Bone House_ A Novel - Betsy Tobin [85]
At length the path disappears but we continue through the forest. Once or twice I pause to check my bearings, for I have not been this way since I was a child, but memory and instinct guide me like an unseen beacon. The painter looks back anxiously once or twice, for night is falling, and we have brought nothing to light our safe return.
As the last rays of daylight disappear, we reach the creek where Dora died. The moon is nearly full and casts an eerie light upon us, reflecting off the snow. We move along the icy creekbed, slowly picking our way through rocks and twisted roots and frozen mud, tracing its serpentine course for some minutes. At length the walls of the bed begin to climb more steeply, until we find ourselves within a deep ravine, bounded on all sides by lichen-covered granite. I stop and hold a hand up to the painter, pointing across the stream to a series of sheer rock walls that rise steeply from the bed. Further along, a few of them form openings: giant crevasses where the force of nature has split the rockface asunder.
We stand staring up at it, our breath forming icy jets of fog that vanish almost instantly in the cold night air. The painter stoops down, cupping water from the stream in his hands, and drinks deeply of it. At length he rises, wiping his hands on his tunic.
“What is this place?” he says in a hushed voice.
I point toward the crevasse.
“This is where they found her body,” I explain. “Up there, in the caves along the rockface. I used to come here in the summer as a child. In my day it was a secret place. But now the village children all come here to play.”
The painter looks around in wonder, for it is hauntingly beautiful.
“It is a magical place,” I say. “A place for children.”
He turns to me then, divines my meaning.
“The boy is here?” he says, his eyes wide.
I nod and raise a finger to my lips. I motion him to follow and slowly, quietly, we move along the streambed, choosing a narrow place where we can ford the icy water, picking our way across the stones. When we reach the base of the rock wall, I stop and stare up at the crevasses. Something catches my eye in the largest: a movement, and I point to it and begin to climb along the giant plates of stone. The moss has made it treacherous, and twice I slip, the painter raising a hand from behind to prevent my fall. Eventually we find a crack that is deep enough to move along, and we cross it carefully, mindful of the drop beneath us.
As we reach the largest opening, we pull ourselves inside, stooping to avoid the ceiling. It takes only a few seconds for my eyes to adjust to the darkness within, and there, crouched in the furthest reach, is the shivering figure of the boy. He holds a bundle closely to his chest, a tightly wrapped blanket, one of those from the trunk, and watches us, wild-eyed. I take a step forward, instinctively hold out a hand.
“Long Boy, you are cold,” I say. He shifts sideways like a crab in an effort to retreat. But there is nowhere for him to go. I take another step, crouch down, my fingers resting lightly on the damp stone.
“You must come home,” I say gently. “You cannot stay the night here.”
“Do not take him from me,” he says urgently. I stare at the bundle.
“He needs warmth,” I say. “He belongs with his mother. She will warm him.” Long Boy eyes me distrustfully, shakes his head no.
“He is mine,” he says.
“We will bring him with us then,” I say coaxingly. “My mother waits for you. For both of you.” He considers my words, and as he does I ease myself forward. I pause just in front of him and hold my arms out for the bundle. He stares down at my hands. Slowly I take the bundle from him, feel its stiffness. He does not resist. I cradle the bundle in my arms, peel back the frozen blanket, and inside it is immaculate in its woolen tomb. Its features are tiny and perfectly formed, and its arms are pulled up, fists frozen tightly against its chest. He must have wiped the blood away, for its skin is flat and white like just-made pastry. I pull the blanket away to reveal the sex: a baby boy. Long Boy