My throat has been calling for moisture for a good while by
the time I find the spring. It is an ornate affair, too, with a series of
basins carved into the low cliff to hold the water. As I approach I can see
that moss has been allowed to grow along the stone rims, and small ferns
cluster above in the alcoves. But the water is fresh, and swift to pour from
basin to basin. Gladly I duck my entire head in the lowest one, scrubbing hard
at my bald, barely stubbled scalp before moving to a higher basin to hand-cup
water to my dry lips and mouth.
Sated, I take a moment to rest. Only when I hunch down to
lean my back against the cool cliff-face do I spot the bones.
He sits at the side of the avenue, just above the spring,
with his spine upright and one arm draped over a crooked leg. He looks as if he
fell asleep, with the side of his face resting against the cliff just as my
back does. He is – entirely – bone: white bone at that, with no skin or flesh
discolouring his carriage.
I take a second, slower drink before I investigate him.
When I am ready, I walk up to him slowly, checking the cliff
and the avenue for marks and traps. Nothing seems out of place, so I take a few
steps nearer; I have to crouch to bring my head down to his level.
The bones look good. Now I am closer, I can see that they
are not entirely clean – sinews still attach across joints, and within the thin
shadows there remain flecks of flesh and skin. Yet all of his offal is gone and
the smile he offers me, from his eye-free skull, is pure tooth.
Sinew. Not twine.
This is not a woman's work.
But if this is not a warning, then where are the marks of
the bone worms? No animal, no part of an animal, can survive unless it has been
cured – preserved in some manner such as smoke or powders or balm.
One of his arms, the one that doesn't rest on his angled
knee, drapes over a bag. Curious, I shuffle closer and reach out my hand to
take his wrist and lift it away. The movement is enough to break his delicate
balance: in a cascade of rattles he collapses, his skull taking the opportunity
to roll along the cliff's skirting towards the puddles beneath the spring.
Her skull, I realise. Not his.
The bag is made of leather and, now I can see it more
clearly, the swirl of the tattoos that pattern it mark it as a woman's bag,
fashioned from man-skin.
No man would dare use his brother, nor his enemy, in such a
humiliating manner.
I utter a curt lamentation for my brother's suffering as I
take the bag in both hands and heave it into my arms. From its interior come
the clinks of clay jars – many still full, I judge, given the weight of the
thing.
A woman, apparently alone, with a bag full of small jars –
perhaps she could be a herbalist?
A thought occurs to me: if a woman finds me near here, with
this woman's bag, she will not bother asking me questions about what I have
found. No, she will chase me down, with her sisters, and she will take me
beyond the reach of my brothers and she will keep me breathing for a long, long
while as she consumes me ...
I will not suffer that indignity again!
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