The Bone Carver

by Monique Snyman

  “I’d hardly call this food,” Rachel mumbles to herself.

  “Mrs. Cleary, will ye mind if I—May I turn in early?” Dougal asks. Rachel has noticed, as has Dougal, that her mother doesn’t understand him at all when he goes full Scottish.

  “Sure,” she says, turning her attention back to Rachel. “Honey, will you show Dougal to the guestroom and give him an extra blanket? I think there’s a phantom breeze in there.”

  Rachel excuses herself, grateful to escape her plate, and gestures for Dougal to follow her. She leads him to the second story, down the long, winding hall, and toward the back of the house, where three guestrooms are located. The Silver Room, an airy bedroom with silver accents to break the otherwise clinical white décor, is the only room suitable for anyone to stay in.

  “Are you okay?” she asks.

  “Aye,” Dougal mutters, dejected.

  Rachel opens the built-in wardrobe and pulls out a white-and-gray striped blanket from the top shelf.

  “The bathroom’s through there.” Rachel points to a closed door on the opposite side of the room with her free hand, before she places the blanket on the bed. “Extra towels are under the sink.”

  “Do ye really think Nan’ll be all right?” he asks. Dougal takes a seat on the edge of the bed, the springs squealing in protest. Fear becomes apparent in his eyes.

  “I do,” she says. “Knowing your grandmother, I think she’ll come out stronger just to get on peoples’ nerves.”

  He responds by giving her an incredulous look, before he shrugs. “Prob’ly.”

  Rachel takes out the figurine she’s kept in her pocket. “I found this next to her chair,” she says, handing it over as she sits beside him.

  Dougal looks the totem over. “What’s it?”

  “I don’t know, but it’s the second one I’ve seen today, and both times were unpleasant.”

  His eyes move to meet her gaze. “Are ye thinkin’—?” He glances back to the figurine in his hand, studying the carving’s delicate details. It must’ve taken the artist a ridiculous amount of time to make. “I don’t know of any fair folk that leaves gifts for their victims.”

  “It could’ve been a warning?” she says, though deep down she doesn’t believe this. There’s something too ominous about the figurines—something she can’t quite put her finger on—that makes it malignant. Rachel stands again, and says, “Do you want Ziggy to keep you company tonight?”

  Dougal shakes his head.

  “Okay.” Rachel heads back to the doorway. “Goodnight.”

  “Night,” he says.

  She closes the door behind her and takes a moment to clear her mind. The last thing either of them needs is another wild goose chase around town in search of Fae. Rachel walks back to the staircase and descends slowly.

  “Nancy made me swear not to call Matthew, and Sophie lives in Scotland. What else could I do?” Jenny says to the unknown caller. There’s a long silence, before she continues in a whisper, “I really don’t have the strength to babysit two teenagers and a geriatric tyrant.”

  Rachel grinds her teeth as she slips into the dining room to clear the table. Cutlery clatters into plates and glasses tinkle together as she makes her way into the kitchen to wash the dishes.

  “Have you done your homework?” her mother shouts from the living room.

  “Yes,” she growls, plugging the drain and running the faucet to fill the sink. Rachel grabs the dishwashing soap, squirts a generous amount into the water, and watches the white bubbles grow beneath the steady downpour.

  “Did you give Dougal an extra blanket?” her mother asks, now standing somewhere close behind her.

  Still seething, the most she can get out is a grunt.

  “Okay, good.”

  Rachel looks over her shoulder, ready to argue.

  Her mother leans against the kitchen counter, scratching her brow.

  “What’s wrong?” Rachel asks, shutting off the water.

  “I have to drive to Bangor soon and look after your cousins for a while,” she says, before looking up. “Your aunt decided she needs a holiday. Can you believe it?”

  “How convenient.” Rachel waits until she’s turned back to the sink before she rolls her eyes. Somehow her mother always finds an excuse to run off when things at home aren’t to her liking. Her cousins, both older than Rachel, can’t live by themselves without constant supervision. “When are you going?”

  “I’ll probably have to drive through tomorrow morning.”

  Rachel scrubs the dishes hard beneath the water. “And when will you be back?”

  “In a week or so,” her mother says. A few beats of silence stretch between them before she blurts out an exasperated, “I can’t very well say no, Rachel. She’s my sister.”

  “I didn’t say anything to the contrary.”

  Her mother huffs in response. “I can feel you judging me from over there.”

  Rachel pulls her lips into a tight line as she focuses her anger on cleaning the dirty dishes, cutlery, and glasses. It’s not like she can do anything else. Her mom’s going to leave whether she wants her to or not, so what’s the point in even trying to get her to stay?

  “You’ll keep an eye on things, right?”

  “Don’t I always?” Rachel says, setting the dish on the drying rack.

  Another awkward extended silence, before her mother says, “Will you get Mrs. Crenshaw’s room ready for her? I’ll be back before she comes home, I’m sure, but—”

  “I will. Don’t worry.”

  The frustrated sigh is followed by a simple, “Thanks.”

  Rachel listens to the retreating footsteps. Her mother first moves back toward the living room, before she changes direction and makes her way upstairs. Rachel halts her relentless scrubbing of the dishes. There’s no use fighting against Jenny Cleary when her mind’s already been made up. She’s, after all, as stubborn as she is beautiful. Ask anyone in town.

  This time she’s not coming back. The thought pops into Rachel’s head from nowhere.

  After everything Jenny’s endured—becoming a widow at such a young age, having a mental breakdown and then keeping it from her only child, struggling to get by as a single parent, and the whole situation with the Night Weaver—Rachel doesn’t hold the need to distance herself from this godforsaken town against her mother. Heck, no one will even bat an eyelash if she hits the road and never looks back. The Night Weaver’s manipulation and influence over the summer is just the proverbial cherry on the cake.

  “Don’t be absurd,” she whispers to herself, finishing up with the dishes.

  She pulls the plug and watches the water swirl down the drain. Drying her hands with a dishtowel, she looks out of the kitchen window where the moonlight brightens up the otherwise dark backyard. It’s quiet out there—not creepy quiet, just nighttime quiet. Peaceful.

  It’s the calm before the storm.

  Three

  Chilled to the Marrow

  Long before the sun is up, Rachel awakens from an unseasonal chill. Still half-asleep and shivering, she wraps a blanket around her shoulders and stumbles out of bed. She exhales puffs of air, her extremities numb. With Ziggy bouncing along by her side, Rachel crosses her bedroom and opens the door. She exits into the hallway, tiptoeing to where the thermostat is located, and turns up the heat without paying close attention to her actions. She quickly retreats to her bedroom with Ziggy in tow, closes her bedroom door again, and dashes back to bed.

  “What are the chances of you being able to warm me up?” she whispers. The golden sphere bobs in place, before it slips back to its preferred locale—snuggled up beneath the covers next to her feet. “Thought so,” she says through chattering teeth.

  Rachel pulls the duvet up to her ears. She inhales cool air through her nostrils and exhales warm air into the space between her body and the blanket, hoping to get cozy that way. A few minutes pass, but the cold lingers. Groaning, she gets out of bed a second time to check on the window, fi
guring she might have forgotten to close it properly before she turned in.

  As Rachel pulls the curtains aside, Ziggy rolls out from underneath the covers and illuminates the interior of the bedroom. The golden glow confirms the window is shut fast. Not even a trickle of a breeze can get inside. She blinks a few times, lifting the fog in her mind so she can figure out why her bedroom is freezing.

  Ice forms on the edges of the glass and quickly freezes over the entire windowpane. Her heart thumps faster, while she moves her hand to the umbrella pendant.

  “Ziggy?” her voice quivers.

  The golden orb rushes to her side just as an unseen finger traces a line through the ice. The accompanying squeak as a second line is traced makes her forget all about the cold. A third line is traced, forming an H. She watches on, her palms sweating. Soon, the word HELP comes into existence. Rachel’s legs thaw enough for her to take a step closer, one hand still wrapped firmly around the pendant.

  Orion’s face suddenly flashes in the windowpane, mouth opening into a scream, eyes pleading.

  The alarm on her nightstand blares, startling her out of the inexplicably realistic nightmare. Her eyelids shoot open, and she stares at the white ceiling, heart still pounding. Rachel’s hair clings to her skin, while her body is tangled in the bedsheets. She brushes the hair out of her eyes, focusing on getting her breathing under control.

  “Rachel, you’re going to be late for school,” her mother shouts from the other side of the bedroom door. “Get up, get ready. This is not a drill.”

  “I’m up.” Rachel reaches over to hit the OFF switch on her alarm. When the clock stops its incessant noise, Ziggy rolls up from her feet and comes to rest on her pillow. “You should’ve woken me when you realized I was having a nightmare.”

  She pets the golden sphere, which glows brighter.

  “It’s too late to suck up to me now.”

  She shifts one leg off the edge of the bed and places a bare foot onto the purple-and-black geometric carpet. Rachel groans as she remembers her abysmal performance with the SATs, wondering if she’ll be able to broach the subject with her mother before she travels to Bangor. She pulls herself up and throws her other leg off the bed. It’s probably best to rip the Band-Aid off quickly, as painful as it may be.

  She rubs her temples and shifts her gaze toward the window. The curtains are drawn, unmoving. The image of Orion in peril is still fresh in her mind, renewing her fear of what might have befallen the missing Fae prince.

  “It was only a nightmare,” she whispers. “He’s probably living it up in the palace. Right, Ziggy?”

  Ziggy rolls onto her lap, before dimming ever so slightly.

  Her heart sinks. “One flash for yes, two flashes for no. Is he in trouble?”

  Ziggy doesn’t answer her—maybe because he doesn’t know either.

  Her fingers move to the umbrella pendant. She turns the pendant around between her fingers, and says, “Will you be able to find him if we cross into the Fae Realm?”

  This time there is no warm golden light to answer her question.

  “Rachel,” her mother cries out again.

  “I’m up, Mom,” Rachel barks back. She returns her attention to the sphere on her lap, whispering, “I need to get ready for school—”

  Two flashes signals the no. Ziggy floats up and weaves through the air, still flashing gold in timed intervals.

  Rachel gets out of bed and walks to her wardrobe. “I’m not going into the forest without a plan, Zigs. Besides, Orion made me promise not to follow him and you can’t take me to him even if I did.”

  The Fae light zips through the air like an aggravated wasp, weaving in and out of her line of vision. It flashes once, dims. Flashes once more.

  “Settle down.”

  Rachel pulls out a tank top, a cute sweater, and a pair of jeans to wear for the day. She inadvertently scans the interior of her wardrobe, taking inventory of what lies on the shelves and hangs from the railing. She has no idea what Orthega’s fashions are like. Surely nothing she has lying around in her closet will be suitable. Maybe last year’s Halloween costume can be repurposed for a journey into the Fae Realm? She touches the red cloak with the silky black lining. She could wear her Little Red Riding Hood costume inside-out if need be, and hide whatever clothes she wears underneath. Aside from the cloak, though, she’s at a loss.

  When Rachel’s done dressing, she grabs her sling bag and opens her bedroom door.

  Dougal comes down the hallway, but he doesn’t look like he’s in the mood for school. The bags under his eyes are pronounced, his hair is tousled, and he keeps yawning.

  “Ye look like ye’ve seen better days,” Dougal says as they meet at the staircase landing.

  “Ditto,” she says. Together, they descend the stairs. “Are you sure you should go to school today?”

  “I’m not goin’ to sit around here and count my toes the whole day,” he says.

  “It’s better than listening to lectures on things we’ll probably never use in the future, though.”

  “Aye, but I don’t like being alone all the time, either.”

  When they reach the bottom of the staircase, Rachel notices her mother rushing for the front door, holding her eyeliner pencil and lipstick in one hand and grabbing her coat with the other. She looks up to see them standing near the staircase and sighs in relief.

  “There’s lunch money on the kitchen counter, pizza money is on the microwave, and I’ll pay some extra cash into your account so you can buy groceries for the week.” Her mother sounds out of breath. It’s like she can’t get out of Shadow Grove fast enough. “Don’t let me hear about you two holding parties while I’m gone.”

  “Yer leavin’, Mrs. Cleary?” Dougal asks with a hint of surprise.

  “Yes, dear.” She looks at her wristwatch. “My sister called me last night—”

  “I’ll fill Dougal in on the way to school,” Rachel cuts her off. “Bye, Mom. Love you.”

  “Remember to get Mrs. Crenshaw’s room ready tomorrow.” She rushes out of the front door, leaving an annoyed Rachel and dumbfounded Dougal behind.

  “I hope nothin’s wrong with yer aunt.” Dougal finally breaks his silence as they walk to the kitchen to find something to eat.

  “Nothing’s wrong. My mom just looks for reasons to bail when things get inconvenient at home.” Rachel grabs a couple of bananas from the fruit bowl on the kitchen counter and finds some travel-sized yogurt tubs in the fridge. She hands the breakfast-to-go to Dougal, who stares at the banana and yogurt. “It’s the breakfast of champions in this house.”

  “Ye sure we shouldn’t go through the drive-thru on the way to school?”

  “And risk being tardy?”

  Dougal scoffs at her reason.

  “Sure, fine. Whatever.” Rachel leads him into the living room.

  “Do ye wanna skip school today?” he asks, stuffing his breakfast into his backpack.

  “Can’t,” Rachel says. “Fridays are Mr. Davenport’s weekly test days, because clearly he has nothing better to do with his time.”

  She opens the front door and exits the house with Dougal following close behind. They don’t speak on their way to her car, but he does raise an eyebrow as he peers across the roof of her Hyundai i10.

  “I had a nightmare last night,” she says, opening the driver’s door.

  “About?”

  “Orion.” Rachel climbs into the car and Dougal slips into the passenger seat. She continues with a vague retelling of the nightmare, telling him about how real it felt. “I think he’s in trouble.”

  Dougal sighs heavily.

  She glances at him from underneath her eyelashes and clicks her seatbelt into place. “What?”

  “Rach, he explicitly told ye not to go after him. Remember?”

  “I remember.” Rachel turns the key in the ignition, and the engine whirrs to life.

  “I can’t go with ye. At least, not while Nan’s in the hospital,” he says.

 
; She reverses out of the driveway. “I know,” she says.

  “And ye still wanna go into the Fae Realm? By yerself?” Dougal’s frustration leeches into his voice. When she doesn’t contradict him, he says, “Yer a damn fool, Rachel Cleary.”

  Rachel bites back a cutting remark of her own. “Are you done mothering me yet?”

  “No. I have a few choice words left on the matter,” he retorts.

  “Have at it then. Get it all off your chest now, because once I get out of this car, we’re not getting into this again,” she says. When Dougal doesn’t respond, she shifts her gaze away from the road to look at him. “Well? I’m waiting.”

  Dougal crosses his arms and shakes his head. “What’s the point? Ye have already made up yer mind.”

  Rachel turns her attention back to the road. “Actually, I never said I’m going. You just assumed I am.”

  When they near the Eerie Creek Bridge, Dougal rolls his eyes. “Do ye even know where Orion is?”

  “I’m sure Ziggy will figure it out if we were to go, which I haven’t decided on yet.”

  “Yer gonna get yerself killed because of that oversized lightbulb, and I will become the Sheriff’s prime suspect.” Dougal pushes his hand through his hair, his usually pale complexion already reddening as his blood pressure spikes.

  “If I go, which I doubt I’ll be doing, I’m already coming up with a way to explain my disappearance in case I don’t return. Stop worrying,” Rachel says.

  “I don’t like this one bit.” Dougal continues grumbling in Gaelic, much to Rachel’s dismay.

  When he’s let off enough steam, he sulks for the remainder of the journey to Ridge Crest High, situated on the other side of the moderately sized New England town. She takes the backroads today, driving through the suburban areas in order to avoid the traffic on Main Road, but the scenic route doesn’t improve his sour mood. Even his takeout breakfast isn’t enough to turn him amicable.

  Rachel expects him to jump out of the car as soon as she pulls into a parking space in front of the school, but Dougal surprises her by staying put.

  He calmly gets out after she’s pulled the key from the ignition, waits until she’s retrieved her bag and locked the doors with the fob key, and walks her up to the entrance. Still, his annoyance doesn’t dissipate. It rolls off him in waves, crashing into her—and anyone else who dares to get close to the Scotsman—with a tsunami’s strength.