The Bone Carver

by Monique Snyman

  “You won’t tell anyone, right?”

  “It’s none of my business what you do. I just came in here to fix myself up.”

  “I mean about the almost-seizure.” Mercia’s brows pinch together. Her popularity would definitely take a nosedive if this became public knowledge. The cruel jokes would begin anew and then it’s bye-bye social life, adios Holland and Ashley, au revoir the perks of being one of Ridge Crest High’s elite.

  “Like I said, it’s none of my business.” Rachel makes her way to the farthest empty stall, hoping it will be enough of a hint for Mercia to leave her alone. As she reaches her destination, something on the floor catches her eye. A four inch figurine, bone white and expertly crafted, positioned in front of the faded porcelain toilet. “Odd.”

  “You know Greg’s paying us to act all gooey and doe-eyed with him to get on your nerves, right?” Mercia says.

  Two weeks ago, Mercia had been Greg’s pick-o’-the-week and it’d been a stellar performance from both parties. Since summer ended, Greg’s gone above and beyond to flaunt his romantic attachments by sucking face with a new girl every week or so.

  Not that Rachel really cares what Greg does or doesn’t do in his spare time anymore—she just never figured him to be Mercia’s type.

  “It’s not, like, serious or anything. It’s a bit creepy if you ask me, especially since he’s still obsessed with you. I mean, I’d be careful if I were you, but if you’re into that type of thing, so be it.”

  “I honestly don’t care what Greg’s up to. It was a mutual break-up.” Rachel picks up the weird totem, which resembles Mercia when she’s having a seizure a tad too much. “Hey, Mercia, did you drop this?” Rachel asks, exiting the stall.

  Mercia takes the figurine and blanches as she inspects the obscene carving. She turns it around in her hands again and again, before she looks up to meet Rachel’s gaze. A glower burns bright in her stormy eyes. “Is this some kind of sick joke?”

  “I literally just fou—”

  Mercia throws the figurine against the wall, shattering it into pieces. The shards ricochet across the bathroom.

  Rachel barely ducks in time to avoid one of the pieces hitting her squarely between the eyes. Whatever amicability there’d been between them has been obliterated, just like the creepy figurine.

  Speechless, Rachel watches as Mercia picks up her bag, turns on her heels, and storms from the bathroom. The door squeals shut, and an oversized, fading graffiti masterpiece proclaims HIGH SCHOOL SUX.

  “Preaching to the choir, here,” Rachel whispers, still unsure of how she’s gone from hero to zero in a matter of seconds.

  Two

  Hip2B2

  Red, ochre, and brown leaves dance across Griswold Road on a crisp autumn wind. The convoluted colors liven up the dreariness of the late afternoon but do nothing to alleviate Rachel’s mood. A chilly gust of wind nips at her exposed arms, whispering promises of the approaching cold. She pulls the sleeves of her shirt down and pushes her windswept hair out of her face. Her gaze moves toward the ACCESS PROHIBITED sign, where a splatter of the Night Weaver’s blood still dapples the faded words, staining the rusted metal edges black.

  Nobody in Shadow Grove ever talks about how children had gone missing this past year. Not a single person mentions the strange light show in the pitch black sky when Orion and the Night Weaver had battled it out. And while Sheriff Carter knows the children were kidnapped by grieving townsfolk—and offered as sacrifices to the Night Weaver in return for spending time with their departed loved ones—there have been no repercussions for anyone involved.

  Granted, if the sheriff doesn’t cover up Shadow Grove’s countless tragedies and scandals, the town council would certainly have done so.

  Rachel purses her lips as she tries not to listen to the faint melody coming from deep inside the forest. The sound is indistinctive, but has a familiarity to it she simply cannot place. Ever since Orion had gone after the Night Weaver, Rachel’s been hearing the seductive tune, and she has battled against the song’s allure for almost as long.

  “Oi, Rach.”

  Rachel snaps her attention to where the auburn-haired Scotsman walks across the lawn, approaching the porch with his hands pushed into his jacket pockets.

  “Yer daydreamin’ again,” Dougal says in a cheerful tone, but the worry in his ice-blue eyes is unmistakable.

  She shifts in the white wicker chair, uncomfortable after having been caught staring at the forest.

  The wood creaks as Dougal makes his way up the steps. “Ye all right then?”

  “Fine.” She drops her gaze to her hands, only to find her thumb’s cuticle raw after having picked at it throughout this horrible day.

  “I heard—”

  “Yeah,” she cuts him off before he can remind her of how badly she screwed up.

  “Did ye talk to yer ma?”

  Rachel shakes her head.

  “Greg?” Dougal asks.

  The muscles in her brow constrict into a frown. She looks up at Dougal. “Greg and I had some fun over the summer, but that’s all it was—fun. So why would I speak with Greg over matters that are none of his concern?”

  Ever since the football jocks took a liking to him, Dougal has preferred to spend his time with them. Girls have also taken notice of him, thanks to his tall, muscular physique and icy eyes. His distinctive brogue has faded, too, but not so much that he has lost all his exoticness.

  “Why’d you really come over?” Rachel asks.

  Dougal shrugs. “Ye looked lonely out here by yerself.”

  “I’m always by myself,” she mumbles.

  “Aye.” Dougal sighs.

  Rachel stands and walks to the porch’s railing, surveying the quiet, dense woodlands that lie beyond the ACCESS PROHIBITED sign. Nothing seems out of place in there. It’s as disturbingly silent as ever.

  Her gaze travels to the Fraser house. “Something’s wrong,” she says.

  “Are we talkin’ typical small town wrong or fair folk wrong?” Dougal asks.

  Rachel shrugs, not knowing how to explain the sudden dread in the pit of her stomach. It could be residual paranoia from the SATs? No. This is different. She reaches up to hold onto her umbrella pendant, making sure her tether to reality is still in place.

  Dougal walks up beside her, studying the area, seeming to gauge the validity of her feeling.

  “I should get Ziggy,” Rachel says, unable to shake the foreboding now crawling across her skin. She heads inside the house, walking with purpose toward the staircase. “Ziggy,” she calls out. Her thumb moves over the smooth surface of the pendant, which Orion had forged for her from the Ronamy Stone, an artifact that protects the wearer from Fae influence. Her thoughts churn with growing unease.

  The golden ball of Fae light bounces into view and stops on the staircase’s landing. It hovers in midair for a while before descending.

  “Took you long enough,” she says. Rachel reaches out to tickle the Fae light’s surface, and Ziggy shimmers in delight. She makes her way outside, where she finds Dougal still standing at the porch’s railing, now frowning. “See something?”

  “No, but I think I heard somethin’.”

  Rachel turns back to Ziggy. “Will you do a perimeter check for me, please?” The golden sphere responds by flying off the porch. Ziggy flits across the lawn in choppy movements, flying this way and that.

  “Och, I still can’t get used to the way ye treat yer ball o’ light,” Dougal mutters.

  “We’ve gone over this already. His name is Ziggy and I’d appreciate it if you stop calling him something else,” she says, crossing her arms.

  “Ye’re stranger than a platypus, ye know?”

  “Don’t start with me, Scotsman.”

  Ziggy moves swiftly around the lawn, zigging and zagging in search of whatever may be lurking about. The Fae light halts its progress when it closes in on the ACCESS PROHIBITED sign, hovers in place for a prolonged beat, before rushing across the road. She ho
lds her breath, hoping Ziggy will bypass the Fraser house, but the sphere flies straight toward the porch, knocking into the wooden door before rebounding.

  Dougal leaps over the porch railing and lands in the hydrangea bedding. His powerful legs push him forward, toward the rosemary hedges. He hurdles over the hedges, clears Griswold Road at record speed, and runs toward the Fraser house.

  “Nan,” he shouts, rushing to the front door.

  Rachel runs after him, pulling her cell phone out of her pocket as she takes the long way around.

  Dougal pulls the front door open and disappears inside the house.

  “Call an ambulance,” he cries from inside, the fear in his voice chilling her to the core.

  Rachel’s thumb moves over the screen.

  “Nine-one-one, what’s your emergency?” the female dispatcher answers after a single ring.

  Amy Gilligan, one of the few female deputies at the Sheriff’s Department, always gets stuck answering emergency calls. Rachel’s certain it’s because Sheriff Carter’s sexist, but he’s never publically been called out on his misogyny or bigotry.

  “Amy, this is Rachel Cleary. We need an ambulance sent to the Fraser house. Something’s happened to Mrs. Crens—”

  “Ma’am, I need a street address,” Amy interrupts her, sounding almost bored.

  “Seriously, Amy? You’ve lived in Shadow Grove your entire life, now you suddenly need a freaking street address spelled out for you? Why don’t I draw you a map while I’m at it? Shall I email it to your supervisor or—” Rachel takes a deep breath, calms herself, and rambles off the address.

  “I’ve dispatched an ambulance, ma’am. Stay on the line until they reach you,” Amy interrupts again with her unchanging tone.

  Rachel rushes up the porch steps and enters the house through the open front door.

  Dougal is on his knees beside Mrs. Crenshaw, who lies sprawled at the bottom of the staircase. Her face is twisted in pain, a few bruises bloom on her arms and legs.

  “She fell,” Dougal states the obvious in a childlike tone. His hands hover above his grandmother, as if he doesn’t know where to touch or how to make her pain dissipate. “Nan?” he says, voice cracking with emotion.

  Frozen in the doorway, Rachel can only stare at Mrs. Crenshaw—the closest thing she has to a grandmother.

  “Ma’am, what is the situation?” Amy’s voice is a monotonous murmur, unsuited to the dire circumstances. Why isn’t she freaking out? Mrs. Crenshaw, up until this point, has always been a firecracker. Nothing could keep her down, except for the occasional bout of arthritis. “Hello?”

  “It appears Mrs. Crenshaw’s taken a bad fall down the stairs,” Rachel says. She moves to kneel by Dougal’s side. “Mrs. Crenshaw? The ambulance is on its way. Hold on, okay.”

  Her fingertips brush against papery skin that is almost translucent with age as she pushes Mrs. Crenshaw’s white hair from her face. Seeing her like this—the same woman who once called herself a “drop of deadly poison”—is unbearable. Rachel’s emotions pummel down the wall of shock, threatening to unravel her from the inside out.

  Rachel stands and says, “I’ll go wait for the ambulance. Don’t move her.”

  “I’m not an idiot,” Dougal snaps, reverting to his thick accent.

  She ignores the retort and walks out of the house before she can lose her composure. He’s in shock, too, after all. On the porch, she clenches her trembling hands into fists and allows her mind to wander to other things—mundane things—because she can’t deal with the present. Maybe later she’ll figure out what to do about the SATs and Mrs. Crenshaw’s spill, but not now. Not here.

  The world doesn’t feel the way it should. It doesn’t seem right.

  Ziggy sidles up to her side and nudges her shoulder, begging for attention.

  The glowing ball floats at eye-level before moving an inch toward the front door, then back to her. Ziggy repeats the action, as if beckoning her back into the house.

  Rachel’s shoulders drop in defeat. “I know.”

  Ziggy weaves around in the air, repeatedly moving between Rachel and the front door.

  “What?”

  Ziggy doesn’t edge closer to the doorway, doesn’t enter until Rachel follows. Ziggy slips into the house as she nears the front door. Her gaze drops to where Dougal is holding Mrs. Crenshaw’s hand, tears running down his face. This isn’t a sight she’s prepared herself to witness, even if she knows it’s only natural for him to respond this way.

  Ziggy flies into her line of vision and blocks Rachel’s view, demanding her undivided attention.

  “Fine.” Her voice quivers with unshed tears.

  Ziggy skirts around the living room, flying directly for Mrs. Crenshaw’s armchair, and hangs above the side-table.

  Rachel makes her way around the furniture, careful to avoid Dougal and his fallen grandmother. The sirens blare as they near the end of Griswold Road, growing louder.

  “What is it?”

  The Fae light dips to the side-table, sinking slowly to extend the dramatic reveal. Her eyes narrow in annoyance, but Ziggy shoots away before she can chastise him. With Ziggy no longer in view, she spots the strange object sitting next to the TVs remote control and picks it up, both amazed and horrified by the intricate details that went into crafting the ivory depiction of Mrs. Crenshaw. Rachel lays the figurine flat on her palm. She raises her hand high enough to measure the resemblances more accurately, and allow herself to look between Mrs. Crenshaw and the totem.

  Just like Mercia this afternoon.

  Red lights penetrate the house through the lace curtains. “Hide yer will-o’-the-wisp,” Dougal says over his shoulder.

  Rachel pockets the totem. “Ziggy, go upstairs,” she says just as two EMTs, carrying their gear, enter Fraser house to tend to the injured, unconscious woman. Rachel doesn’t hear the exchange between Dougal and the medics, barely hears her own thoughts anymore. The disturbing implication of the ominous carving is enough to silence the world.

  “Rach,” Dougal screams, shaking her by her shoulders. She blinks and meets his icy blue gaze, eyes he’d inherited from his grandmother. “I’m goin’ with Nan,” he says.

  “Okay, I’ll pack an overnight bag for her and find you at the hospital in a bit,” Rachel says, her pragmatism kicking into gear. “Do you have your phone?”

  “Aye,” Dougal says, already moving away to where the EMTs are strapping his frail grandmother to a stretcher and stabilizing her blood pressure. “Phone yer ma, Rach. Tell her what happened.”

  The EMTs lift and carry his grandmother out of the house and toward the waiting ambulance, oozing professionalism as they set to work. Dougal climbs inside. He takes his grandmother’s hand in his own as the door shuts, before the ambulance races off to the hospital.

  “You can come out now,” she says loud enough for Ziggy to hear.

  The Fae light returns to the living room, his surface rippling various shades of gold.

  Rachel regards Ziggy, her only ally left at the end of Griswold Road, then looks back to the space Mrs. Crenshaw had occupied.

  “Ziggy, do you want to play a game?” Her gaze returns to the Fae light. Ziggy moves in choppy movements in front of her, conveying excitement. “Let me see you flash your light.”

  The Fae light burns brighter then dims.

  She smiles. “Okay, I’m going to ask you some questions. To answer me, you flash your light once for yes and twice for no. Do you understand?”

  Ziggy flashes once.

  “Good.” Rachel reaches up and tickles Ziggy’s surface. “First question: Was there a Fae in the house when Mrs. Crenshaw fell?”

  Ziggy flies off toward the side of the house. He flits back, rushes around the staircase’s bannister, and shoots up the stairs.

  “Ziggy?” she calls.

  Ziggy returns to his original position and flashes once, a clear answer to her question. Rachel releases a breath through her nose.

  “Is the Fae still here?”


  Almost instantly Ziggy flashes twice. No.

  “All right. Last question: Is this the work of another Miser Fae?”

  Ziggy hesitates, before finally flashing once.

  Rachel pulls her lips into a straight, thin line. “Are you sure?”

  Another hesitation before Ziggy’s flash answers yes.

  “Crap.”

  “Your grandmother’s shattered hip needs to be replaced,” Rachel’s mother, Jenny Cleary, says softly to Dougal as she takes his hand across the table. “She’ll be fine, though. It’s to be expected when someone reaches that age, so it’s just going to be a routine surgery.”

  Rachel watches Dougal while absently picking at her dinner. The mashed potatoes taste mealy for some reason and the peas are grayish. The steak is edible, even if Rachel would’ve liked it to not be quite as bloody. The meal tastes as an unappetizing as it looks. Nevertheless, she’s relatively sure everything on her plate is fit for human consumption.

  When Dougal doesn’t respond, her mother continues, “Nancy Crenshaw always bounces back. In the meantime, you’re staying with us. I’ve already notified your parents that they can reach you here.”

  Dougal stares at his untouched meal, a forlorn expression on display. There’s an uncharacteristic weariness to him. His shoulders are slumped, curved inward. His perpetual frown is accompanied by his downturned mouth, like he’s trying to search for answers to an unsolvable question. Why now? Why his grandmother? He’s definitely not the happy-go-lucky Scot Ridge Crest High’s come to know and love, and with good reason.

  “This weekend, the three of us are going to move your grandmother’s stuff into the downstairs bedroom. I’m not sure when she’ll be released from the hospital, but the last thing we need is to have her struggling up and down the stairs.”

  “Mrs. Crenshaw won’t like it if we mess with her setup,” Rachel says, chasing a gray pea into the pink-tinted mashed potatoes.

  “Well, Mrs. Crenshaw doesn’t have a say in the matter anymore.” Jenny spears the overdone steak on her own plate, grimacing. “Stop playing with your food, Rachel.”