Read Online Confessions of a Five-Chambered Heart by Caitlin R. Kiernan - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Caitlin R. Kiernan
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are a few here from India that I picked up from collectors who acquired them before India banned the export of human skeletons. And yes, I assure you it’s all perfectly legal. And none of the animal bones come from endangered species, for that matter. A few are actually fossil, some mammoth bones from Siberia and Alaska, and there’s some dinosaur material from Canada, Wyoming, Montana, and Mongolia, but these are mostly extant species.”
“Extant?”
“Still living today,” she says. “Not extinct.”
The boy nods again, squinting at a complicated roseate of weasel, skunk, and rodent skulls. “So, you paid me all that extra money to see... this ?”
“No,” the collector of bones says, and she slips the cranberry ribbon over her head, so that the key dangles in the space between her bare breasts. “I’m afraid you’re going to have to work just a little harder than that to earn your bonus, kiddo.”
“What? You want me to fuck you again, in here?”
“No. That’s not what I had in mind, either. I want to photograph you, that’s all,” and then the boy starts to touch the snout of a beaver skull, but she stops him, her hand encircling his thin wrist and guiding it away. “Look, but don’t touch, unless I say touch.”
“You want to take my picture,” he says. “That’s all?”
“Are you disappointed?” she asks. “You’re not afraid of being photographed, are you?”
“No, and no,” he replies, frowning. “I was asking, that’s all. I figured it’d be more... more involved, more intimate.” And then he starts to say something more, but stops himself.
“More intimate? Don’t you think that photographs can be intimate? Especially nude photographs, when the subject is so completely...” The collector of bones pauses a moment, searching for the right word and finally settling on accessible.
“That’s not the sort of intimate I meant. I’ve never posed for anyone before.” He’s stopped inspecting the beaver skull and has moved along to an assortment of leg bones, mostly tibiae and fibulae and most of them taken from various sorts of deer and antelope. The bones have been set into a thin layer of plaster of Paris and aligned to form a sort of spiraling sunburst formation, with the smallest bones at the center and the largest forming the perimeter.
“It won’t take long,” she says, as if she hasn’t already paid him more than he was likely to make all night.
“Lady, you’re an odd one,” the boy sighs, and she nods and agrees with him, because she hardly sees what’s to be gained by denying anything so obvious.
“So, you’re cool with this, my taking your picture?”
“Hey,” the boy says, raising the nearly empty bottle of brandy as if he means to toast her, “whatever floats your boat.”
“You really should be more careful what you offer,” she tells him, but he’s drunk enough now that her words fail to register as either a joke or a warning. And then the collector of bones takes the boy by the hand and leads him past a rough ziggurat fashioned from human skulls and the skulls of horses and cows and goats. Just beyond the ziggurat, where she’s hidden a window underneath plywood and more gypsum plaster and yet another sunburst (this one built primarily from the remains of coyotes), there is a low dais supporting a chair built almost entirely from the thigh bones and ribs of dead men and women, its seat and back upholstered with cerise velvet. She asks him to sit, and he does so with only a moment’s hesitation. She steps back and stares at the boy fora minute or two, then turns to a pair of elk antlers nailed to the wall and removes one of the necklaces of python and anaconda and rattlesnake vertebrae hanging there. She drapes it about his neck and takes the now empty brandy bottle with its tattered label from his hands. He doesn’t protest on either account, but only glances down at the necklace resting against his bare and hairless chest, and then
“Extant?”
“Still living today,” she says. “Not extinct.”
The boy nods again, squinting at a complicated roseate of weasel, skunk, and rodent skulls. “So, you paid me all that extra money to see... this ?”
“No,” the collector of bones says, and she slips the cranberry ribbon over her head, so that the key dangles in the space between her bare breasts. “I’m afraid you’re going to have to work just a little harder than that to earn your bonus, kiddo.”
“What? You want me to fuck you again, in here?”
“No. That’s not what I had in mind, either. I want to photograph you, that’s all,” and then the boy starts to touch the snout of a beaver skull, but she stops him, her hand encircling his thin wrist and guiding it away. “Look, but don’t touch, unless I say touch.”
“You want to take my picture,” he says. “That’s all?”
“Are you disappointed?” she asks. “You’re not afraid of being photographed, are you?”
“No, and no,” he replies, frowning. “I was asking, that’s all. I figured it’d be more... more involved, more intimate.” And then he starts to say something more, but stops himself.
“More intimate? Don’t you think that photographs can be intimate? Especially nude photographs, when the subject is so completely...” The collector of bones pauses a moment, searching for the right word and finally settling on accessible.
“That’s not the sort of intimate I meant. I’ve never posed for anyone before.” He’s stopped inspecting the beaver skull and has moved along to an assortment of leg bones, mostly tibiae and fibulae and most of them taken from various sorts of deer and antelope. The bones have been set into a thin layer of plaster of Paris and aligned to form a sort of spiraling sunburst formation, with the smallest bones at the center and the largest forming the perimeter.
“It won’t take long,” she says, as if she hasn’t already paid him more than he was likely to make all night.
“Lady, you’re an odd one,” the boy sighs, and she nods and agrees with him, because she hardly sees what’s to be gained by denying anything so obvious.
“So, you’re cool with this, my taking your picture?”
“Hey,” the boy says, raising the nearly empty bottle of brandy as if he means to toast her, “whatever floats your boat.”
“You really should be more careful what you offer,” she tells him, but he’s drunk enough now that her words fail to register as either a joke or a warning. And then the collector of bones takes the boy by the hand and leads him past a rough ziggurat fashioned from human skulls and the skulls of horses and cows and goats. Just beyond the ziggurat, where she’s hidden a window underneath plywood and more gypsum plaster and yet another sunburst (this one built primarily from the remains of coyotes), there is a low dais supporting a chair built almost entirely from the thigh bones and ribs of dead men and women, its seat and back upholstered with cerise velvet. She asks him to sit, and he does so with only a moment’s hesitation. She steps back and stares at the boy fora minute or two, then turns to a pair of elk antlers nailed to the wall and removes one of the necklaces of python and anaconda and rattlesnake vertebrae hanging there. She drapes it about his neck and takes the now empty brandy bottle with its tattered label from his hands. He doesn’t protest on either account, but only glances down at the necklace resting against his bare and hairless chest, and then
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