Wooden Bones (12 page)

“Boy, that's quite enough!” Geppetto snapped.

“No, it's all right,” the woman said, turning back to them. She regarded them for a long time with one eye, the scarred part of her face shrouded by the shadows of the trees. “If money is a hardship for you, my home is open to you both. Winter's coming on, and it gets quite cold here at night. I could not stand the thought of you out in it without a roof over your heads.”

“I—I wouldn't want you to go to any trouble on our behalf,” Geppetto said.

“Oh?” she said. “Is it really that much trouble to open my door to those in need?”

“N-n-no,” Geppetto stammered, “that's not what I—”

“I may be ugly, but that does not mean I am cruel.”

Geppetto, looking pained, placed his hand over his heart in the same way he had covered his heart when Pino had mistakenly thought Geppetto would want to get rid of him.

“Signora,” he said slowly, “I would
never
call you ugly. You have an uncommon beauty.”

She snorted derisively, but Geppetto merely went on looking at her, staring so long and steadfastly that she finally looked away. It was difficult to tell in the twilight, but Pino thought she might be blushing.

“Well then,” she said stiffly. “If you're going to come, you better get on with it. Like I said, there's a way to cross upstream. I'm—I'm going to have some vegetable stew tonight. It's not much, but you're welcome to join me.”

“We would be most grateful,” Geppetto said.

*  *  *

Her name, they soon learned, was Olivia. She lived in a cottage at the edge of the woods, not far from the inn of which she had spoken—an inn whose bawdy guests could be heard singing loud and off-key long into the night. The town of Deltora, inhabited mostly by goat herders and fur trappers, could be seen in the lighted windows sprinkling the hillside at the base of the mountains. They were close enough to the mountains now that Pino could see the star-studded sky yawning above the dark peaks.

When they asked her how many people lived there, she told them she didn't really know. Not more than a hundred, surely. Though she'd been born in Deltora, she'd only recently returned, and she seldom went into town. She had a cow for milk, a few chickens for eggs, and a bountiful vegetable garden that was her pride and joy. What more could a person want?

Neither Geppetto nor Pino asked her how she'd gotten her scars. Pino noticed that she always made sure to stand on their right. He didn't mind so much, except he always had to make sure Papa was between them so she wouldn't notice his right hand.

The stew, a wonderful mixture of vegetables with garlic and other spices, was the best meal they'd had in a month, but the long pauses in the conversation made it difficult to relax. After dinner, sitting by the fire crackling in the hearth, they began to talk more freely.

She even flashed a few smiles, mostly at something funny Geppetto said, and it warmed Pino's heart. Even better was the way Geppetto smiled back. It wasn't the same way he smiled at Pino. It was . . . different.

Getting used to going by Francisco was certainly hard, but he figured his papa had a good reason for it. His papa always
did. Nor were their names his only lies. He did tell her they'd been forced to leave home because they'd lost everything in a fire, but he didn't tell her
what
had caused the fire. He told her nothing of wooden puppets coming to life or angry villagers or anything at all of their adventures in the treetops.

Pino wished he could just tell Olivia the truth. Besides, keeping his right hand out of sight all the time was exhausting. He could barely think of anything else. Fortunately, Olivia rescued him by saying it was getting late and they'd best all retire for the night.

“I wish you'd sing for us first,” Geppetto said.

“Oh, no,” Olivia said.

“Just one song,” Geppetto pleaded. “Your voice—it is so lovely. It would be nice to be carried into pleasant dreams by it.”

“That's very kind of you, but no. No, I don't sing for anyone Not on purpose, anyway. Not anymore.”

“Anymore?” Geppetto said.

She frowned. “Yes. That is why I left Deltora so many years ago. I left to sing. And I did. I was quite famous, actually.”

“Then why—”

“Let me show you where you'll sleep,” she said abruptly. “I'm sure you're tired.”

The cottage sported only one bedroom, but there was a loft reachable by ladder, and she gave them heavy blankets to ward off the cold. If he'd come straight from his old bed, Pino would have been disappointed, but after sleeping in dank caves and moldy stumps the past few weeks, a dry loft and a few good blankets were wonderful.

It rained hard during the night, a constant drumming on the thatched roof, but not a drop reached them inside. Pino, worried about his hand, lay awake next to his snoring papa for
a long time, running his thumb along the wooden fingers—two of them now, the first and the second. The ridge where the flesh turned to wood was sensitive to the touch; if he pressed too hard in that place, it stung. The wood was definitely spreading.

In the morning Pino woke to the smell of freshly baked bread. It was no longer raining, and golden spears of light brightened the loft. He heard the clanging of a pail outside and then Olivia murmuring. When Pino rolled over, he saw that Geppetto was sewing a piece of cloth with a needle he'd made from a twig and some coarse thread he must have gotten from unraveling part of his own shirt.

“Papa?” Pino said.

Geppetto smiled at him. “I made something for you while you were sleeping,” he said, handing him what appeared to be a white glove. “Probably best to keep it out of sight for now, eh?”

It was a crude thing, obviously made from part of the tail of Geppetto's shirt, but it fit Pino's hand snugly. More importantly, it completely hid his wooden fingers.

“Thank you,” Pino said.

“I'm sure your hand will be better soon, boy,” Geppetto said, though he didn't sound all that sure. “This is just to be safe.”

“Safe?”

“That's right. I'm sure you noticed how I didn't tell Olivia the truth. We don't want anyone to know about us. About you. About what you can do. It would just make people ask questions.”

Pino nodded. “Papa?”

“Yes, boy?”

“Do you like Olivia?”

Geppetto turned bashful, smiling a secret smile. “Yes, I think I do. I think I like her quite a bit.”

“So we're staying here, then?”

“I hope so, boy. I really do.”

When they climbed down the ladder, they found Olivia entering the cottage with a pail of milk. The brisk morning air shook off the last remnants of Pino's sleepiness. Olivia smiled at them—or rather, smiled mostly at Geppetto—in much the same way Geppetto had smiled when Pino asked him if he liked Olivia. Pino also noticed that she'd done her best to comb her hair over the right side of her face.

“I baked you some rolls,” she said.

“They smell wonderful,” Geppetto said. “Sorry I didn't come down to lend a hand. I don't think I've ever slept so soundly.”

“It's no bother,” she said. “You must be exhausted from all your travels. I have milk and eggs, too. Come, sit.”

If the previous night's supper was the best they'd had in a month, the breakfast was even better, especially the moist, warm bread that dissolved like sugar in their mouths. Pino watched as Geppetto and Olivia stole quick glances at each other. When they'd eaten their fill, Geppetto went out to chop firewood—insisting, over her objections, he had to earn their breakfast—and left Pino alone with her.

She refilled his cup of milk. “You are lucky to have such a wonderful man as your papa, Francisco,” she said. “You know, there's a good school in town. If you—if you decide to stay for a while, that is.”

“I think we're going to stay,” Pino said, though he wasn't sure about school. He'd never been to a school and didn't know why he'd want to go when he could learn everything he needed from his papa. “I like it here.”

“I'm very glad,” she said.

Pino reached for his cup and was so distracted by talking to her, trying to be nice so she wouldn't have a reason to want them to leave, that he reached with his right hand instead of his left. Even wearing the glove, he'd tried to use just his left, since it seemed funny to be wearing a glove at the table. And of course she noticed.

“That's an interesting glove,” she said.

He took an extra-long drink of milk, then wiped off his chin. “Thank you. Papa—Papa made it for me.”

“I don't remember you wearing it yesterday.”

“I wasn't. I didn't. I—I only wear it sometimes. My hand, it got burned.”

Olivia looked concerned. “Oh no. You should let me see it. I might be able—”

“No, no, it's all right. It's okay. It's getting better.”

“Are you sure? It wouldn't hurt to show it to me. Here, let me see it.”

She reached for his hand, and Pino jerked it under the table. “It's okay,” he said.

“Francisco—”

“I better go help Papa,” he said, heading for the door. “He—he still gets tired quickly.”

Before she could answer, he headed for the door. He hoped that would be the last time she asked about his hand.

He hoped for it, but something told him it wouldn't be.

T
he next few weeks were some of the best of Pino's life. It had been good traveling with his papa, joking and laughing about the stupidest things, as only a father and son can, but there was something about adding Olivia to the mix that was even better.

She didn't laugh at all of Geppetto's jokes—in fact, most of the time she just wrinkled her nose as if to say what a silly man he was—and sometimes she scolded Pino when he didn't eat all his food or if he tracked mud into the cottage, but it was still much better having her around.

It was like they were a family. A real family, just like Pino had always wanted, with a father
and
a mother.

They settled into a routine, with Geppetto and Pino pitching in with the chores. Geppetto even started carving again, using tools borrowed from the inn. When he'd made some chairs and a couple of rocking horses, he ventured into town to sell them. Pino carved some things too, mostly toy animals, but he didn't go into town. Neither did Olivia, though when Geppetto started earning some money, she gave him a list of things to buy—mostly fruit, flour, and various spices. Geppetto bought her flowers almost every day.

It was during one of his trips into town that Olivia finally
got a glimpse of what was happening to Pino's hand. It wasn't because he wasn't wearing the glove. It was because the wood had spread
beyond
the glove without his realizing it, nearly up to his wrist, and she saw it when he was reaching to grab the milk pail from underneath the cow and the cloth slipped slightly.

“Oh my word,” she said. “Your—your skin.”

“It's all right,” Pino said. He hurried toward the cottage, the milk sloshing in the pail. The cow, uninterested, went on munching the grass. It was sunset, the sky a swirling mix of oranges and reds, but even late in the day frost still glazed the ground. It was getting colder.

She followed on his heels. “What's wrong with it?”

“I told you. It got burned.”

“That was a strange-looking burn.”

“It's getting better. It really is.”

“Hmm. I have a cream that could help with the healing. Perhaps if you let me—”

“No,” Pino insisted.

They were in the cottage now. He set the pail on the table, then pulled up his glove as far as it would go, which was just barely far enough to cover the hardened ridge between the flesh and the wood. She closed the door behind them and regarded him quietly for a while, arms crossed, lips pursed. Then she turned to the window. The setting sun, a yellow orb filling the paned glass, gave her a golden silhouette.

“Don't you like me, Francisco?” she asked.

“I like you.”

“Don't you want us all to be happy?”

“Yes.”

“Well, we can't be happy unless we tell each other things. We
can't be happy if we're always keeping secrets from each other.”

“But you're keeping a secret,” Pino insisted. “You—you don't tell us how . . . how . . .” He started boldly, but when it came time to say the words “how you got those scars,” he couldn't bring himself to do it.

It didn't matter. When she looked at him again, she pointed at the right side of her face, that patchwork of skin painted with crimson light from the setting sun. “This, you mean?” she said. “All right, I'll tell you. I'll tell your papa, too, when he comes back. A man did this to me.”

“A man?” Pino said.

“I told you I was a singer. He was . . . someone who helped me. Who was my teacher. He also arranged all of my concerts. We were very happy for a while, but . . . but he drank, you see. And when he drank, he sometimes got angry. One time he got very angry, and he did this to me.”

“I'm sorry,” Pino said.

Olivia shrugged. “He went to prison and I returned home. I—I couldn't get up there in front of people anymore. I couldn't stand the way they looked at me. I thought it would be better here, but . . . well, it doesn't matter. Now that you're here, I don't need to go into town at all. Teppo can do that.” She stepped close to him and, before he could pull away, took hold of his gloved hand. “Please let me see it, Francisco. Please trust me.”

He was scared of what she was going to do, but when she tugged at the glove, he didn't stop her. As the flesh that was now wood came into view, he watched her eyes, watched how they widened. The change had come to his entire hand now. She touched it, yanking her hand back as if scalded.