The Bone Flute

by Patricia Bow

  She tried to imagine what sort of gift you would send across such a chasm. It would have to be something unique. What would I send if I were Gilda? Camrose wondered. The map to a lost island. A box of jewels. A bottle of moondust.

  She pulled the outer wrapping off and dropped it on the desk. The package sat there looking neat and mysterious.

  TO MY GREAT-GRANDDAUGHTER

  CAMROSE JANE ON HER 12THBIRTHDAY

  was inked across it in thick black capitals. Under that,

  NOT TO BE OPENED BY ANYONE ELSE3

  with two lines scored underneath so fiercely they bit through the paper.

  “Imagine waiting all those years without opening it! How could they stand the suspense?” She felt a little sad because her mother, who died when she was two, would never know what was in it.

  Stop stalling! Camrose told herself.

  She took a deep breath, ripped a layer of sticky tape off one end of the parcel, and peeled off the paper. Inside was a hard, reddish-brown cardboard box with Tabac Havane Havana Tobacco printed on the lid. Tueros, it said. Cigares 25 Cigars.

  “Cigars?”

  Camrose flipped up the lid. Inside was what looked like a letter, and … She tipped it out, shook the box, and looked at the bottom. And nothing. Only a letter.

  But still … word from the dead. All right! She sat down and unfolded the letter. There were three pages, all covered with that stern black handwriting. She smoothed them on the desk.

  My dear Camrose, she read. I’m sorry I can’t be there to explain things to you in person … Her lips moved silently for a few seconds.

  Across the room, the door creaked open an inch. Camrose slapped the letter face down on the desk, in case it was Bronwyn sticking her nose in. But Bronwyn didn’t appear.

  “Darn door.” Camrose got up and closed it, then returned to the desk. As she reached for the letter, the door inched open again.

  “Bron?” She went and stood in the doorway. The dim upstairs hall was deserted. From downstairs came the crackle of canned laughter from a TV show. It sounded very far away.

  Up here, in the quiet, you could hear the cricks and ticks of the old house as it contracted in the cool of the night. Sounded almost like stealthy footsteps, if you let your imagi–nation run wild.

  Something gleamed in the stairwell beyond the banister rail–ing. A nail head, maybe. It looked like an eye, watching her.

  She stepped back into her room and closed the door firmly. Then she snatched up the pages of the letter and folded them.

  “Can’t keep this to myself!”

  What she really meant, and knew it, was, Don’t want to be alone. Not now, not here.

  3

  Word from the dead

  Camrose pulled on shorts, shoved her feet into sandals and wedged the folded letter into her back pocket.

  The window was open as wide as it would go. Pushing up the two hooks that held the screen to the window frame, she lifted it out, laid it flat on the asphalt shingle roof outside and climbed out herself.

  Her room was at the back of the house, overlooking a long shed where the lawnmower and gardening tools and bicycles were stored. To the right of her window was Dad’s, now dark. On that side of the shed stood a huge old chestnut tree. One limb snaked over the shed roof, with another, smaller branch reaching out about six feet above it.

  Steadying herself with one hand on the branch above her head, she walked quickly along the lower limb to the trunk. On a quiet night like this, the tree was as solid as a house. More solid than our house, she thought. Only the great tent of leaves stirred, with a sound like rain.

  A rope lay coiled in a hole in the trunk at the height of her head, just above a limb on the side away from the house. She pulled it out and let it uncoil to the ground. The top end was securely tied to the limb, and triple knots twice as big as her fist ran down the length of it.

  She had a good grip on the rope and was feeling downward with one foot when something scrambled up the other side of the tree, something big, with claws that scraped the bark. She yelped and nearly let go.

  Leaves thrashed above her head. A triangular face poked through and black eyes in a black mask glittered down at her. She laughed, and her heart stopped thumping. The raccoon chittered furiously.

  “Take it easy! I won’t bother you.”

  It ducked back up. Camrose lowered herself down the rope to the ground. It was an easy dash across the lawn, a scramble to the top of the fence and over, landing with a thud on the grass on the other side. Detour around the patch of tomato plants, climb to the top of the lean-to that sheltered the Shoemakers’ firewood, and from there to the roof of a shed identical to the one on the Ferguson house.

  Two squares of yellow light splashed across the roof. Mark’s was the nearest. She scratched on the screen. Mark, who was dressed now in shorts and a T-shirt, came to the window with a colorful brochure in his hands.

  “What’s that?”

  He turned it around and held it out.

  WIZARD COMPUTER CAMP

  HAVE FUN AND LEARN HOW TO PROGRAM.

  “My parents want me to learn something useful this summer instead of hanging around Uncle Wes’s wood shop.”

  “What’s wrong with your Uncle Wes? I like him.”

  “So do I. But I guess they’re afraid if I hang around him too much I’ll turn out like him.”

  “What’s wrong with that?”

  “He works with his hands. They want me to become a respect–ed professional.” He looked at his own hands regretfully.

  “Why don’t you just tell them what you really want to do?”

  “I would, if I knew what that was.”

  “Anyway, I’ve got something to tell you. Look at this! It’s a letter from Gilda.” She pulled it from her pocket and waved it.

  “And Mark, listen! She says I’m an heiress!”

  “No kidding.”

  “That means she left me something special!”

  “I know that. But what?”

  “Get out here and let’s find out.”

  Mark unhooked the screen from his window, climbed out and placed the screen against the window frame. They sat side by side on the roof. Camrose unfolded the letter and held it up to catch the light from the window.

  “My dear Camrose,” she read aloud. “I’m sorry I can’t be there to explain things to you in person. I have learned from a reliable source that my time is nearly over. Luckily, this same source has told me that your time will soon begin. And so—this letter. Now that you’re twelve years old, you have become an heiress. See?”

  “Well, go on.”

  “She says, Of course you want to know what you’ve inherited. Of course. It is something very old and very precious—Cool! —an heirloom of our house, though only a few members of our family have ever known of it. And yet it is not yours at all.” She stopped and frowned at Mark. “Not mine? This sounds weird.”

  “Want me to read it for you?” He reached for the letter. She pushed him away.

  “No, no. She says, You are simply its Keeper. When the rightful claimant arrives, you must surrender it. Until that happens, you may be in danger.”

  She put the letter down flat on the shingles. “This has got to be a joke.”

  “Either that or crazy.”

  “So this is my message from across the chasm. Loony tunes.”

  “Chasm?”

  “Just a stupid idea of mine. I’ll read fast through the rest.” She squared her shoulders and flexed her fingers and then picked up the letter and started cramming out the words. “Be very careful. It may be hard to know which of the two is the right one. Seventy-seven years ago, when I was your age and had just learned I was Keeper, I made the wrong decision. It was a terrible mistake, and because of it, everyone I loved was destroyed. But I hadn’t lost the heirloom. I hid it—hid it so well, in fact, that you may have some trouble recovering it. Here is how you must go about it. At twilight, go to the …”

  She paus
ed to shuffle the first page to the back. As she raised the letter again to the light, Mark raised a hand. “Wait.”

  “What is it?”

  “Thought I heard something in the yard.”

  They listened. For half a minute there was nothing. No cricket song, no bird cry, no leaf stir, no sound except the distant purr of traffic on Highway 17.

  That in itself was strange. Usually you could hear lots of noise at night. A radio, a dog barking, people barbecuing in their backyards, somebody yelling at her kids to get in here right now!

  Nothing. For a moment, not even traffic.

  The chestnut tree broke the spell. It stirred, then swayed with a long, inhaling sound. Camrose relaxed.

  “Can’t be too careful. I’ve heard there are some strange people in town these da—”

  Quick as that, the wind swooped out of the dark and slapped the letter out of her hand. The pages blew up over their heads, skimmed the roof of the house and were gone.

  4

  Terence Castle

  “Gilda’s letter!” Camrose was slithering from the shed roof to the lean-to almost before the words were out. Mark was right behind her. They raced around the house, across the lawn and onto the sidewalk.

  Two scraps of white lay flat in the middle of Stone Road. The wind gusted again, skipping the pages along. Camrose galloped after them, nearly cartwheeled off the curb, caught herself and sprinted on. She nabbed one page in midair.

  Another page was fluttering against a tree trunk across the street. “Quick!” Camrose screamed. Mark was within arm’s length and reaching. It grazed his fingertips and flirted away.

  Next moment a man walked briskly around the curve of the street. His hand shot up and snagged the page from the air above his head. Camrose ran up to him, panting.

  “Th is what you’re chasing?” He glanced at it in the light from the street lamp, then held it out.

  “Yes, thanks.” She took the page and stuff ed it into her shorts pocket with the other. Mark came up and stood beside her.

  The man grinned down at them. He was young, she saw now. His teeth were very white, his skin very tan. He wore a gleaming red leather jacket and had a backpack slung over one shoulder.

  “Another page flew by me back there.” He waved back at the curve of the street. “I don’t think you’ll catch it tonight.”

  Doors were opening left and right along the street. Mark glanced back over his shoulder. “Oh-oh, there’s my mother. I better go back in.”

  “Camrose!” Bronwyn snarled behind them. “What’s all the yelling? What are you doing out here?”

  “Looking for something.”

  “We’ll never find it tonight.” Mark backed toward the crisp footsteps clipping down his front walk. “We’ll look tomorrow, first thing, okay?” He turned and jogged away.

  “I’ll help look,” said the stranger.

  “And who’re you?” Bronwyn demanded.

  “You really don’t remember? Well, it’s been a while. Years. I’m your cousin Terence. One R.”

  “Um … It rings a bell, but … ”

  “Terence Castle? Your Aunt Alicia’s boy?”

  “Oh, that Terence! From New York!”

  He laughed. “Yes, that Terence. And you’re Bronwyn, and you must be little Camrose. Only not so little anymore.”

  Camrose didn’t think she’d ever met him. It occurred to her that it was odd that she couldn’t remember if she had or not because he looked like the kind of person you wouldn’t forget. She did recall her father talking to Aunt Alicia on the phone one day after dinner, about a year ago. “Um, Terence?”

  He tilted his head.

  “Aren’t you the one who went on a trip around the world?” There was more to it than that, something dramatic had happened to him, but the details escaped her. Must be tired, she thought.

  “The very same.” He laughed at her, but in a way that made her feel they were sharing a joke. To Bronwyn he said, “Uncle Ian invited me to drop in any time I happened to be near Lynx Landing, so here I am.”

  “Um …” Bronwyn scrubbed her hands through her hair, making it stand up in tufts. “Thing is, Dad isn’t here right now.”

  “Oh. Well …” He dumped his backpack on the ground, unzipped a side pocket and rummaged through it. “Got the note here somewhere … Aha!” He stood up and held out a postcard.

  Peering over Bronwyn’s arm, Camrose saw a picture of Lynx Landing’s town hall, with its silly brick turrets, on one side of the postcard. On the other was what certainly looked like Dad’s handwriting, and he was definitely inviting Terence to stay.

  Bronwyn handed it back to him. Even in this light you could see she was red with embarrassment. Imagine making your own cousin prove who he was! But after all, you couldn’t let just anybody into the house.

  Bronwyn waved toward the house. “Um, please come inside. I guess we can put you in Dad’s room.”

  “If you’re sure I won’t be any trouble.” Terence swung the backpack onto his shoulder. “And I meant what I said just now,” he said to Camrose. “In the morning I’ll help you find that third page, if we have to turn this town inside out for it.”

  Something in what he said startled her. Then she yawned and rubbed her bare arms, and the odd thing, whatever it was, slid down into the depths of her tired mind and was lost.

  Oh, but Terence could tell a story. Blink, and she was clinging to the side of a fantastic mountain pinnacle in China, the rock gritty under her fingertips and the wind whipping her hair into her eyes. Far below a river twisted like a dragon.

  Blink, and she was darting across pavement choked with hooting cars, hemmed in by towers of gilded glass that speared up into a snowy sky. The shop windows were full of things that glittered, and every sign was in five languages.

  Blink, and the air was heavy with cloves and cinnamon, dust and heat, and on every side rose stacks of carpets, blue-red-purple, fringed with creamy silk. The sun painted the white stones gold and the shadows inky black.

  Blink. The clock on the kitchen wall said ten to midnight. They were still sitting around the table with empty pop cans and torn chip bags in front of them. Bronwyn was leaning forward on her elbows, her eyes wide and shining.

  Camrose was pretty sure she’d been gazing at Terence the same way and probably looking just as stupid.

  She sat up and looked around, seeing the kitchen with a stranger’s eyes. She’d never realized before how shabby it was.

  The white paint on the cupboard doors was scratched, the linoleum was worn through to bare wood in front of the sink, the fridge door was bristling with take-out pizza coupons and shopping notes stuck on with advertising magnets.

  Everything looked tattered and dull by comparison with Terence, with his gleaming dark hair, his eyes the blue-violet of hyacinths, his shining white teeth. He was sleek as a cat and twice as handsome.

  “Except for that jacket. That’s just plain ugly.”

  Terence smiled at her and Bronwyn frowned. She had spoken the thought out loud!

  But it was ugly. The leather was the dark red of not-very-fresh raw beef, and it looked unpleasantly soft. Rivets winked all over it and steel zippers grinned. A ridge of stiff reddish-brown fur ran along the seams where the shoulders met the sleeves, and another ridge of fur ran down the back. Looking at it made her skin crawl. She closed her eyes.

  From a distance someone said, “She’s nearly asleep in her chair. It’s getting late.”

  “Oh, right. Sorry I kept you up so late, Terry.”

  “Terence. Never Terry.” That was sharp. Camrose opened her eyes.

  “Sorry!” Bronwyn stammered. (That wasn’t like Bronwyn, Camrose thought.) “I … I guess you’ll want to know where Dad’s room is and the bathroom and all that.”

  She led the way up the creaking stairs. Terence followed. Camrose stumbled at the end of the procession. When she opened the door to her room she leaped back, suddenly wide awake. A mosquito zinged past her ear.

&nbs
p; “Camrose, you idiot!” Bronwyn yelled. “You left your screen off!”

  Camrose slammed the door, then opened it a crack and peered in. Bugs were everywhere. Moths mobbed the ceiling light and taxied up the walls. Beetles of several varieties barged in and out the open window. The air was loud with the whine of mosquitoes.

  “Oh, no!” She slapped at her arm. “I’ll never sleep!”

  “Well, go close that window, for g—”

  “Not yet!” Terence was laughing quietly behind them.

  “There’s a cure for this.”

  He reached past them and pushed the door all the way open. Then he whistled. Softly at first, a sweet sound, then skimming up to a high, piercing note, and then higher still. Camrose clapped her hands to her ears and screwed her eyes shut to block out the sound. It cut deep into her head, quiv–ered there, and then, just when she couldn’t bear it any longer, was gone.

  When she opened her eyes the mosquitoes and beetles and moths were streaming out through the window. In seconds the room was clear. Camrose dashed to pull the screen up and slip the hooks into place.

  “That was so cool!” Bronwyn’s eyes were falling out of her head. “How did you do that?”

  “Little trick I learned in Tibet. Folks there call it magic, but really there’s no mystery about it. Insects can’t stand the pitch of that particular note.” He smiled at Camrose. “I’ll teach you how to do it, if you like.”

  “I don’t know.” She backed away a step.

  “Scared? It’s not really magic, you know.”

  “I know that! And of course I’m not scared!”

  He laughed as she shut the door, and this time she felt he was laughing at her, not with her. It clicked open, as usual, and she shut it again.

  Too tired even to yawn, she sat on the edge of her bed and kicked off her sandals. Pawed at the bedside lamp until it switched off. Slumped sideways, curled up, and fell asleep on top of the white chenille coverlet.

  Camrose dreamed of wandering lost through dark streets. It was still dark when she woke. Unlike her usual slow waken–ing, clinging to dreams, she snapped wide awake with the sure and certain knowledge that she was not alone in her room. Someone was standing there watching her.