A Box of Bones

by Marina Cohen

  He wrenched it from her hands, and though she grappled for it, he held it out of reach.

  “I’m going to do what I should have done in the first place,” he said, his voice flat and cold. “Just as soon as I get a chance, I’m going to pitch this thing into the deepest part of the lake, where it will sink and never be seen again!”

  Kallie froze. She stopped reaching. As they stared at each other, her father’s expression seemed so hard. Nearly distorted. Kallie had never seen this side of him. He was always calm. Level. In perfect control.

  His words seemed to echo inside her. Pitch the box into the deepest part of the lake … Never be seen again … Kallie gulped.

  He turned to exit the room. “You’ll see,” he called over his shoulder. “You’ll feel much better once this box is out of your life for good.”

  She could hear his footsteps cross the hall. There was a soft thunk, and then she heard his closet door creak shut.

  25

  ENTANGLED

  Kallie spent the next morning at the hospital. Grandpa Jess lay unresponsive in intensive care. The doctor said he had run a battery of tests but could not figure out what was wrong with the man. He looked so pale and emaciated, Kallie thought, as though he were nothing but skin and bone.

  The next piece, she thought, panic-stricken, was a skull. She simply had to figure out how to stop whatever was happening. Before it was too late.

  She had wanted to spend the entire day by Grandpa Jess’s side, but her father insisted there was nothing she could do and she should go to school. She decided he was right—she could not help Grandpa Jess by sitting there. She had to figure things out, and quickly, and for that she needed help.

  As she followed her father out of the emergency area, a nurse stopped her.

  “Is your name Kallie?” she said.

  Kallie nodded. Her father was focused on the parking payment. He hadn’t heard and kept walking.

  “I was on duty last night.” She smiled warmly. “While I was changing his IV bag, your grandfather regained consciousness for a short time. He kept saying your name over and over. Kallie. Tell Kallie. I reassured him I would so he might calm himself.”

  Kallie swallowed her upset. “What did he want you to tell me?”

  The nurse tilted her head. “It didn’t make any sense to me, but maybe it does to you. He said, escape sparky. Does that mean something?”

  Kallie thought about it. “The Escape is his boat. I’m not sure what he meant by sparky.”

  The nurse put a hand on her shoulder. “I hope he recovers quickly.”

  Hopefully, Kallie thought. But all she could picture was the skull carved into the next piece. A skull. And then a dagger. And then … nothing. Her insides quivered with apprehension.

  “What did the nurse want?” asked her father as they got into the Malibu.

  “She said Grandpa had spoken in the night. He said my name and to tell me: escape sparky. Does that mean anything to you?”

  Her father frowned and shook his head. “At least he spoke. That has to be a good sign. I’ll head back there later and see if the doctor can tell me anything more.”

  * * *

  Kallie arrived at school at lunchtime. She made a beeline for Pole and Anna.

  “I heard,” said Pole, putting a hand on her arm. “I’m sorry.”

  Anna nodded sadly. “Me too. Will he be okay?”

  Kallie knew Pole would not like what she was about to say—she may even risk losing him as a friend—but she had to tell them she was now certain it was all somehow connected to the box.

  “I told you!” said Anna. “It’s those bewitched bones!”

  Kallie expected Pole to refute the idea, but instead he shocked her by saying, “I’ve been giving this careful thought. Ever since you told me about the box and their pieces. There is always a scientific explanation for things. And I think I may have it.”

  Kallie’s eyes widened in anticipation and gratitude, as did Anna’s. If Pole could find a logical, scientific explanation for all that had been happening, that meant there would be a logical, scientific way to correct things.

  “You’ve become entangled,” he said solemnly.

  Entangled. Kallie searched her memory. She had read about this phenomenon in the textbook Pole had lent her on quantum physics. “Entanglement? But—that’s all just theoretical, isn’t it?”

  “What’s entanglement?” asked Anna. “It sounds awfully painful.”

  “It’s like this,” said Pole. “The universe is made of matter. All matter is made of particles.”

  Anna looked slightly insulted. “I know all about atoms.”

  “Particles are even smaller than atoms—they’re what make up atoms,” said Kallie. “Protons, electrons and neutrons…”

  “Entanglement,” said Pole, “is a word used to describe how particles of energy and matter can become connected to one another. Even if they are far apart in time as well as space, two particles can interact with each other in a strange and predictable way.”

  “That’s weird,” said Anna.

  “It’s spooky,” said Pole.

  Anna nodded. “Yeah. Ghostly.”

  “Not ghostly,” corrected Pole. “Spooky. It’s actually a scientific term. Spooky action.”

  Kallie’s whole body slumped as it all started to make sense. She sighed heavily. “I’ve become entangled.”

  “With a story,” said Anna excitedly.

  “But, how did I get entangled in the first place?”

  Pole shook his head. “I don’t know. Unfortunately, life is a game of chance, played by quantum physics’ rules.”

  “Okay, then,” said Kallie, letting it all sink in, “so how do I get un-entangled?”

  “When my hair gets really dirty and it’s a knotted mess,” said Anna, “I use a detangler. One of those sprays that make the comb glide right through even the toughest knots and undo them.”

  Kallie and Pole stared blankly at her.

  “It’s simple, don’t you see?” she continued. “What you need is some sort of quantum physics detangler.”

  26

  FLESH AND BONE

  Kallie spent all afternoon thinking about what Pole had said and about how she could get herself and Grandpa Jess un-entangled.

  “What’s all this Tom Brady nonsense?” Ms. Beausoleil stopped Kallie at the end of English class. She held the rough draft of the writing assignment Kallie had turned in. “I had asked you to write a hero’s journey.”

  “I’m not a football fan,” said Kallie flatly. “But you have to admit, Tom Brady is pretty much New England’s greatest hero since Paul Bunyan.”

  “Yes, well, unfortunately we are still quarreling with Michigan and Minnesota over the ownership of Mr. Bunyan.”

  “Not to mention California,” said Kallie.

  “No, no, no.” Ms. Beausoleil waved her neon-blue-polished nails as though swatting invisible flies. “Everyone knows California has no legitimate claim to the lumberjack…”

  “May I please go now?” said Kallie.

  “You may not,” said Ms. Beausoleil. She fanned the pages recklessly. “What you have written here is a biography. A list of facts. Not a story. I don’t care if Mr. Brady has won a Super Bowl…”

  “Six.”

  Ms. Beausoleil stopped. She looked at Kallie vaguely.

  “He’s won six,” said Kallie. “Or is it seven?”

  Ms. Beausoleil sighed. “I don’t care how many Super Bowls, dishes, forks, or knives Mr. Brady has won, I didn’t ask you for a biography. I asked you to write a story. A narrative. A hero’s journey. Like The Odyssey. Or The Hobbit. Or Beowulf.”

  Now it was Kallie’s turn to stare blankly.

  “Never mind,” Ms. Beausoleil said. “We’ve discussed the structure. I drew a diagram, for heaven’s sake.”

  “But … I don’t write stories. I told you. I can’t. I only write facts,” said Kallie coldly. “Stories are lies. I write the truth.”

 
The teacher seemed taken aback. She stopped, and a look of concern creased her brow. Something about her had changed. Her frazzled state seemed to dissolve, and she deflated a bit.

  “I see,” said the teacher softly. “But I’m afraid you’ve got something terribly wrong.” She placed a gentle hand on Kallie’s shoulder and looked her deep in the eye. “Truth doesn’t lie nestled snugly within fact. It runs wildly through it, it dances around it, and wriggles in its frayed fringes. Never make the mistake of believing truth is synonymous with fact, my dear. They are not the same thing.”

  “But,” said Kallie, “a fact is a reality that can’t be disputed. Doesn’t that make it a truth?”

  “No,” said Ms. Beausoleil quietly. “A fact is something that simply is. A truth is something that must be discovered. Or created.”

  “You can’t create truth,” said Kallie. “That makes it a lie.”

  The teacher sighed again. She seemed to search the air for a way to explain. “Think of it like this … Fact is a series of notes written on a sheet of music. Truth is the melody sung from the heart. Fact is a recipe consisting of ingredients, measurements, and instructions. Truth is the cake that melts in your mouth. Fact is something that happens. Truth is our response to it. Truth tells us who we are. Stories are not lies, Kallie. Stories are the truth in our humanity.”

  Kallie frowned. She stared hard at the teacher. Ms. Beausoleil seemed suddenly so small. So real.

  And then, before she could stop herself, Kallie leaned in and whispered, “What if I do know a story, but I don’t know how to end it? Can you help me?”

  “That depends.” Ms. Beausoleil’s eyes glistened with intrigue. “What type of story are we talking about? Is it a comedy? A tragedy? Comedies begin out of order and fall into place. In tragedies, everything slowly falls apart…”

  “Definitely a tragedy,” sighed Kallie.

  “Oh,” said Ms. Beausoleil gravely. “Well, I hate to tell you, but tragedies usually end in death.”

  “Death?” gulped Kallie.

  “I’m afraid so.”

  “And that’s the only way it can end?”

  “There are all sorts of good endings to stories, Kallie. Just remember, a good ending leaves the audience satisfied, with lots to think about. And sometimes, it even comes full circle. It ends right back where it began…”

  “Back where it began,” Kallie echoed. The wheels in her head began to turn. “Thank you,” she said genuinely. “Thank you so much. You’ve been a big help. I’d better go now. I’m late for Mr. Bent’s class.”

  “You? Late for Mr. Bent’s class? Now that’s a tragedy.”

  Kallie smiled and was about to leave. But then she stopped and turned back to face the teacher. “You don’t happen to have the other books in that series, do you?”

  Ms. Beausoleil smiled. “Would you like the first, which is actually the sixth, or the second, which is actually…”

  “All of them.”

  Ms. Beausoleil nodded. “I’ll dig them up. You’d best run along now or Mr. Bent will send out a search party.”

  Kallie grinned. As she dashed from the room, she heard Ms. Beausoleil say, “Remember—a good story never really ends. It lives on inside you forever.”

  * * *

  Everyone was already steeped in algebraic equations by the time Kallie entered math class. She tried to join in, but something Ms. Beausoleil had said wormed its way inside her mind. Sometimes, a story ends right back where it began …

  “I need to return the box to the faceless man,” she said to Anna and Pole as they gathered their things and walked toward their lockers.

  “Of course!” said Anna. “That’s it. Return the box to where it came from. That just might do it.”

  “But where are you going to find him?” asked Pole.

  Kallie sighed. “That’s the problem. I have no idea.”

  “I do.” Anna grinned. “With a little help from the War of 1812.”

  “Anna, please,” said Kallie. “This is serious.”

  “I am serious. This weekend is Plattsburgh’s commemoration of the War of 1812.”

  “Hate to tell you this,” said Pole, “but that was last weekend.”

  “No,” said Anna. “Labor Day was so early this year and since the actual battle took place on September 11, which is tomorrow, they decided to hold the commemoration this coming weekend. I read about it in the newspaper.”

  “I know all about the commemoration,” said Kallie, waving a dismissive hand. “Grandpa Jess and Grandma Gem used to participate in the reenactment. But what does that have to do with finding the faceless man?”

  “Well, on Sunday there’s a children’s old-time village fair in Trinity Park. You can do all sorts of things, like learn how to make candles, use old tools…”

  “How is candle making going to help?” asked Pole.

  “I was getting to that,” said Anna. “There’s also going to be a petting zoo and music and all sorts of buskers. The article said a lot of the same performers from the Festival of Fools are going to be there.”

  “Really?” said Kallie excitedly. “That’s great news!”

  “I’ll go with you,” said Anna. “I know my way around these sorts of events. My parents were magicians after all, remember?”

  Kallie’s eyes met Anna’s and held them. “Yes. I remember.”

  “I can’t make it on Sunday,” Pole said sadly. “Alejandro is getting an award. We have to drive to New Hampshire for the ceremony.”

  “We can do it alone,” said Anna. “I’ll meet you in front of the school bright and early Sunday morning. The children’s festival runs from ten until two. We should get there as early as we can.”

  “Won’t Mrs. Winslow mind?” Kallie continued to eye Anna intently.

  “Um, no. Of course not,” said Anna. “Mrs. Winslow is so busy with all her charitable events and such that she likes it when I have something to occupy my time. She encourages adventure.”

  “How will you get there?” asked Pole.

  “We’ll take the island line trail. We’ll cross the causeway on the bike path and take the bike ferry to South Hero,” said Anna. “From there, we’ll take the ferry from Grand Isle to Plattsburgh.”

  Kallie gulped. The ferry to Plattsburgh. No way. She couldn’t. She was about to refuse, but then the image of Grandpa Jess withering away in the hospital bed changed her mind.

  “Bright and early,” she said to Anna. “And this time, don’t be late.”

  * * *

  Kallie’s father picked her up after school and took her to the hospital. Grandpa Jess was still in intensive care. He looked paler and thinner. He was getting worse. Several doctors had examined him, and all remained stumped as to what the mysterious illness could be. They’d ruled out so many things that they were running out of ideas.

  Kallie sat all evening with Grandpa Jess. She visited him Thursday and Friday and most of the day Saturday, only stepping out briefly for some fresh air and to run a quick errand. While she held his hand, she told him about school and her biography of Tom Brady, and at one point, she imagined he squeezed her hand. The doctor said it was most likely a reflex. Sunday could not come quick enough.

  “I’m going to fix this, Grandpa,” she whispered into his ear before she left. “I promise.”

  It was late Saturday night by the time she and her father got home. The next morning she was to meet Anna at the school, but first she needed to get the box. Her father had placed it in his closet—she hoped with all that was going on, he hadn’t had time to get rid of it.

  As her father busied himself on his computer, Kallie slipped up the stairs and into his room. Slowly, she creaked open his closet door. Lying on the floor was the box. The full moon and stars were facing her as though with a look of shock and surprise. She scooped it up quickly and held it tightly in her hands. She was about to shut the door when something in the air began to change.

  27

  THE SKULL

  It w
as late when the Empress gave leave to Liah with the bones of her master and the promise that would seal both their fates.

  As she plodded down the mountain, she could not help staring up at the wooden boxes that clung desperately to its side. In them lay all the unfortunates bound to the earth for eternity, never to know rest.

  With each step, Liah’s resolve and anger grew. First, she would avenge the bone carver’s death, and once she had accomplished that, she would return for the others. She would perform the ceremony for each one and send the spirits to eternal peace.

  The journey back home seemed longer. The bone carver had been the only family Liah had known. Now, she had been orphaned once again.

  The sky above turned a deep sapphire dotted with starlit spangles. She passed the rocky terrain and the dry fields and arrived at the crossroads. Though she intended to walk the entire way without stopping, she sat at the campsite to rest and to think.

  Chewing bitterly on a piece of millet cake, she thought about all that had transpired. Though it had been only the previous night that she had sat with the two men eating meat and listening to the bone flute, it seemed far back in her memory, as though it had happened in another lifetime.

  Liah ran her hands along the goatskin shoes, the final gift the bone carver had given her. There would be no rest for her master until the rituals were performed, so she, too, would not rest. Weary, she dragged herself to her feet, and, leaving the clearing, she entered the dark woods.

  No starlight penetrated the thick canopy of decaying foliage, so she walked in darkness. The fear swelling in her chest was dulled by the numbness left by her loss. Only when Liah passed the spot where the white beast had leaped at her did she feel a twinge of fear, recalling both it and the shimmering pile of bones.

  It was then she suddenly remembered she still carried the skull that she had sworn to return to the forest. She fished it out of her sack and held it up. It caught a sliver of moonlight and glowed an eerie silver. Slowly, Liah left the path in search of the other bones, hoping she would not again lose her way.