There’s nothing to say, really. We’re here because we needed to see it again, to remind ourselves that this story is over and uniquely ours.
Sterling and Abigail kneel by the ashes. I kneel with them and together we begin carving out the blackened husk of a stump with our spades. We work quietly, tossing chunks into the pond as we explore. They’re as tense as I am about what we might find. I try to keep my mind off of the tree and focus on finding Mary’s bones. If my time is limited, I’ll use it to make good on my promise to her.
She hasn’t been in my mind since the tree died. I’ve had no spinning bouts of madness or stretches of missed time. The only person inhabiting my brain is me and now I understand what Old Lady Clary meant when she said I could stop the ghosts. Though they started before my visit to the tree, it was bleeding over the roots that woke Mad Mary and made everything worse. Her bones are here because this is where those men killed her.
After an hour of digging around the circle of roots, my spade scrapes against the grinning shape of a skull.
“She’s here,” I say, and Sterling and Abigail move over to help me unearth the stained and ancient bones of Mad Mary Sweet, held close for so many years by the roots of the everblooming cherry tree.
One by one, we place her bones in a battered green duffel bag. It takes hours and by the end, my back aches and so does my bandaged hand.
But there’s more work ahead of us.
“Time to go,” I call, zipping the duffel closed.
“Candy!” Abigail calls. “Candy, come back here!”
Sterling and Abigail brush frantically at the very center pile of char. I join them and find the source of their excitement is an itty-bitty seedling. It’s just a puny green shoot, looking perfectly stubborn against the waste surrounding it. I recognize that kind of stubborn. The everblooming cherry tree lives.
“Do you think there’ll be Shine?” I ask.
Sterling and Abigail share an irritatingly familiar look.
“Candy,” Sterling says, “there already is.”
My heart thuds like a baby Clydesdale, all hooves and no grace. Please, be mine, I think. Please, please, please.
I reach out and with the tip of one finger touch the little sapling.
And Sterling gasps and Abigail sighs and I laugh and fall to my back.
The tree lives and so shall I.
Exhausted and still covered in the grime of the swamp, Sterling, Abigail, and I are joined by Heath and Riley for the final event of the day.
Riley arrives as commanded, ready to work, but he skulks to where we wait behind Nanny’s house.
I greet him with a smile and a shovel.
“Who’re we burying today?” he asks.
“Two people,” I answer. “How do you feel about surprises?”
His eyes shift side to side. His face is as much a rockslide as ever, big eyes crowding his nose, wide lips pushing at broad cheeks. All of his pieces are made to deter, but once you make it past that, I’ve discovered they have the opposite effect.
“I’m not usually a fan,” he says, gruff, determined to frown.
But I’ve seen the boy beneath that frown.
I say, “I hope this is one of the exceptions,” and I grip the front of his shirt and pull his mouth to mine.
Riley becomes a stone. For just a second, I’m afraid I’ve misjudged him and this will end in embarrassment. But it’s fleeting. Riley returns the kiss with delicacy. Not what I expected, but if he was what I expected, we wouldn’t be here right now. And I like the way he surprises me.
“Ahem,” Abigail says, interrupting something so perfect I could just die. “We have a funeral to get to.”
Riley doesn’t let me go right away. He holds my head steady and I note with satisfaction that his scowl has melted away.
“Please, surprise me more often,” he whispers before releasing me.
“I will,” I promise.
I shoulder the bag of Mad Mary and we make quick work of the hike through Nanny’s woods. Without the cover of summer brush, my family graveyard looks like a toothy grin at the top of a hill. We slip inside the low wrought-iron gates and pick a spot in a corner behind all the oldest graves. And then we dig. Again.
It goes more quickly with the likes of Heath and Riley and actual shovels instead of spades. As the sun cuts a low path through the sky, we cut a hole, four-by-two, into the ground. When it’s done, I lay the bag in the bottom and step back.
“Shouldn’t we say something?” Sterling asks. “Feels weird just to bury her.”
I clear my throat, all too aware that I’m surrounded by the whole lineage of cursed Cravens. They live again every year when my family gathers in the graveyard and listens to the tale, weaving them into our lives regardless of where they came from. Next year, Mary will be here, too.
“We lay to rest Mad—I mean, Annemarie Craven, who died at the young age of fifteen. I don’t know much about her except that she was loved by her mother and also by me. Rest in peace, Mary.”
“Amen,” says Abigail.
The others reach for their shovels, but I say, “One more thing.”
From my pocket, I pull a plastic Baggie with a twist of toilet paper inside. It’s not fancy, but I don’t need fancy. I just need closure.
“Is that . . . ,” Heath begins to ask but fails.
“Your finger,” Riley states, and nods. “Nice.”
“There’s something wrong with you two,” Sterling says.
“I think it’s fitting.” Abigail takes my side.
I toss the little piece of me into the open grave. It lands on Mary’s duffel.
“We lay to rest my pinky,” I say. “You did your job well and I loved you, too. Rest in peace, pinky joint.”
“Amen,” Abigail repeats.
And now we pick up our shovels and work until the hole is filled and the sun is down. No ghosts appear between the stones—not that I would see them if they did. Tonight, it’s just me and my friends beneath the tall pines.
After everything, I’ve circled right around to where I started: the barren, sightless creature who negates Shine with a touch. Except I know so much more than I did a few months ago. The things I lack don’t define me; I define them.
And I’m completely okay with that.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Returning to Sticks, Louisiana, for Candy’s story was a true gift, and I’m thankful to so many for helping me get here.
My agent, Sarah Davies, who made this possible in the first place.
My entire HarperTeen team: my editors, Karen Chaplin and Jessica MacLeish, for challenging me to rise to the level of your own amazing insights; Bethany Reis and Crystal Velasquez for copyediting like sharpshooters; Kate Engbring for yet another perfect cover design; and all the people who I don’t know to name, but played a part in getting this book onto shelves and into hands.
I am endlessly indebted to the people who agreed to read and critique this book at various stages along the way—Sonia Gensler, Tessa Gratton, Julie Murphy, Amanda Sellet, and Kimberly Welchons—without whom the writing process would be much less joyful.
My writing community—Maggie Stiefvater, for essential music at essential moments; the ladies of the Hanging Garden—Annie Cardi, Elle Cosimano, Bethany Hagen, Rosamund Hodge, E. K. Johnston, Amber Lough, and Julie Murphy (again!)—who gave me a creative space that wasn’t a swamp; Josie Angelini, Anna Carey, Tara Hudson, and Amy Plum, for wereboars and wine; and to the ladies of GFA, who listen and love and laugh.
My boss, Joane Nagel, to whom this book is dedicated and who has been a mentor, a champion, and a friend to me for many years, my thanks to you will be passing on all I’ve learned from you to girls who dare to reach for more.
I’ve been very lucky to have a day job I love and am grateful to the people of IPSR at the University of Kansas for making that happen.
My family. How do I thank you? For support and dinner and having the kinds of relations I can mine for stories that don�
�t sound true, but are. And especially for my mother, who reads my first book once a month and reminds me that she loves it.
To Tess, who has been here every step of the way, challenging and encouraging in equal measure. Thank you isn’t enough, but it holds the space well.
And finally, to everyone who read Beware the Wild and came back for more—thank you!
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ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Photo by Melinda Harthcock
NATALIE C. PARKER is the author of Beware the Wild. She grew up in a navy family in which having adventures was as common as reading fairy tales.
She graduated from the University of Southern Mississippi with a degree in English and then went on to earn her MA in women’s studies at the University of Cincinnati. Continuing her efforts as a lifelong scholar, she currently works at the University of Kansas on a project studying climate change, where she eavesdrops on the conversations of brilliant scientists and gathers fodder for future novels.
Though still baffled by having ended up in a landlocked state, she lives in Kansas with her partner.
www.nataliecparker.com
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BOOKS BY NATALIE C. PARKER
Beware the Wild
Behold the Bones
CREDITS
Cover art © 2016 by EBRU SIDAR/TREVILLION IMAGES
Cover design by KATE J. ENGBRING
COPYRIGHT
HarperTeen is an imprint of HarperCollins Publishers.
BEHOLD THE BONES. Copyright © 2016 by Natalie C. Parker. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the nonexclusive, nontransferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse-engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.
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Library of Congress Control Number: 2015938993
ISBN 978-0-06-224155-9
EPub Edition © February 2016 ISBN 9780062241573
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Behold the Bones Page 24
