Memoirs of a Skeleton Valet

2. The Private Eye

Arrow travels hard across the land. Dutifully I follow, shouldering our combined packs and the typewriter in its carrying case. We throw miles behind us like grains of salt. I've long ago lost track of the rivers, towns, and coastlines we've scouted, and yet her map remains unaltered. It's as if she's looking for something, and all of these other people and places don't really matter. I worry for them.

If it's some lost treasure she seeks, it must not be underground. We only dig to keep me fed; at this point, my own foraging for keys is laughable. I'm beginning to think I'm cursed. But Arrow has no problem finding them. With a kick of her heel she could turn up half a dozen.

When we mix with locals, we're mainly ignored. I draw plenty of sidelong looks, especially when they think I'm not looking. But there's never trouble. Sometimes we stop in at bookstalls or musty old archives, casually asking after some lost work of mine. This doesn't win us any friendly looks either. But no murders necessary yet, at least.

I've noticed that Arrow's visits to the wretched place trigger the night. It happens the moment she slips away, and the sun stays scarce till she returns. Everyone knows that night can fall at any time. Some nights last only minutes, some go on for what seems like (for lack of a better term) days. Timekeeping in general is a bit of a joke, really. But I think I'm the only one who knows the celestial cycle is somehow tied to this young girl.

When nightfall used to catch me off-guard, I'd so easily slip back into the horror of solitary confinement. Writing saves me. The whacking typebars are a constant reassurance, little metal angels hammering back the petrifying darkness, chanting the magic words: Orange and Black, OK Jack. Orange and Black, OK Jack. I know that's a mnemonic for identifying snakes, but in my mind that's what they say. But it used to take a while fumbling in the dark to get my typewriter set up. Nowadays, I always have ample warning.

Whatever her experiences are while she's away, they take their toll on her. I've seen her come back, face blotchy and tear-streaked. She thinks I don't notice. Never underestimate a skeleton's powers of observation; you just never know where we're looking.

By and by, if her bad mood wasn't already clear, it soon becomes diktat. Without a single word, she might launch us into a death-march. Equally possible is some mundane solo errand--checking lake bottoms for shipwrecks--something to get rid of me so she can be alone. I often go hungry. But worst of all are the bonfire days.

On these, Arrow summons up an army of hedge-men, draws her own logic gladius (sharp enough to cut thoughts from minds), and chops the poor things to shreds. They don't stand a chance. The topiary legions are clumsy, and scratches are the worst they ever do. Like all plant matter, I doubt the hedge-men are sentient. They seem pre-programmed, unable to realize their role as therapeutic punching bags, even down to the very last. Actually, punching bags makes it sound too healthy. Punching bags don't scream.

Once she's finished, I reluctantly rise to my task. I rake all the strewn fields into great piles, then one by one set them ablaze. Arrow glories in the bonfires, hypnotized by their immolation. She breathes in their sour smoke like a lover's flowing hair.

We have good days, too, usually marked by our constant chatter. She's curious about the before-time, so I regale her with bohemian intrigues from the days of my old writer's group, the Matadorians. We all hacked on Olivetties, while the other local typewriter gang, the Clerks of Trithemius, struck exclusively on Hermae. As you might think, the Matador Style was modeled after those master bullfighters, death-dancers weaving elaborate feints and seductions in which the reader doesn't realize they're the bull, charging hotly into a dangerous story they cannot fully comprehend until it's too late. By then, the fatal paradox is already lodged firmly in the brain like the hidden sword; the author gives it a twist, you look between your eyes, and there it is. The other word for it is devastating. We were all trying to out-devastate each other. Never commercially popular, but it did seem to resonate with certain disaffected youths. Those who yearn for the art of devastation. All well and good; we never wanted for new recruits.