The first bone I ever received is now a part of my fireplace. Insignificant to the untrained eye, but as I built this house, bone by bone, I know them all very well. It was given to me by an elderly widow. Her only son fought in the war and died. In those days there wasn’t any time to bury the dead so they were cremated. Then a strange thing happened. I know because I’m often called upon to collect the bodies and start the fires. There would always be one bone from all the rest that would not catch fire. Not one scorch mark would the flames leave. The widow stood beside me and watched her son’s body burn. When it was over and the shiny bone, possibly from the leg, I’ve never really been sure, was left on the ground, she picked it up and handed it to me.
“Keep it,” she said. “Remember my boy.” And then she was gone. I knew I would never see her again. But she must’ve told everyone of what happened because before too long I was having the bones of men who fought in the war left on my doorstep while I slept, or handed to me while I worked in my garden. Suffice it to say, I don’t work in my garden anymore. At least, I don’t grow flowers. Difficult to grow something so beautiful in a house made of death.
I live at the top of the highest mountain. I decided to live here, build a home here, when my son was killed in this endless war. I wanted to escape. Be alone. But this war had other plans for me. Instead I became the collector. Of stories. Of death. Of bones. Pretty soon I had more bones than I cared to count. What I did next was out of necessity. Also, I found myself caring for the lives that once came from these bones. I tore down my own house and built another. This one is much stronger and I am sure will last till the end of my days, which I’m sure are drawing near.
My home is made of bones. Each one unique and important. From the floor I stand on, to the roof the covers my head, and the walls that protect me from the howling winds at night. They are my children and it is their stories I’ve chosen to tell in this book I like to call my Bone War Diary.
Then a knock on my door, not unusual for me as I receive visitors at all hours of the night, changed my life forever. A child stood on my doorstep, no taller than me and I had begun to shrink several years ago. She was panting from the climb, out of breath and shaking. The bone stuck out from a nap sack she carried on her back. I could see its shine in the moonlight.
I ushered her inside so she could warm herself by the fire I had just started. She didn’t say a word, only watched me as I brought out two cups and a pot of hot water for some tea. We sat together in silence, watching the flames flicker.
“Are you alone?” she asked. Her voice so soft as if she’d never spoken before.
“I am, yes.”
“Are you sad, being alone?”
No one had ever asked me that before. Usually when I receive visitors wishing to leave the bone of a loved one in my possession they tell me their most fondest memory and then leave. I couldn’t recall ever being asked such a direct and personal question before. I found myself, for the first time, at a loss for words.
“I am alone now,” she continued, not waiting for my answer. “It was just us. Me and my younger brother. Now it’s just me.” She shifted her nap sack from her back and set it on the floor between her legs. A tear fell from her cheek as she looked down at the bone of her brother. She wiped what tears she had left, took a deep breath and looked around the house, noticing it for the first time.
“How old was he?” I asked. I find if I ask a simple question it makes it easier for them to open up and tell me what they need to get off their chest before leaving. It’s not that I didn’t want to hear her fondest memory of her brother, it was just that she unsettled me for some reason.
“My brother? He was only sixteen.” My expression gave me away and she continued, “The war has taken so many lives. It has become necessary for the younger ones to fight. At least, that’s what my brother and I were told when they came and took him away.” She turned her face away but I could see her wiping away tears.
“I hate the war,” I said. It was my first time expressing an honest opinion to another human being since I took on this profession I never asked for. “It’s the reason why I am alone.” She looked at me with her red swollen eyes and my heart broke for her. “My son, you see. I have a bad leg. Always have. So I couldn’t fight. But him? Oh, he couldn’t wait to get out there. He believed in it. But now, all these years later, I can’t say I remember what this war is all about.”
She nodded, agreeing with me. Then she slowly removed her brother’s bone from her sack and held it out to me. I took it, preparing myself for its weight but it seemed almost weightless. I examined it closely and hoped she didn’t find this odd, but I couldn’t help it.
“Where will you put him?” she asked. Another question no one had ever asked me before. She had a curiosity about her that reminded me a lot of myself when I was her age.
“I don’t know. I like to spend more time studying each one I’m given before I make my decision.” I could see her scanning the four corners of the room and I have to admit, her curiosity had gotten to me. “Where would you put him?” I asked her.
She stood up and walked over to the fireplace, admiring the mantel. She put her hand on the bone in the center and turned to me. “Your first?” she asked.
My jaw dropped. “How did you know?”
“It’s where I would put my first. Someplace where I can see it, admire it, from anywhere in the house.” And she was right. That was exactly why I placed it there. “If it’s alright with you, I think I’m going to stay. I want you to teach me.”
There was a long pause before I answered, “I don’t think I’d mind. Being alone together.”
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