The Bone Garden

by Heather Kassner

  Only she could not let the watchman catch her either. She still had to find the unmarked grave. And besides, what would the watchman think if he saw her up close? He might think she belonged here, an odd assortment of bones come to life, trying to flee from the cemetery.

  She stood very still and willed her legs not to tremble. Like a statue, she would become motionless and mute, a girl of stone.

  Except she really might turn to stone if the watchman found her.

  Her nerves crackled, her pulse raced. Every particle tingled, pins and needles and waiting.

  He could be anywhere.

  Finger by finger, the Hand released its hold on her mouth. She reached for it and tried to shove it back into the pocket of her dress, but it squirmed out of her grip and attached itself to her shoulder. Irréelle tensed.

  The whistling resumed, closer still. Each note rang sharp and clear in the cool night air. Above, the stars twinkled as if dancing to the watchman’s tune.

  She held her breath. She clenched her fists. She prepared to run.

  And then, farther off, she heard footsteps falling fast. The whistling cut off midnote.

  Her head snapped to the right, eyes wide. She crouched beside the edge of the tombstone and poked her head out to glimpse the rest of the graveyard. On her shoulder, the Hand leaned forward.

  The watchman was there. No more than twenty paces away. He would find her, catch her, scold her bones for escaping under his watch, and then turn her to stone. His head swiveled.

  And then he ran, only he took off in the opposite direction from where Irréelle hid. She breathed out.

  Her relief lasted only seconds when she realized he ran toward Guy.

  Ahead on the stone path, Guy sprinted away. He did not seek the shadows or stride silently. Instead, he drew the watchman after him.

  She cried out, wanting (and not) to recapture the watchman’s interest, but the Hand leapt for her face, clamping down on her mouth once again, and smothered the sound. Only when she pressed her lips together, a silent promise that she would not call out again, did the Hand release its hold.

  Irréelle crept out from behind the tombstone and followed the watchman, who followed Guy. She kept low and to the shadows, staying among the tombstones instead of returning to the path. She had to stop the watchman.

  In a nearby tree, an owl screeched, and in her pocket, the Hand flinched.

  “Keep calm,” she whispered. The advice was as much for the Hand as it was for herself.

  She hurried onward, careful not to step on the gravesites as she wound through the stones. The Hand thumped against her thigh as she ran.

  Guy and the watchman flashed in and out of sight. Guy chanced a look over his shoulder, and with a sharp turn, he veered off the path. The watchman did not follow. Instead, he slowed and then continued on the path.

  Irréelle came to a halt. She did not know which one to track. Both of them were edging farther and farther away. She made a split-second decision and tore after Guy.

  Although she was unfamiliar with the above side of the graveyard, she thought Guy might be heading back toward the arbor. Maybe he thought it would still be safe. Maybe Lass would find them there.

  Knowing the watchman was out there, but not where he was, made her uneasy. She could no longer see him. Wherever he was, he made no sound as he hunted them.

  When at last Guy slowed, they were not near the arbor after all. She did not see anywhere to hide unless he intended to climb the tree standing just in front of him.

  Unexpectedly, Guy took a step back. The watchman leaned out from behind the tree, having circled around to approach from the rear. Despite the distance, Irréelle could see the smear of his dark smile.

  “There you are,” the watchman said. He lunged forward and clasped hold of Guy’s arm.

  Irréelle started forward. “Guy!”

  Guy and the watchman lifted their faces to her at the same time. “No,” Guy shouted as best he could with his disused voice. “Run!” Irréelle did not want to listen, but he yelled again. “Run!”

  She turned on her heel and fled, but not before she saw Guy slump to the ground. Every step she took away from him, she regretted.

  Had he turned to stone already?

  Irréelle forced her feet faster. She had to find Lass and warn her. Maybe together they could save Guy. She refused to believe it was too late.

  She could not let the watchman catch her too.

  If only her hair were not so very white. As she ran, it trailed behind her like the tail of a shooting star. Against the night, there was no hiding it, even in the shadows.

  Irréelle fled deeper into the cemetery, in the direction Lass had gone, dodging this way and that, so that if the watchman followed, he could not guess which way she turned. Although he knew every inch of the cemetery, she knew the paths in the underside of the graveyard. She tried to orient herself again, but she was moving so quickly and darting here to there without foresight, and she felt hopelessly lost.

  She risked another glance behind her. No sign of the watchman. All she saw were the headstones jutting toward the dark sky.

  The impressions of her footsteps pressed into the wet grass. It hit her then, a sinking feeling in her gut, that it did not matter how far she ran or where she chose to hide; all he had to do was follow the trail she had left him like scattered bread crumbs.

  She slipped behind the nearest tombstone. In her pocket, the Hand was squashed between her bent legs and her chest.

  Breathe in, breathe out, she reminded herself. There was still a chance he would pass her by. She rounded her shoulders, making herself as small as possible, pressing her back against the stone and into the deepest shadows, as if she could somehow will herself invisible.

  The guard did not whistle. He did not call out either.

  But he approached.

  21

  Sneaking and Snooping

  A shadow lengthened across the grass. The watchman’s shadow.

  It stretched and stretched, slanting and distorting its shape across the tombstones so it appeared inhuman, all sharp angles and defined edges. It absorbed the darkness from the night, the very blackest part of it, and shunned the moon above. It spilled like ink around her and spread.

  The shadow lingered, so near to her. It stilled. It remained in that one place so long she tried to convince herself she had only imagined it shifting closer. She stared at its edges. Maybe it was only the shadow of a tree. Maybe the branches had been blowing in the wind.

  Except there were no trees nearby.

  Irréelle lifted her chin from her knees and glanced upward. The watchman’s leering face loomed over the top of the tombstone. He tilted his head. “I’ve got you, I have.” One long arm reached out, and with fingers bony and cold, he snatched hold of her wrist before she could scramble away. His fist curled tight and he yanked her to her feet.

  “Let go,” she whispered, too choked up to gain any volume.

  Her skin chilled. She imagined herself turning to stone from the inside out. Her toes numbed in her boots, ice racing up her legs. She would freeze in place, forever after staring down at the lonesome grave beside her.

  She pulled and struggled, and only when she tried to pry his fingers from her wrist did she realize he wore gloves, all the better for digging graves. The chill racing through her bones was not the watchman’s magic, but rather the breeze blowing across her soaking dress and hair. But there was only one slip of material between their skin.

  The watchman stood still and calm, unaffected by her efforts. He might remove his gloves at any moment and turn her to stone at his whim.

  “Yes, yes, I’ve got you.” He looked down at her with dull eyes. “But what have I got?” He shuddered, as if he had caught a monster rather than a girl. His fingers loosened, but before she could pull away, they tightened once again. “Hold still, you little nightmare.”

  Irréelle cringed under his inspection. His lip curled, the way it might after tasting so
mething most displeasing.

  Up close in the dark, his skin looked gray, his teeth a shade darker. His face was plain and flat, a smudge of unmemorable features. The kind of face made for the shadows.

  “You’re quite frightful,” he said. “I thought the boy was an oddling, but you look very much like an upright corpse.”

  Irréelle winced.

  “What am I to do with the strange likes of you?” His eye twitched.

  “Let me go, and my friend too. We weren’t harming anything.”

  “Ah, but you were trespassing, weren’t you? Sneaking and snooping and up to no good. You should have expected there would be a punishment,” he said.

  Miss Vesper had taught her that well enough. Irréelle only hoped he would be more forgiving and far less creative. She still felt faint at the thought of her bones burning.

  The watchman dragged Irréelle through the cemetery and down a long gravel road that led to the front gate. In places, the metal was speckled red with rust. It looked as if it, and the entire fence, had been standing there forever without repair. The gate leaned outward and Irréelle could not help but think that someone—or something—had pushed very hard against it trying to escape.

  Just to the side of the gate stood a small, run-down caretaker’s cottage, as gray as the watchman himself. Broken shingles spotted the roof. Paint peeled from the rotted siding. The brick chimney sloped to the side. From his pocket, the watchman drew a ring of keys (some of which were toothy and tarnished and looked ancient enough to open the old crypts). He found the appropriate one, but he did not take Irréelle inside.

  At the back of the cottage stood a shed. It was built of wood, warped and stained, and overlaid with mismatched planks and rusted nails. He led her to the door, pulling her along when she dug her heels into the ground.

  “Stop your squirming.” He inserted the key into the lock.

  All at once, a body rushed forward, trying to squeeze past the watchman and get outside. Irréelle’s heart leapt. It was Guy.

  But the watchman was too quick, and without letting go of Irréelle he placed one hand on Guy’s chest and shoved him backward into the shed. “Feisty, feisty. Now, stay put.”

  He pushed Irréelle ahead and then stepped in beside them. She was relieved to see that Lass was not there.

  The space, lit with one dim lamp, was much too small for all three of them, as it was lined with shelves and shovels and rakes, and stacked with headstones yet unmarked and a single wheelbarrow half filled with dirt. There was such a low ceiling, the watchman’s head nearly touched the beams above.

  His threatening form towered over them.

  He shut the door, the wide night sky abandoned on the other side. The one window was so smudged with grime, Irréelle could not catch even a glimpse of the moon.

  She backed into a corner. Her feet tangled among the shovels leaning against the wall, but their tips were stabbed right into the earth floor and kept them in place. She, on the other hand, fell to the ground.

  Guy glared at the watchman. With his too-short pants and his too-short sleeves, along with his skinny arms and legs, and filthy hair hanging forward in his eyes, Irréelle thought he looked more like a hungry gutter rat than a fierce boy who would stand up to the watchman. But he did it anyway, and she found herself mirroring his expression as best she could as she climbed to her feet.

  “Such strange little troublemakers,” the watchman said. “What were you up to? What were you looking for?”

  “Nothing.” Irréelle tried to hold her voice and her gaze steady.

  “I’m sure and certain it was something,” the watchman said. “But what?” When neither of them responded, he continued, “I despise secrets. So tell me, you will.” He cocked his head. “Either that, or here you will rot.”

  Irréelle shuddered.

  “You can’t keep us here.” Guy folded his arms. “You better let us out. We didn’t do anything wrong.”

  The watchman’s body blocked the door and he made no move to let them pass, but he said, “And let you out I shall. Eventually. You don’t imagine I intend to keep you here once the rot sets in? The smell would be ghastly.”

  Irréelle’s fingers curled around the handle of the closest shovel.

  The watchman looked from one of them to the other. “What would I do with the likes of you two? After all, I mind the dead, not the living.” His head swung back to Irréelle. “Although I do wonder exactly what you are.”

  A little monster, Irréelle thought.

  “You’re not a dead ghostly girl, are you?” Keeping his distance, he inspected every odd angle of her, as if that was exactly what he thought she might be.

  She did not want to see herself through his eyes. It mirrored too closely all the things Miss Vesper said about her and made her long for home, where she could bar the door and never have anyone recoil at the sight of her.

  “Leave her alone,” Guy said.

  A low chuckle rumbled in the watchman’s throat. “Tired of my hospitality already? Very well.” A blurred smile crossed his face. “Only tell me who I need to call to retrieve you. Unless…” He paused. “Unless you do belong to the graveyard after all.”

  Guy shut his mouth tight like it was stuck with glue. Irréelle glanced at him sidelong. She could practically feel him willing her silent. Even the Hand squirmed by the smallest degree in her pocket. She bit her lip, determined not to speak. They had not even found the unmarked grave yet, interrupted by the watchman just when they had narrowed in on its location.

  “Come, now,” the watchman said. His hand snaked out, adjusting the different items on the shelf by the door. He selected a pair of gardening shears. They clicked open and shut, sharp enough to cut through bone. Rust crisped off from the blades. “Don’t make me pry it out of you.”

  Still Guy said nothing, though his eyes latched on to the tool in the watchman’s hand. Irréelle’s throat went dry.

  Leaning forward, his shears clicking open and closed, open and closed, open and closed, the watchman cocked his eyebrow. “Or is there no one at all who knows you are here?”

  Guy edged away from the point of the shears, stumbled against the wheelbarrow, and fell backward into it atop the pile of dirt. His legs dangled over the side.

  The watchman moved no closer, but his shadow seemed to slide nearer to Guy. “Is there no one at all who cares what becomes of you?”

  “Of course there is,” Irréelle lied, but she had never wished more for it to be the truth.

  “And who would that be?” The watchman asked in such a way that made it clear he did not believe her. He touched the blade to his own cheek, pressing into the skin, not quite cutting into it, but leaving a long red line from the pressure. “Sharp blades always loosen hesitant tongues.”

  Irréelle could taste rusted metal in her mouth. Guy shook his head, but the words were already tumbling from between her lips. “Miss Arden Vesper.”

  “Ah.” The watchman twirled the shears around his finger. “I know that name.” He tapped the tool to his lips. “How do I know that name? Let me think, let me think.” His hand froze. “Ah, yes.”

  Irréelle tensed, afraid of what he might say at the same time she hung by a thread waiting for what he might reveal.

  “Miss Vesper died a tragic death, did she not?”

  “No,” Irréelle said. “She is very much alive.”

  “Nonsense,” said the watchman. “It is all coming back to me. I remember her funeral, for I’ve never missed a farewell in all my many years here. There was a strange sort of gentleman who stood well apart from all the other mourners, as if he alone shouldered the grief. And when they left, he stood there still. It was only later I found what he’d done to the oak, marking it as if the lovely stone I’d carved for her grave was not enough.”

  The watchman frowned. “It’s why I remember her name. That fellow should not have vandalized my tree. Just as you should not have trespassed in my cemetery.”

  “Did you hurt hi
m?” Irréelle could not stop herself from asking.

  “Mind your mouth.” The watchman slashed the shears through the air, and Irréelle reeled backward. She clamped her lips together so he could not snip off her tongue.

  “But no. No, I couldn’t say what became of the man. He never returned to the cemetery again. Neither when he was alive…” The watchman smiled. “Nor when he was dead.”

  22

  Punishment

  Irréelle’s breath caught. The watchman’s words ran through her head. She looked toward Guy, still sprawled in the wheelbarrow. He stared back at her as if the same thought had occurred to him too.

  If what the watchman said was true, then they might endlessly search the cemetery and never find N.M.H. He was not buried in the graveyard. All these years, Miss Vesper had sent her little monsters searching in entirely the wrong place. Maybe he rested much, much closer to home, for where else could he be if not here?

  “How curious it is that you claim to live with Miss Vesper when she’s been dead these many years. That you would lie to me, snatching a name from a tombstone without respect for the dead.” The watchman seethed. “I must think on a punishment worthy of your misdeeds.”

  He jangled the ring of keys, tempting them. “Dream all you want of escape, but without a skeleton key you will find no way out.”

  Then, like fog shifting, he slipped out of the shed and into the night.

  “Wait!” Guy cried.

  He shot up from the wheelbarrow, overturning it on his way to the door, which closed in his face. From the other side, the lock clicked into place. He pounded once against the wood and then stalked away. His eyes swept past Irréelle without looking at her.

  “Please don’t be upset that I gave him Miss Vesper’s name. He did not even believe me.” Irréelle had exposed their connection to Miss Vesper, endangering them both, but the watchman thought her admission a lie. “Just think of the information we gained.” She whispered in case the watchman was listening. “We still might be searching for N.M.H. in the cemetery. And he isn’t here.”