Bone House_ A Novel - Betsy Tobin [22]
And I myself am caught within the web, for like my master, I feel her loss acutely. Why else do I seek an answer to the riddle of her death?
At the end of the day, when I return to my room, I find a plain-wrapped parcel waiting on my bed. When I open it a small cloth purse drops into my lap, together with a note on white parchment. Though he does not sign it, I recognize my master’s hand. The message reads simply: “Please deliver this safely to her son.” I open the purse and empty its contents onto my bed. It is more money than I have ever seen—indeed it is more than I have ever dreamed of seeing. What does he hope to buy with this money, I wonder. Is it the price of my silence, or the cost of his guilt? I count it slowly, carefully, partly to be sure of its value, but partly just to have the feel of it in my hands. Then I return it to the purse, which I stow beneath my bedclothes. Tomorrow I will take it to the boy. But tonight I will sleep upon it, and dream the dreams of misers.
Chapter Seven
When I was a child, I went often to the great-bellied woman’s house, to sit upon the hearth and listen to her stories. She was an accomplished teller of tales who could spin whole worlds with only a few long strands of words. The stories she told were strange and exotic, unlike any I have heard before or since: tales of people and places far across the sea, and of animals unknown within our shores. These stories lingered with me, and many are buried still within my mind. They come to me now in fragments, often when I least expect them, like uninvited guests. But they are not unwelcome, as they bring with them part of her: a sense of mystery and of possibility, coupled with that peculiar blend of strength and calmness that was her hallmark. For she was all these things to me, and I suppose to many others as well.
I remember a tale of a great plumed bird who lived high upon a mountain above the treetops, whose feet never once came to rest upon the soil. The bird was proud and kept to itself, only occasionally allowing the people who lived in the village far below to catch a glimpse of its rare and beautiful plumage. One day a great hunter came to the mountain, and hearing of the marvelous bird, determined to capture it for its beautiful feathers. He told the unwitting people of the village that he would like to see the bird, but when he asked them to describe it, each gave a different account of its beauty. Some said its feathers were green and luminescent, like those of a peacock, while others said it was bright red with streaks of yellow and orange, like the setting sun. Still others said its body was black as coal, with snow-white tail feathers that flashed among the leaves when it flew. The hunter was confused and, deciding that the people were deliberately misleading him, resolved to find the bird himself. He climbed the mountain and for three days and nights remained hidden in the underbrush. On the fourth day he gave up hope and began his descent, when suddenly he caught a glimpse of a winged creature of such extraordinary beauty it made him gasp. He nearly forgot his purpose as he watched the bird soar and dive among the trees, but finally came