The Bones of the Forest

by Rachelle Reese

  ***

  A cool day

  It’s cool this morning. Cool enough for me to put on sweats and a sweatshirt instead of the shorts and t-shirts that have been my uniform since I exiled myself last May. Also cool enough to remind me that winter does come eventually to this part of the world. So today I took the axe out of the shed to start cutting fallen trees into firewood. The axe was left here by the previous owner. They also left a splitting hammer. Chopping wood is something I’ve done before. As a young girl, I helped my father cut wood. But it’s not something I thought I’d ever do again. Usually I purchase a rank or two of wood for cozy fires on the evenings I need extra comfort. Fire has always been more an emotional thing for me than a physical necessity. This winter, fire will keep me alive.

  As I held the axe in my hand, I thought again about the people who’d murdered and been murdered. I wondered what it would feel like to split a skull with an axe, as one woman’s had been at a farmhouse I visited looking for eggs. Her head was split in two and a man lay nearby her, a bullet through his nasal cavity. I guess he wanted to be sure he didn’t linger. Of course, I did murder in the mad heat of summer. I threw the crazy man from my windshield. But I consider that self defense. At least that’s how I think about it now. If it had been murder, I would have made sure he was dead by backing over him or something. That’s not what I did. I just removed him from my windshield.

  Judge, jury, defendant, and prosecutor. Some days I feel like I have split in to all four. It’s not too different from writing a novel – you are your characters to some extent. The difference here is that each one is really me. There is no characterization or plot development. It is just me, playing out my different roles. Splitting hairs.

  Splitting wood. I held the block against the top of the log and brought it down hard. The log splintered and fell into four pieces. Kindling. Essential when starting a fire without fire starters. Speaking of fire starters. I think I saw a few at Kyle’s – leftover from last winter most likely. But a few are better than nothing. Especially on days when I have to use wet wood. And matches. I’ll need to pick up matches next time I’m there.

  The shed is still there; Amanda remembered seeing it. She wondered if the axe and splitting hammer were still there. She’d been so busy exploring the house and reading the journal that she hadn’t even looked in the shed.

  She put the book back in its spot and replaced the floorboard. Then she walked to the shed. Like the house, it was crumbling and the paint had peeled off almost completely. She tried the door and it opened. Didn’t people lock anything in those days, she wondered. She stepped inside. It was mustier than the house and dark. She propped the door open to get as much light as she could. No good. She would have to come back with a light stick.

  As she left, she tried to imagine where the woodpile might have been. Close to the house, probably. At least that’s where she’d put it. The safety net didn’t keep the cities from getting cold. Amanda had shivered on many a cold morning when she’d had to walk to the subway station to take the subway to school. She wondered how warm a fire could keep you. She’d never seen a fire before. They were outlawed in the safety net. And even accidental fires were rare. Guns were outlawed too, even outside the safety net. Amanda wondered if there was a gun in the house. If there was, should she tell anyone?

  Walking through the tall grass on the way back to the house, Amanda stubbed her toe on something. She looked down and saw a rotted wooden stick with a large metal mallet. It looked like a hammer, but much larger. She bent down to take a closer look and noticed slender white sticks arranged almost in the shape of a hand. Then she realized she wasn’t looking at sticks. She was looking at the bones of a hand. She carefully moved the grass around and found two arms, two legs, rib bones, and even a skull. She felt a shiver run down her spine. She was sure she was looking at the woman who wrote the journal. Amanda’s scream joined the noises of the forest and she started to run. She was halfway home before she stopped running. “I’m being stupid,” she told herself. “The woman had been dead for years. She probably starved to death that winter or maybe even froze.” She tried to calm herself as she walked toward the house. “Otherwise Mom will ask a million questions.” Deep breaths. Concentrate on something different, like that butterfly over there. Or that one. There are a lot of butterflies today. Just keep walking calmly. Back to the house. So you touched a dead person’s bone. It’s not like it’s the first time. Remember anatomy class? You touched lots of bones there. It’s no different.”

  “He-he-he-he-he-haw,” something laughed.

  Amanda looked into the forest, “Who’s there?”

  A crow swooped down from one of the trees and pecked at something on the ground. Amanda turned her head away, refusing to look.