fallen as I have.

  Nova turns her eyes on me and speaks. “It’s gone, isn’t it? That was the tree. Gage, we have to go. This is our chance! All Mom needs to do is swallow a piece of Candy’s bone and when the tree roots again, she’ll be fine!”

  Horrified, Gage backs away from her. “No, Nova. You can’t do this. You can’t just trade her life for Candy’s. You know that. And you know Candy will die.”

  But Nova is wild with desperation. “Candy never even knew what she had! She doesn’t deserve to keep it!”

  “That’s true,” I say, and I push to my feet though every bit of my body resists. “I’ve been too focused on the things I didn’t have. But this is my town and my life. Give it back.”

  I extend my unbloodied hand. Nova clutches the Baggie to her chest and backs away.

  “No,” she says, despairing and childlike.

  “Nova,” Gage pleads. “Mom would never forgive you. . . .”

  “I don’t care! She would be alive!”

  “Nova! Gage!” The shout comes from the house and here come Mr. King and Sterling’s parents and Lord knows who else.

  “No,” Nova mutters again and this time she shakes the Baggie until the finger—my finger—falls into the palm of her hand.

  I see the crazed look in her eyes.

  I lunge. She has no time to dodge and as I tackle her, the bite-size piece of me she stole falls to the ground and sinks into the grass.

  After that, things happen very quickly. There’s shouting and hands pulling Nova and me apart. Nova erupts in shrieks and other sounds of torment. Sterling’s deputy stepfather demands answers. Riley’s arms solidify around me. Red and Leo hover. There’s movement and questions and a slowly dying fire on the fence.

  I scan the ground, frantically looking for my finger, but Abigail appears at my shoulder and whispers, “I have it.”

  I wilt against Riley in relief. “Thank you.”

  Abigail gives my uninjured hand a squeeze and returns to the craziness swirling around us.

  I don’t know what happens now. Nova wasn’t able to complete her spell, but the tree is gone and when that happened to Mrs. King’s tree, she descended into madness. All I know is my bones are safe and I have just enough hope to keep me on my feet.

  “What do you need?” Riley mumbles in my ear.

  I respond without thinking. “I have everything I need.”

  29

  THE NIGHT SPINS OUT FROM there. The Kings disappear and Sterling informs me that the official story is that ghosts appeared at our party and were the cause of all the subsequent mayhem—the fire, the hysteria, even my severed pinky joint were all the result of a spectral sighting. It’s not so far from the truth, after all.

  Adult supervision tightens around us like a vice. No one is allowed to return to the swamp. My parents arrive and accept the story as Sterling’s stepdad delivers it. Red and Leo stand ready to back up everything, though they let me know in no uncertain terms that I owe them the truth and fifty bucks for “party services.”

  Our small crowd begins to dissipate like the smoke curling off the fence. Mom and Dad take me straight to Doc Payola’s office, where Dad chooses to wait outside the exam room and Mom bravely faces the destruction of my hand. Without the tree, my finger stopped its supernatural healing, but the doc is still astonished by how bad it isn’t.

  He gives me something good for the pain and I sleep all through the night. I think maybe I sleep through several days because the next time I feel wholly conscious of my body and the present, it’s Saturday and Mom and Dad are sitting at the kitchen table with the sun in their eyes.

  “Hey, Possum, how do you feel this morning?” Dad asks, folding the newspaper and laying it on the table.

  I nod. “Good. Fine. My finger itches.”

  Mom smiles. “Doc says that’s to be expected. Part of the healing process and all that. Cheesy grits?”

  Part of me still reels at the fact that they haven’t questioned the tale of how I came to possess nine and a half fingers. It just goes to show how thoroughly harassed the town has been. Next to ghosts, the idea that someone might accidentally snip off the first joint of my pinky finger in the chaos of a party seemed pretty likely. And I suppose it is. Mr. Tilly has a similar injury, compliments of a circle saw, and Uncle Jack has one thumb that’s twice as fat as the other thanks to a poorly aimed hammer. These things happen. Especially around here.

  I sink into a seat and let my parents dote on me for a while. It feels nice. Normal. And a little voice in the far reaches of my mind says I’d better enjoy it now because there’s still a chance I won’t last long without the tree.

  The doorbell rings and Mom hops up to answer it. She’s back a moment later, calling my name with a hint of wonder. “Gage King is here to see you. I told him I’d see if you were feeling up to visitors.”

  I lurch to my feet and smooth my hair on the way to the door.

  He waits on the front porch, hands in pockets, shoulders tight.

  “Hey,” he says.

  “Hey,” I parrot, suddenly unsure.

  Most people look bigger when they wear heavier clothing. But in a sleek leather jacket and jeans, Gage looks smaller than I think he should. Maybe it’s his eyes.

  “I wanted to apologize,” he says. “For everything. And thank you for not pressing charges against Nova.”

  I pull the door closed behind me. “Charges would lead to too many questions.”

  “Yeah,” he agrees, head bobbing, eyes constantly shifting away from mine.

  We fall into silence. Any way I turn, I cut myself on things I want to say and hear, each of them too awkward to ask. From the Thames’ yard, the sound of a lawn mower drones.

  “We thought there’d be another way,” he blurts. “We knew Nova was desperate, but we never thought she’d go this far.” He gestures at my bandaged hand. “We really thought—hoped—that if we found the tree, another possibility would present itself.”

  “But you knew I was in danger. You warned me.” I feel an uncomfortable mix of sympathy and resentment toward him. It won’t resolve itself one way or another, but oscillates back and forth like a pendulum.

  His
mouth pinches together, briefly. “Yeah,” he admits. “I should have worked harder to stop all of this, I know, but we’re leaving now. Tomorrow, actually. Nova needs help, and Mom, too. I think Dad’s finally ready to admit that. And I just wanted to explain and apologize and say good-bye.”

  I try to imagine what life has been like for this boy, living under the shadow of his mother’s illness. While his father searched for a cure, his sister disappeared inside her terrible hope. I can’t know what all of that feels like, but I think I understand what it feels like to watch your life slip away from you.

  “I’m glad you came,” I say, meaning the hell out of those words.

  He steps forward and catches my hand. His thumb treads lightly over my four fingers and hovers over my bandage. When he speaks again, his voice is less than stable. “I’m so sorry, Candace.”

  “Me, too,” I say. “I’m so sorry. About everything.”

  He nods. Looks away. Swallows hard, and meets my eyes. It feels final before he’s even spoken. “I understand if you hate me.”

  “I really don’t.”

  His smile is tight and small when he says hoarsely, “Thank you.”

  I step forward and hug him. He tenses and after a second wraps his arms around me and presses me against him. Part of me aches to ease the pain in his future. When he leaves here, he’ll face his sister’s recovery and his mother’s death. He’ll have a mourning father to support and a growing brother to encourage. I hope he doesn’t get lost in all of that. And I wish I could ensure that he won’t. But all I can do is let him go.

  We part after a long minute that wasn’t long enough.

  “Good-bye, Gage,” I say.

  “Good-bye, Candace.”

  30

  ON SUNDAY, STERLING, ABIGAIL, AND I meet for a trip to the grove of the everblooming cherry tree. Autumn has moved in and stripped the trees of most of their leaves and moss. We crunch through the swamp in hunting jackets, jeans, and rubber boots.

  The grove happens to us by surprise. Usually, we’d know when we were near by the flashes of pink between cypress trunks. But there are no pink blossoms left, just an empty gray sky. Ashes blacken the soil in a circle where the tree used to stand. Chunks of charred wood create a small pile in the very center. The air here still smells vaguely of fire.