Harvey says that drawing down the stories for the oldies is important. He says it’s like I’m making the oldies their very own blanket to wrap themselves up in and keep them warm and safe. Even though I’m using bits of paper with stuff on one side and it’s too hot here to need a blanket, I get what he means. It doesn’t matter that the scraps of memories just get put on scraps of paper to match. Every little scrap joins up to every other little scrap. Every time they tell a story, those words make those joinings-up bigger and louder and stronger, so that soon everyone will see and hear the way the whole world is joined up together by millions of tiny scraps. One day everything will be covered in one gigantic blanket big enough to warm everyone. A blanket full of every story there ever was, and strong enough for every single person to hear.
I tried to explain that to Queeny today. But when Queeny comes into the tent, she’s already angry. She slumps down onto the bed and knocks me so the line I’m drawing goes all wonky, but I don’t say a word. I’m not stupid. I know a Queeny mood when I see one.
“You bloody well told, didn’t you?”
I have no idea what Queeny is talking about. When I don’t answer, Queeny grabs my picture. “You told bloody Harvey, didn’t you? You couldn’t just keep your stupid, big, fat mouth shut, could you? And now everything is ruined!”
I grab at the picture. “I need that.” I keep my voice nice and calm, just like Maá told me to when Queeny gets in one of her moods. “There’s no good in poking snakes, né ?” That’s what Maá used to say.
“Yeah, well, we needed that camera, and now Harvey has it, all because of you. Harvey said we were lucky it was him who found it because the other Jackets wouldn’t just take it and forget. But I know it was you. At least what I’m doing is real,” she hisses, her teeth clenched tight so the words turn angry coming out of her mouth, and she scrunches my drawing onto the ground.
I mean to tell her that the drawing is for one of the oldies, and that for them it is real. But instead, everything comes falling out of my mouth. Everything I wanted to keep for myself.
“This is real. It’s not a story. It’s a drawing for Jimmie. She’s real. She’s come in from Outside. You think you’re so good, but Jimmie isn’t scared of anything. She just walked right in here from the shadows, with a whole book of her maá’s and a pet rat called Raticus, and a brother called Jonah, and if she keeps going to school, she’s going to get a pair of soccer cleats—”
By the time I’m finished saying everything I didn’t want to tell, I’m all out of breath.
From my pocket the duck says, “She’s right. You do have a big mouth.”
Queeny isn’t even listening. I guess all she can hear are the fireworks in her head. I guess the noise is so fierce that she can’t hear any of what I’m saying. She looks at me then and gets down low so she knows I’m listening and understanding. The angry on her face puffs out like smoke clouds from a cigarette and burns as hot as the sun.
“Just shut up! Enough with your bloody stories!” she screams, the words falling like a knife in my ears.
And she’s yelling and ripping up my picture for Jimmie. Then she’s into the rest of my pictures, ripping them all out in chunks and flinging them out of the tent and into the wind. She’s stomping on the ones that have fallen on the ground until they are all ripped and covered in dirt. And as she’s yelling and ripping and stomping, the tears are running hard and fast down her face and mixing with the dirt so that soon the pictures are damp and gritty as well.
I stop trying to save them.
Her yelling crashes on my head and bursts through to my ears even with my hands covering them and squeezing so hard I think my head might crack. She’s still yelling when I realize I’m banging my head on the ground, whumping just like the new boy, which I haven’t done for a long time. When I was smaller I used to whump all the time, trying to thump out my thoughts. That made Maá upset though, so I had to stop.
There’s no use poking snakes, né ? So I get up as calm as can be and turn to Queeny. “I didn’t tell Harvey about your stupid camera. I didn’t tell anyone. I wouldn’t do that to Eli. I wouldn’t do that to you either.”
I run out of the tent and walk the fences until my legs stop buzzing and my head stops hurting so much. Somehow I’ve ended up in Jimmie’s and my corner. I close my eyes and pretend that I’m not being yelled at by my only sister, that Maá isn’t sleeping all the time, that Eli is back in Family with me, that the men aren’t sewing their lips together, that the camp is just the same as it always was. I pretend that the angry-sad sick feeling has gone away and everyone is back to being happy and bored instead of angry and sad.
I pretend that Someday everything will be different. Just not today, is all.
From our corner I can look through the branches of the bush and see the squeezeway and I know behind there is the spiky shrub and the fence where I just have to walk sixteen steps. Just sixteen steps, is all.
I remember how Eli and I used to come here sometimes before Eli grew too tall to fit without those branches poking into him. All those times we never knew how close we were to getting Outside. I wish Eli was waiting for me by the fence now. But he’s not. He’s over by the men on their hunger strike. There’s eleven of them now with their lips sewn together. One had to be taken to Ford because he passed out and they couldn’t get him to wake up. The Jackets cut his lips open and tried to pour water down his throat, but he kept choking on it. Harvey told me they were taking him to Ford so they could give him some water and food in a special tube in his arm, was all, and that he’d be fine, I’d see.
I dig my hands down into the dirt, pushing hard against my nails and making them ache so that my brain stops going on about Queeny and Eli and the men and starts on about the ache instead.
Under the bush, the dirt is all soft and a different color. I guess that must be from where Jimmie sticks her toes under the dirt to feel the earth. Without really thinking on it, my fingers start digging at that soft dirt too. There’s something there though, under that dirt. Something hard. And maybe this digging isn’t from Jimmie at all. Maybe there’s someone else who uses this corner. Maybe there’s someone else who thinks this corner is theirs as much as Jimmie and I reckon it’s ours.
I think of my treasures hidden in the tent under Maá’s clothes and wonder if maybe I’m finding someone else’s treasure. For a moment, I think maybe I should leave it well enough alone. But I don’t. I let my fingers grip around that treasure and pull it out from under the bush.
If it is a treasure, it isn’t a very good one. Good treasures make people feel good and happy. Good treasures bring stories and memories and imaginings.
This treasure isn’t good. This treasure makes my heart stop beating and my breath catch in my throat and my hands start shaking at the stories and imaginings it’s telling. This treasure couldn’t bring anyone happiness.
It’s a knife, so sharp it hurts my eyes just looking at it.
I sit and stare at the knife in the soft dirt until the dinner bell has come and gone and the curfew bell starts up. I take off my shirt and wrap the knife inside.
I wonder whose knife it is. I wonder where they got it. I wonder if Harvey knows. But maybe telling would get someone in trouble. Maybe telling would get someone sent back to where they came from, which is the worst thing that can happen in here. Worse than Beta. Worse than water shortages or food shortages. Worse than sewing your lips together. Worse than staying in here your whole life and never knowing when you’ll walk through those fences, if ever.
Queeny says nothing is worse than that. Queeny says that not having a future is the worst thing of all, worse even than being sent back. But I’ve seen what people do when they’re told they are being sent back. Maybe that’s what this knife is for.
All I can think is that a treasure like this can only cause trouble.
Later, I’ll find the perfect place to bury that knife. A place where no one will accidentally dig in the soft dirt and find i
t.
If a treasure like that stays lost, then no one can get hurt.
That’s what I figure.
Jimmie didn’t win the soccer cleats. She missed the last day. Her dad reckons there’s a bit of a flu going about. “One of us was bound to get it, hey, pet?” he said. “Best not go into school today, love. I’ll bring you up some tea.”
Jimmie doesn’t mind being sick, as long as her dad is there to look after her.
When he comes up the stairs in the evening, he’s carrying a present, all wrapped up and everything. “I was saving it for your birthday. But I thought you could do with a bit of cheering up. A sick present, like you used to get when you were little, hey?”
Jimmie smiles. Her eyes feel scratchy and the light feels too bright coming in the window, but she’s never too sick for a present. She might even be feeling a bit better already.
Jimmie tears the paper apart. Inside is a blanket. Dark blue with black birds flying across it.
“It reminded me of…” Her dad doesn’t say it, but Jimmie agrees. It reminds her of the Bone Sparrow too.
“I don’t want you to get rid of the other one. I know your mum got you that. You don’t even have to use this one. I just thought that maybe you’d be wanting another one now. You’re so grown-up now. So here it is. If you want it.”
Jimmie holds the blanket in her arms and lays it across her yellow monkey blanket, the one from when she was six. “I love it, Dad. Thanks.” And she really does.
“I’ve got something else to tell you too. I’ve got a new job, love.” Her dad is smiling, but Jimmie’s head starts to pound. She can already feel the tears blurring in her eyes. She doesn’t want to move. She can’t. They can’t leave her mum here. She can’t leave Subhi.
“Please don’t, Dad.” Her voice feels all hot in her throat. “I don’t want to move again. You promised.”
Her dad laughs and brushes back the hair from her forehead. “Nah, my lovely. We aren’t going anywhere. I’ve got a job working the grounds at your school. I hope you don’t mind. Having your old dad come to school with you every day. At least it means you won’t need to bug Jonah to get off his lazy butt to drive you there.”
Jimmie imagines going to school with her dad. Driving with him for forty-five minutes each way, just her and her dad. She can’t think of anything she’d like better.
Jimmie snuggles up into him. She wants to stay like this forever. It doesn’t matter that she’s sick because her dad is right here with her and that’s all she needs.
But her dad moves her slowly off his lap. “This is my last shift, love. Last couple of days, and then I’ll be home for good. Don’t worry, Jonah should be here any minute now. He’ll look after you. You’ll be feeling good as new tomorrow.”
But Jimmie doesn’t want Jonah. She wants her dad. She tries to concentrate on this being his last shift. The last time he’ll have to leave. But why can’t he stay with her? She’s sick, isn’t she? Why can’t he just tell them no?
When her dad leaves, something in Jimmie breaks. Her brain feels too sore and tired to hold on to the good, and she feels like she’s falling into a deep, dark hole. “It’s his last shift,” she says out loud. “I’ll be okay. Jonah will be home soon, and Dad will be back before I know it.” But her voice is all wobbly and not right. When she pulls her new blanket up around her shoulders, she doesn’t feel okay. Not at all. And no matter how hard she tries, Jimmie can’t shake the feeling that something bad is going to happen, and her dad won’t be here to stop it.
Everything is jumpy. There’s a fizzing in my body. Every smell is bigger and the sounds are louder and even the light is scratchier.
Maybe this fizzing inside me is catching, because it’s not just me that’s jumpy. Everyone is. The Runners aren’t running packages today because the Jackets look jumpy and fizzing as well. Even their dogs are barking sharper.
There are twenty-four people with their lips sewn shut now, and eighty-seven on hunger strike. Some of the people in Family are on a hunger strike too. I guess Maá is also, just without knowing it. And that zapping has been here all day and won’t go away.
I saved the picture for Jimmie. It’s dirty from where I wiped the mud away and Queeny’s smudged footprint is right in the middle, but you can still make out the picture of Oto and Anka.
I keep trying to think of my stories, of all the stories I know, trying to quiet the noise buzzing in the back of my head. But that treasure I found keeps poking at my brain, getting me to think on what it means and what I should do about it. Maybe if I can get rid of that knife, then everything will go back to normal. Maybe it was never supposed to be found in the first place. I know just the spot too. A spot where no one will look.
There’s a space, behind the toilets and before the wire fence. It’s right next to one of the leaky pipes, so no one will look there unless they want to get covered in crap. There’s a kind of hole already, leading to under the toilet block, left over from when the toilets were put in. If I can just put the knife there and cover it over with some dirt and maybe a brick as well, then no one will find it. Not ever.
But even after I bury it, even after I’m covered in everyone else’s stink from making sure it went right down deep into that hole and is covered over completely, even then, it’s still there, in my brain, poking away at me so I can hardly think about anything else.
Eli would know what to do. Eli wouldn’t even have paused in his thinking. If he’d been there when I found it, he would have just looked at that knife and said, “Leave it to me, kiddo. Good job you were around to save the day, hey?” and scrunched up the hair on my head like he always did when I was feeling bad about something.
But Eli’s not here. The closest I got was a wave across the compound this morning. He didn’t seem to notice that I was waving a “Come here!” wave instead of a “Hi, how are you?” wave.
I hope more than anything that Jimmie comes tonight. I reckon that buzzing won’t be so loud when Jimmie’s here.
And waiting in the dark for Jimmie to come, there’s still that sparking in the air, zapping at everyone so I can hardly believe people are actually sleeping.
“A problem shared is a problem halved,” the duck says, which is something Harvey says too. He said it to Queeny once, and she told him if she could shove every one of her problems right up his big, fat nose then she would, and never mind about the sharing. Harvey nodded very seriously and sighed and looked as sad as I’d ever seen him look, but then he turned back to me and winked and whispered, “Teenagers, hey?” I didn’t bother telling him that Queeny isn’t a teenager yet.
And because I have no one else to tell, I tell the duck about what I found.
“A knife?” the duck says. He doesn’t believe me, I can tell. “How would anyone get a knife in here?”
“Through the packages, I guess. The stuff of kings.”
The duck looks at me again and says, “Why would a king want a knife?”
“To cut stuff, né ?”
“Pah,” the duck says.
“What would you know? You’re just a stupid duck.” So much for a problem shared. The duck is just making it worse.
That Shakespeare duck looks at me then, and raises one eyebrow the way Maá used to when Queeny and I riled her up with our arguing. “What would you know? You’re just a stupid boy. In some countries in the world, ducks are kings, you know.”
Then we both smile and I tell the duck he’s quackers and we smile even more. I take the napkin from the picnic out of my pocket, and even though it’s nothing more than scrunched-up paper, I can still breathe that picnic deep down inside me and those tastes come back, right on the tip of my tongue. The duck says I’m the quackers one, sniffing at a napkin, but then he asks for a sniff, and we start up laughing.
We’re still snorting when Jimmie comes. That laugh bubbles all the way through me right over the buzzing and fizzing and fearing, and I feel the same warm and full that I felt after the picnic just on seeing Jimmi
e in front of me again.
But there’s something different about Jimmie tonight. She’s holding her flashlight, but she doesn’t flash it first. The way she’s walking is all funny too, like she’s out of beat. And she doesn’t smile when she sees me. She’s not wearing her shoes either, and she doesn’t even have her thermos, which is a bummer because my stomach was already looking forward to that burning sweet.
“Hiya, Jimmie,” I say.
Her eyes zip over to me. For a second she looks kind of confused, like she doesn’t know who I am. “Hi,” she says, and her body slumps onto the dirt.
She doesn’t say much when I give her the picture. I’m not sure that she really sees it. She closes her eyes and leans against the bush. She doesn’t say anything else. She’s not even holding her mum’s book. She always has her mum’s book. But she looks at me all the same and says, “Well, come on, then. Don’t you know how to read?” and closes her eyes to listen.
I look down at my hands, the same way I’d do if I was holding a book, and I hear one of Maá’s Listen Now stories playing in my head, like it was there all along, just waiting for me to need it. So I pretend to read. Every so often, I glance over at Jimmie, but she has her eyes closed, and her head is nodding, taking that story in.
When I get to the end, the duck claps and says how great the story was and can I tell another now, please, pleeeeease?
But Jimmie, she doesn’t even make a sound to show she sees that it’s finished. She isn’t looking at me, or holding my hand, or pulling in her breath sharply at the bits she likes. She’s still sitting there with her eyes closed. When the duck says she looks pretty sick, I can feel the hot behind my eyes start to prickle and fall, and I don’t know what to do.
Us kids, we look after the babies a lot in here. It’s nice. Like adding people to your family. I’ve looked after so many different babies now that I can tell right away when a baby isn’t doing right, even though they can’t tell you what’s wrong. Sometimes it’s not just the babies. Sometimes the kids can’t tell you what’s wrong either. Sometimes the kids don’t know for themselves, and they just get to looking. Staring and not knowing what comes next.
The Bone Sparrow Page 12