The Marrow Thieves (Marrow Thieves #1)

by Cherie Dimaline

I imagined spiderwebs in my bones and turned my palm towards the moon, watching the ballet of bones between my elbow and wrist twist to make it so.

I wondered if the horses I’d ridden into this dawn were still caught in there like bugs, whinnying at the shift.

Once, when I’d asked him, he’d told me that was where he kept his heart, because it was too dangerous to keep it in his chest, what with the sharp edges of bones so easily broken.

I watched the word Story puff over the fire and spread into a cumulative haze that smelled of ground roots and acrid burn just above our dark heads.

Miig leaned in so that the fire illuminated his face from the bottom like unsteady stage lights.

We sang it around and around in our warbling voices somewhere between youth and where they would settle, like bees around a single flower.

The moon lit the wide front hall in pale ribbons, turning the dust and broken bits of chair and wainscoting and climbing vines from feral houseplants into fairy tale turrets. We walked slowly, out of habit, out of fear, but also, now, out of reverence. This space felt untouched. We could feel the thrum of old activity sliding along the floorboards, caught in the keyholes of closed doors. Everything had been shut tight while so much was still supposed to happen. The intent and plans hadn’t had time to vacate. And here we were now opening the lid of a sealed jar, and all the anticipation of a tomorrow planned a thousand yesterdays ago came skittering to our feet like slick-shelled beetles.