The Thread that Binds the Bones

by Nina Kiriki Hoffman

  He sat beside her, listening to his own breathing, wondering who these people he’d tangled himself up with were.

  After a little while she said, “I didn’t know if I would ever come back to the Hollow. I ran away, six years ago, tried to lose myself so they couldn’t find me. Because I knew I would never pass. I’m the weakest of my generation—”

  “But you did pass, didn’t you?”

  Her grin lighted her face. “Yes. Oh, yes. I don’t understand it. And you passed, and you’re not even a member of the Family.” Then her grin faded. “But see, here we are. We’re married! That’s not how outsiders would handle it, marry on the day they met. And I’ve always wanted to be an outsider.”

  “Why?”

  “Because the Family is cruel. It’s not just the breeding restrictions. Some of my cousins are just plain mean, and they can do worse things to you than anybody outside.”

  He put his other hand over hers. “Laura…I’m confused about a lot of things. One of them is this talking-underneath thing. Underneath, on the way out here, you said, ‘Almost home, almost home.’ On top you say you don’t like being here. Which part of you is telling the truth?”

  “I still don’t believe you about talking underneath!” Laura said, frowning ferociously.

  —Don’t force it. She’s not ready to deal with this yet, Laura’s buried whisper said.

  “Okay, okay,” he said. “I guess what I really wonder is, where are we going to live?”

  —Not here!

  “Not here!” she said.

  He smiled. “Okay. Glad to have that settled. I have to tell you that as a husband I don’t have much to offer you. I live in a shoebox over Bert’s Taxis in Arcadia. You want to move in with me? I couldn’t ask you to do that. We could get a bigger place. I could try to make more money.”

  “You don’t use your talents to live on?”

  “No. Whatever talents I may have, I’ve kept them buried for years. Do you use your talents to live on?”

  “Such as they are. I’m a model. I don’t think I’m very interesting to look at, normally, but when the photographers start snapping, I speak to my spark, and it makes pictures of me exciting. I look good in clothes. I have more calls than I can take. I have plenty of money. Would you move to a city with me?”

  “Anyplace but Portland,” he said after a moment’s thought. “Come to think of it, they’ve probably forgotten by now, so even Portland might be all right.”

  “Oh—you’re that Tom Renfield?”

  “You heard?” he asked, astonished.

  “Teasing!” She grinned. “Why? What did you do?”

  “I don’t want to discuss it, especially not this very moment.” He looked at her, one side of his mouth smiling. She looked back. Her hand was warm inside his, and her scent had strengthened, carrying an undertone of musk. After a moment, they kissed, and this time when his interest deepened, he did not calm it. Laura held him fiercely, then pushed him away and tugged at his robe until he took it off. She pulled hers off too, and they examined each other with hands as well as eyes.

  They slipped under the covers. Laura snapped her fingers and most of the light faded.

  “Laura…I forgot to ask…and it’s too late now, but—did we need protection?”

  She laughed in the darkness. “We were searched, purified, and matched by Presences and Powers. We don’t have anything to worry about.”

  “Was Aunt Aggie serious when she said the house would let them know when we, uh, consummated?” Tom asked drowsily some time later.

  “Aunt Aggie!” said Laura, and burst into gales of giggles. “Aunt Aggie!” She tickled him until he managed to distract her. “Mmm, that feels good!”

  “Is the house spying on us?” he asked.

  “I don’t know. It might have missed the first time. Want to go for ‘in no uncertain terms’?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  Above the bed’s canopy, a skylight let in morning light, printing a rectangle on the flower-sprigged material. Tom stood up and pulled the canopy down.

  “Mm,” said Laura, watching him. Sunlight washed gold into her hair, dazzled gold from her eyes as she looked up at him. He sat down amid the crumpled bedclothes and studied her.

  “You are so beautiful,” he murmured, and watched her answering smile.

  “I think you are too,” she said. She sat up and put her arm around him. Her hair brushed his shoulder as she leaned, warm and salty, against him. He slid his arm around her, easing her closer. Yesterday morning he had awakened alone and cold in the little room above Bert’s garage, wondering if anything interesting would liven up the day ahead.

  He listened to her breathing, slowed his to match. They sat quiet for a while, melting into each other without moving. At last he murmured, “What time is the wedding?”

  “Last night?” she asked.

  “Not ours. Michael’s.”

  “Oh.” She held out her hand, and her watch drifted over from the bedside table to land on her palm. She studied it a second, straightened, said, “Oh, no! We have to shower and get out of here.” She slid off the bed.

  “What are we supposed to wear?” he asked, following her into the bathroom.

  She looked back. Her eyebrows lifted.

  “I mean, is this another white robe thing? My other choice is that white taxi-driver outfit. Is that appropriate?”

  “Uh,” she said, “well…” She turned on the water, grinning at him.

  “You told me marriage was a serious business in your family,” he said.

  “Yes, but the hard part’s over.” They walked into the warm rain, and this tune they washed each other.

  Afterward he sat on the bed and watched her dress. First, underclothes and silky silver stockings; then she took a pale gray V-necked dress overlaid with silver lace flowers out of her suitcase and slipped into it. Its billowy sleeves ended in frothy ruffles that hid her hands, and its skirt was hemmed with points and corners. She fastened a gray belt with a silver shell buckle at her waist, stepped into a pair of gray high heels with silver bead roses on them, then stood back, arms out, in a classic display pose, and quirked an eyebrow.

  “I don’t know,” he said. “Shadowy.”

  She glanced down at herself. “Isn’t that odd? I knew it was appropriate when I bought it, but I didn’t know why. It’s not a good color on me, but shadowy is how I feel in this house.”

  “Guess I might as well wear my own outfit,” said Tom, rounding up his T-shirt, jacket, shorts, jeans, socks, and hightops. They were so white they glowed. As he dressed, she brushed her hair, then handed the brush to him. She opened the door of a free-standing closet, revealing a mirror, and they stood side by side, studying themselves and each other.

  Her tawny hair and summer skin were at odds with her frost-touched gray dress, and his own coloring—black hair, blue eyes, outdoor tan—was intensified by contrast with the smudgeless white of his clothes. He stood half a head taller than she, and quite a bit broader. He hooked his thumbs through his belt loops and bounced on his hightops. “What do you think?”

  “Mm,” she said, and tugged at his jacket until he leaned over far enough to kiss her.

  He said, “You taste great, but this reminds me. When was the last time you ate?”

  “Yesterday morning,” she said, putting a hand on her stomach.

  “I had some beer nuts right before you arrived in the bar. I’m starving.”

  “I am too. If we hurry, maybe we can snatch something in the kitchen before the ceremony.” As she unlocked and opened the door, though, a gong sounded through the halls.

  “Damn! It’s the summons.” She grabbed his hand and ran.

  They arrived in the kitchen. People Tom had not seen the night before were hard at work at the business end of the kitchen. None of them looked up as he and Laura ran in. Laura slipped her hand out of his and darted through a small opening, returned with handfuls of brown bread torn from a larger loaf. She handed him a chunk, then
tugged him past the workers to a narrow tunnel which took them out into the morning sunlight. They ate as they ran.

  Music sounded from the amphitheater, a fiddle, a harp, a drum; the melody mixed klezmer, Celtic, and gypsy, verging on, then veering away from, the familiar.

  “Oh, good, they haven’t started yet,” said Laura.

  People wandered or stopped to cluster and talk near the amphitheater, which sunlight revealed as pillars of dark, lichen-laced rock thrusting up in a ring, shoulder to shoulder, offering many places to sit, descending in height toward the wide flat center, the earthen circle where lights and ghosts had danced the night before. A gap between the pillars closest to the house gave access into the circle. At one end of the central open area stood a dolmen, two squat upright stones capped with a flat horizontal one at about waist-height. On the capstone two wreaths of mingled red roses and white lilies lay, also a clay bowl, a silver goblet, a bone-handled knife, and a small sturdy gong, which Michael was striking.

  Michael looked pale and disheveled. Alyssa stood beside him at the altar. Sun crowned her hair with gleaming copper. She looked serene. She wore a simple dress colored the pink of clouds at sunrise, and she carried a single lotus blossom.

  Everyone drifted into the circle. The musicians set their instruments down on the pillars and descended to join the others.

  Uncle Jezra emerged from the crowd and went to stand behind the flower-decked stone. “Welcome,” he said. “Thank you all for blessing this union with your presence.”

  Michael and Alyssa joined hands and knelt in front of the altar, their backs to the crowd, Tom closed his eyes a moment, and opened them into Othersight.

  In daylight people’s own light was harder to see, but he caught glimpses of it where an arm shadowed a side, or a skirt shadowed a lower leg. He looked around, and saw that the phantoms he had seen the night before were present too, faded by daylight like stains washed three times. He turned and studied Laura, who smiled at him. She had a blue edging, but over her stomach the light was greener, closer to the color he saw in his own hand.

  He sighed and put his arm around her shoulders. One of the ghosts ventured near them.

  Uncle Jezra spoke in that other language, his voice reaching out to touch everyone. As he spoke silvery shimmers came from his mouth, and as people responded, turquoise sparkles rose from their mourns, spinning above the circle, waltzing with the silver in visible harmony. Laura leaned her head against Tom’s shoulder, her gaze fixed on Uncle Jezra. Tom watched the colors dance, then looked at the nearby ghost.

  —Peregrine? Tom thought.

  The ghost nodded.—Thank you for honoring my Family.

  —What?

  —By accepting this bud from my tree, and granting it communion with your seed.

  Laura murmured something, touched her finger to her lips, and gestured, as everyone else was doing. Tom suppressed his confusion.

  —Peregrine, please help me.

  —By your leave. The ghost walked into him. He blinked again, and listened with ears and mind as Peregrine whispered a running translation while Jezra spoke, and used Tom’s lips, tongue, and throat to join in the ceremony.

  “By the chain of lives from our past into our future, we bind ourselves, muscle, blood, bone, and mind, pledging our time and gifts to the betterment of the Family,” Tom said in concert with everyone else.

  “By the air above and the earth below. By the water that runs within us. By the sacred fire.” Uncle Jezra clapped and a flame appeared, dancing in the air above the altar. “From the fire we each take sparks, feeding the flames of ourselves. Through the fire we temper and ennoble ourselves. When two flames join together with the assent of the Presences and Powers, we rejoice in the continuation of our line.”

  Jezra lifted the clay bowl. It had something in it. “Through the goodness of the Powers, we have sustenance. Will all partake?”

  The bowl traveled around the circle and each person scooped a double fingerful of the bowl’s contents, and tasted. Tom, still ravenous, was ready to reach for a handful, but Peregrine guided him into taking only a little.—It’s symbolic of the Starving Time, when all we had to eat was this. There must be enough for all.

  It was a gray paste, which tasted like salted oatmeal.—Salt privilege, Peregrine added.—We who share the sacrament of salt agree not to make war on each other.

  “By the goodness of the Powers, we have drink. Will all partake?”

  The goblet’s contents proved to be water, a relief after the salt, but not enough of one.

  “We stand here gathered, one people, to join these two children together…Will you, Michael Bolte, take Alyssa Locke as your wife?”

  “I sure will,” he said.

  “Will you, Alyssa Locke, take Michael Bolte as your husband?”

  “I will,” she said, her voice firm but low.

  “Then, by my status as eldest, by Powers and Presences above and below, by ancestors and descendants, by earth and sea and sun and sky, by permission and with joyous boldness I do pronounce you husband and wife; may your life together be sweet and long and fruitful and full of gifts. Give me your hands.”

  They placed their hands on the capstone. Jezra lifted the little knife and nicked their index fingers. “Mingle blood as covenant of the closeness you will share; grow greater as two become one,” he said. Michael and Alyssa pressed their fingers together.

  “Now kiss each other, and rise to greet your guests, Alyssa and Michael Bolte.” He crowned Michael and Alyssa with the lily-and-rose wreaths. They kissed and stood up, turned, and clasped hands, smiling at everyone.

  —Well done, Peregrine thought.

  —Pretty, Tom thought.

  Peregrine snorted mentally.

  Laura smiled up at Tom. He thought about kissing her, then remembered he had a guest, which might complicate things.—Are you planning to stay inside me? Tom asked, not sure what to do if the answer was yes.

  —Are you inviting me?

  —No!

  Peregrine laughed out loud in sheer delight, then stepped out of Tom.

  “Tom?” said Laura. “Are you all right?”

  “I’m fine. Temporarily possessed, but he’s gone again.” Peregrine was nearby, but he was looking around at other people now, though still grinning, a dimple scored deep into his cheek. Tom said, “Is this anything like a regular wedding reception? Will there be food? I’m hungry enough to eat grass.”

  “Let me make it easier for you,” said Carroll from behind them. Tom turned to see Carroll gesturing, spinning red and gold coils through the air, and murmuring small red butterflies that flew with rapid wing flutters at him. Colored coils draped Tom, butterflies landed on him. He felt terribly sick.

  Then he was splitting out of his clothes, his body barreling, arms, legs, and face lengthening, self growing hair and hooves and tail, ears stretching and furring, hair sprouting down the back of his suddenly elongated neck.

  “Jackass,” said Carroll. He smiled and walked away.

  After a moment the sickness faded as Tom settled into this new shape. The view had changed. He saw different things with each eye, almost no overlap, but he had become accustomed to adjusting to new views, and after a moment he could sort the grayed landscape enough to see that people looked like that, and rocks looked like this. Smells and sounds had changed too. The different shades of plant smells had become much more important. He lifted his equine head and looked around.

  How amazing to be in something other than a human shape! He had never been able to move his ears before.

  Laura laid a warm hand on his shoulders, her fingers tangling in his mane. She was grinding her teeth.

  Chapter 7

  The scentless pale gray shimmer that approached him from the opposite side took Tom a moment to figure out. It bunched beside him so he could see something above it, and it thought—Tom?

  —Peregrine? Tom cocked his head to get a better view. The shimmer remained muddy, not exactly person-shaped exce
pt in outline.

  —Good, you can still sense me.

  Tom shivered the skin of one shoulder, amazed at how it felt to have vibrating skin. His relationship with gravity and the ground had shifted radically. He lifted a front hoof, almost fell off balance, placed it on the ground again.

  “Tom, I’m so sorry.” Laura’s free hand clenched into a fist. “If only I had his powers,” she said.

  His mouth couldn’t smile. He felt a lot of long teeth inside his lips.—Peregrine, is this an abuse of salt privilege?

  —Not if he can pass it off as a wedding prank. Don’t eat or drink. It makes the form harder to shed.

  Tom was glad of the warning. The scent of grass was enticing, curling juicy whispers to his tongue, and his hunger felt bottomless.

  “Tom?” Laura said. “I can beg him to change you back…is that what you want? Nod if it is.”

  Tom shook his head. He was too busy exploring. Besides, begging sounded like a bad tactic.—How does one shed a form? he asked.

  —It depends upon how careful he was.

  The gray blotch that was Peregrine traveled back. Tom moved his head to keep the form in sight.—Hmm, Peregrine said.—What do you see when you look at this with Othersight?

  Tom looked back at himself, enjoying the sensation of bending such a long mobile neck. He blinked, hoping that Othersight wouldn’t confuse him further, but what it revealed looked familiar: red and gold coils, webbing around him in a loose net. Othersight, apparently, worked on some frequency that didn’t respect the donkey’s sight limitations; the colors of the net were rich and clear. Now that he could see the net, he could also feel its tension as it clung to him. It was itch-irritating, but it didn’t feel very strong. He described it to Peregrine.

  —That’s interesting, Peregrine said.—I am not gifted with Othersight, except as the dead have it, for seeing other dead things. I can perceive the sensation of someone else’s power around you—more like a taste than a vision. That…net is all that holds you in this shape. In a good spell built to last, it would taste a lot stronger than it does; so perhaps this is just a prank spell, short term, and it will wear off after a moment or two. Still, if you can conjure any manner of altering it…