by Marina Cohen
“In China, it’s called a xun,” said Queenie.
“Yes—a xun,” repeated Anna, “and in Italy they call it an ocarina, little goose, because it looks like a goose egg. This one’s made from bone.”
“A bone flute?” said Ivan.
“As in real bone?” said Saif.
Taylor recoiled. “That’s disgusting.”
“It’s exquisite,” said Mr. Pagliacci. “Tell me, Anna, can you play?”
She grinned and nodded. Then she placed her fingers—not too thick, not too thin, thought Kallie—on the holes of the gourdlike instrument and blew gently over the mouthpiece.
A soft, heavy note combining high pitch and low pitch in perfect harmony floated out of the instrument. It was desolate and lonely and sorrowful and elegant.
As Kallie listened to the melody rise and fall, something clicked inside her brain, and her knees turned to pudding. She had heard the tune before. That night the circles had spun backward. It had come from the box.
11
THE BONE FLUTE
Liah and the bone carver had emerged from the woods just as the sun began to set. A hazy twilight ignited the air, setting the bronze fields of wild sorghum on either side of them aglow. In the distance, the road split in two, and at the fork, a small fire blazed. Behind it sat a cloaked figure.
The bone carver cast Liah a swift sideways glance. She understood the warning immediately. The Empress has many spies, he had warned her. Strangers were not to be trusted.
The figure made no move as the two drew near. A thin hand stretched a wooden stick over the crackling flames. On it, pieces of meat sizzled, and a rich, gamy aroma filled the air.
Liah’s stomach moaned. She had eaten nothing since the dry millet cake she had devoured before they set out. She carried only four more such cakes, two for the evening and two for morning. If the ancestors saw fit, the bone carver would sell many carvings, and they would have plenty of copper—perhaps even silver—with which to purchase provisions for the journey home. If not, they would return hungry.
The bone carver set down his sack. He cupped his hands, stretched forward, and then raised them slightly, making the traditional salute to the stranger’s ancestors.
“Sit,” said a deep, hollow voice. “Share the fire.” The stranger motioned to other sticks and pieces of fresh meat flayed from a badger or squirrel lying atop a cloth beside him. “And the food.”
If this was a trick to gain their trust, thought Liah, it was a good trick. She dropped her sack and took a step toward the sticks, but the bone carver barred her path.
“May your ancestors protect you during the day and keep watch over you by night,” he said.
The figure reached up with a free hand and pulled back the hood, revealing a gaunt face, with sculpted cheeks and a ruddy mouth. It was an odd face, thought Liah. It seemed to have an ageless quality—tired, wise eyes set deep into smooth, youthful skin that seemed to glisten in the pale moonlight.
“What sets you on this path?” asked the mysterious man.
“We head for the palace to peddle our wares,” said the bone carver, seating himself next to the man, taking the stick, threading a piece of meat onto it, and holding it over the open fire. He nodded toward Liah, who quickly joined them, happy for the warm meal and the chance to rest her aching feet.
“Such coincidence,” said the man. “I, too, intend to barter a trade.”
Liah searched around for an indication of what the man may be selling. She could see no sack filled with items or grains. “And what might you bring to sell?”
A thin grin snaked across his lips. “Lies.”
Liah bristled. She had never heard such a silly idea. It sounded neither practical nor profitable. She took a large portion of meat, threaded it onto a stick, and held it over the fire. “Who would purchase such a thing? There is no value in it.”
The bone carver looked at her sharply. She closed her mouth and bit her tongue. Insulting a gracious host was equal to insulting the ancestors.
“Ah,” said the man thoughtfully. “Lies can have great value. In fact, to some they might even be a means of survival.”
Liah frowned. How could a lie help a person survive? You could not wear it or eat it or wield it. She thought about this for some time, and as her meat began to sizzle, she asked, “Tell me, how does one go about selling a lie?”
The stranger’s smile grew thinner still. He removed his stick from the fire, his piece of meat crusted and golden. “Why, my young friend, the best way to sell a lie is to cloak it in truth.”
“That smacks of deceit,” said Liah, not even attempting to hide her disdain. She removed her stick from the fire to let the crisp meat cool.
“Are we not all deceitful at one time or other?” he said. “Be it born of necessity or desire?” He held her gaze, and she imagined he could see deep inside her. As though he knew her recent deeds.
Her cheeks grew hot and radish-red. She was unsure if it was the warmth of the fire or something else. She cleared her throat. “Is that all you sell?”
“Oh no. Of course not.” He chuckled. “I have a great selection of falsehoods, fibs, and fancies. Not to mention some rather clever rumors, insinuation, and innuendo. And sometimes…” He leaned in close, and Liah thought he smelled of clover and codfish. “For special customers only … I sell stories.”
Lies? Rumors? Stories? What nonsense this stranger spouted. Liah opened her mouth, preparing to tell him so, when the bone carver interjected.
“Forgive the young one. She is still learning proper manners.” He ate his small piece of meat and drew a hand across his mouth, slick with grease. Then he picked up Liah’s sack. She flinched, worried he might find the skull she had taken from the forest and know her deception. She relaxed her tense muscles and popped the cooled meat into her mouth when he withdrew one of her carvings.
It was an odd-shaped object, hollow on the inside, with holes carved into various points. He presented it to the stranger, bowing in the sign of thanks. “Payment for your kindness.”
Liah nearly choked on her piece of meat. The bone flute was her first carving. She was proud of the instrument, for though it was not all too pleasant to the eye, it made a rich sound. It was hers to sell, not the bone carver’s to squander on this storyteller. This lie peddler.
The stranger bowed in the proper response and accepted the gift. “A fine piece,” he said, studying it from all sides. He smiled at Liah, and then he narrowed his eyes. “Tell me, have you performed the proper rituals? Has the spirit been set free, or shall I be haunted by the cow or deer to which this bone belongs?”
How dare this man question her carving! She wished to snatch it back, but the bone carver stayed her arm.
“The rituals were obeyed,” he assured the stranger. “I performed them myself. No spirit lingers in this marrow. Your dreams shall not be plagued.”
Liah clenched her jaw. Her words came out tight and brittle. “May your bones one day be laid to rest and your ancestors perform the rituals to set your spirit free.” It was a proper blessing to bestow upon someone, yet the bone carver cast Liah an angry look, knowing well her tone had meant otherwise.
“I do not have ancestors,” said the man flatly. “And I have little interest in having my spirit set free.”
Liah and the bone carver both bristled at such foolish and disrespectful words.
“Now, now. You must not fret.” He waved a hand. “If my spirit were to be set free, my journey would end. And I have much more to accomplish in this world.” He examined the carving in his hand again. “Truly excellent craftsmanship. Yes. Perhaps you shall be the one to help me with my journey onward.”
Liah and the bone carver exchanged curious glances.
“Now,” he said with a smile, “perhaps I might have something new to trade. A tune, perhaps?” He placed his fingers on the holes and began to play a hollow melody.
The night grew ripe with shadows as the purple sky faded to black. Liah s
at sulking at the loss of her carving. She ate her fill, all the while listening to the low, whispery notes of the bone flute.
She did not trust this stranger who claimed to sell stories and lies, but the journey had been long, and her head grew weary. She rested it against her satchel, and though she tried to keep one eye open, she drifted off with the mournful music of the bone flute rising and falling in her dreams.
Liah awoke in darkness. The fire had turned to ash, and the bone flute lay beside her. The stranger was gone.
12
ASSIGNMENT #1
While Mr. Pagliacci busied himself assigning instruments, Kallie gathered her wits and approached Anna. “May I see that?”
Anna stopped playing. She smiled and handed Kallie the ocarina.
“This is a bone?” Kallie turned the piece over in her hands. “You’re sure?”
Anna nodded. “My great-great-grandfather was an archaeologist. He excavated it from a dig in southern China. It’s a real artifact.”
Tsars. Magicians. Archaeologists. Anna certainly had an interestingly eclectic family.
Kallie felt the weight of the ocarina. She ran her fingers along the rutted surface. It felt like the same material as the circular inlays on the box. The same material as the pieces she’d tossed. The pieces that had landed on the same pictures three times. They must be made of bone.
Kallie handed the instrument back to Anna, who took it gently and began to play softly once again. In her mind’s eye, Kallie drew three squares and in them she recalled each of the images.
An animal. A broken cup. And something strikingly similar to Anna’s ocarina …
A prickling sense of dread settled into Kallie’s stomach. Something strange was happening. Something that connected her to the box. And to the bones.
* * *
Kallie had less patience for Ms. Beausoleil’s class than the previous day. First, because the teacher wore a potato-sack-shaped dress made of gold lamé. Second, because it was last period on Friday and she desperately needed to get home to the box. She had to open it again. She had to stop whatever was happening and take back control.
To make matters worse, it was a double period, so she grudgingly cleared a space beside Pole at the rear of the class and sat cross-legged, trying not to make contact with any unhygienic pillows, while the other students took turns reading chapter after chapter of the ridiculous story. Talking beavers. People turned to stone. Utter nonsense.
To distract herself, Kallie continued to think about the pieces that had tumbled out of the box. She had an excellent memory for detail. She could visualize each one.
The first piece had a foxlike image. And then a strange white animal had appeared outside her bedroom. The second piece had a broken cup, and then Anna’s cup was smashed. The third piece—the one that looked like an egg with holes—was most decidedly an ocarina. It had to be. And then there was the music. The hollow melody that had come from the box … What could it all mean?
“Now,” said Ms. Beausoleil, taking the novel from Queenie. Together, they had managed several more chapters, passing the halfway point. “I have an assignment for you.”
The class groaned in unison.
“But it’s a long weekend,” whined Taylor.
“All the more time to spend on the assignment,” said Ms. Beausoleil.
Taylor flopped back into her pile of pillows and continued grumbling.
“But…” said Mathusha. “It’s Labor Day. Aren’t you supposed to get time off from work?”
“To earn time off from work you have to spend time on it. Good thing you have Saturday and Sunday to warrant that holiday Monday,” said Ms. Beausoleil.
Kallie wondered what sort of assignment the woman had come up with. She hoped it would not be some ridiculous imaginative adventure. Perhaps she’d be lucky, and it would be something she could handle, like a timeline of the events. Or a graph of the various creatures and how often they appeared in the story. With a little luck, a report on the improbability of the entire thing.
“You will be writing a letter,” said Ms. Beausoleil.
Kallie, who only realized in that moment she’d been holding her breath, exhaled. A letter. That might be okay. She could write a letter to the author explaining her disdain for his narrative. She could write a letter to the publisher complaining of the nonsense they’d published. She could write a letter to the principal, the school board, the parent council …
“You will be writing the letter from the viewpoint of one of the characters,” Ms. Beausoleil continued. “You may choose Lucy or Edmund.”
Another person’s viewpoint? Kallie could have guessed there’d be a catch to this letter-writing exercise.
“You will be writing to your mother, who is in London during World War II and who has sent you to live with your uncle and…”
Kallie raised her hand so sharply that had there been a balloon above her, it would have popped.
Ms. Beausoleil stopped midsentence. “Yes, Kaliope?”
“Kallie. Just Kallie.”
“Yes, Kallie.” The teacher corrected herself.
“Why?”
Ms. Beausoleil paused and smiled, waiting for Kallie to finish. When nothing more was added, she responded, “Why what?”
“Why do we have to write a letter as though we are one of the characters? I don’t understand the purpose.”
“Well…” said Ms. Beausoleil. “So you can learn to see things from another perspective … So you can demonstrate understanding of a character’s feelings, viewpoint, voice…”
“But I have my own voice and my own viewpoint, and that’s good enough for me.”
Pole nodded vigorously. “Me too.”
“Try the activity,” said Ms. Beausoleil, her words stretching out like gentle, encouraging arms. “Perhaps you’ll both discover something about yourselves you didn’t know.”
“I’m going to pick Edmund,” said Anna when the bell sounded. She tried to poke her way between Kallie and Pole, who formed a solid wall as they left the class.
“Edmund?” said Pole. “Wouldn’t it be easier for you to write as Lucy?”
Anna looked confused and annoyed. “Why would it?”
“Isn’t it obvious?” said Pole, blushing.
Kallie rolled her eyes.
“Because I’m a girl?” snapped Anna. “That’s pretty narrow-minded. Besides, a writer can become whomever they wish. I can be a boy. Or a girl. Or a moth. Or an alien trapped in a human body I’d invaded and then somehow gotten stuck in and left behind by my interstellar exploration mission—”
“Have a good weekend, Pole,” interrupted Kallie. She took several paces and then stopped. Without looking back, she added, with more feeling than she’d intended, “You too, Anna.” She marched straight to her locker and out the building.
* * *
“I don’t want to go to the lake today.”
Grandpa Jess appeared startled. “Why? Is something wrong?”
“No,” she said, not being entirely truthful.
“Are you sure? It’s a disruption to your schedule.”
Kallie hadn’t thought about her schedule all day. She became all the more convinced there was something wrong, something very wrong, but she tried to rationalize her feelings. “I have a lot of math and science homework. Plus an English assignment.”
Grandpa Jess eyed her for a judgmental moment and then shrugged. “You know best. Schoolwork comes first.”
As they walked, Grandpa Jess asked his usual questions, and Kallie responded absentmindedly, her thoughts drifting from the conversation to the box. She couldn’t tell Grandpa about the strange coincidences between the images and the happenings. After all, they were just coincidences, and he might think she was becoming imaginative. She shuddered at the idea.
Once home, Kallie ignored her snack and went straight to her room. The box was on her shelf where she’d left it. The side facing her had two stars atop the last quarter of the moon. This time, it lo
oked like a large, toothy smile.
She sat at her desk, frowning at the box for the longest time before she reached for it. If she could open it and see the pieces again … If she could just hear the melody one more time, to be absolutely sure …
Getting out her notepad, Kallie looked up the moves she’d recorded. But when she tried to manipulate the circles, they wouldn’t budge, as though the mechanism had been broken. Or as though the box no longer wanted to be opened.
Kallie thought about the pictures on the bones once again. The jackal. The broken cup. The ocarina. She set the box down and pressed her memory. Next came a castle, a flaming cylinder, and then a coffin …
She looked up at the box. It continued to smile.
13
GONE FISHING
The water was as dark as a dreamless night. A large full moon lit the rippled surface, turning it to black beveled glass. The spires of the surrounding mountains cradled the lake, guarding it like a precious jewel.
The small motor of the Escape made a hum hum rhythm as the boat glided over the glassy surface past Starr Farm Beach, Mill’s Point, Thayer Beach, and on into Malletts Bay. All boats had to be registered and in the bay by 5:30 a.m. to qualify. They arrived with minutes to spare.
In the shadow of the mountains, the heat came and went with the sun, and the sun would not rise for another hour. Kallie shivered, then tightened the straps on her neoprene life jacket. Reaching for the thermos of hot chocolate, she poured herself a steaming cup and let the sweet, dark liquid trickle down her throat and warm her insides.
Lake Champlain’s Big Bass Bonanza was a Labor Day tradition. It was Grandpa Jess’s favorite day of the year. The tournament ran from 7 a.m. until weigh-in at 3 p.m. There were prizes for both small-mouth and largemouth bass. Grandpa Jess claimed he didn’t care much for the prizes—it was the thrill of the competition—though Kallie suspected he wasn’t being entirely truthful.
He had taken part in the event since long before Kallie was born, winning one of the fifteen prizes each year. The only missing trophy on his shelf was the year Kallie’s mother drowned. That year, the Escape had been stolen. It turned up days later, abandoned on the Canadian shore. Police said it had most likely been taken for a joyride by teenage delinquents. Since the boat hadn’t been damaged, there was nothing more to be done about it.