Jan Urban | Author

SKELETON BOY, MY FRIEND

​

 

I found you in the cellar.

I unearthed you from the dry soil, where winter raged through your bones. Yet you did not shiver, nor did your teeth chatter.

You yearned for the world.

 

I feel it: I will die soon. I will die — I feel it.

I draw the quilt around me; cold overwhelms me. Where is Hector? I wonder. Where is that boy of bones? From the kitchen comes the sound of him working among the pots, attempting to brew me tea.

Breathing grows more laboured than yesterday, and yesterday itself was wearisome enough. I know I lack the strength to rise from this bed—and no longer even contemplate the attempt.

Hector returns, bearing in trembling hands a cup of steaming tea, mint-scented, as though I had the flu.

"But I have no flu," I tell Hector.

He remains silent, merely lifts the cup to my lips, and I take a small sip. He sets it upon the bedside table. His gaze drifts toward the window. I ask what he sees.

"Snow," Hector says sorrowfully. "Flakes falling like pieces of bread."

Like pieces of bread, I think. Hector, I’m proud of you.

"And the land is white as French cheese. The kind you bought at the corner shop," he continues, a flame flickering in his eyes. "Like cheese. Or like the paper upon which poems are written."

"Stop, Hector. Enough."

He takes my hand. Already he possesses greater strength than I, though he remains thin, and resembles a ladder.

He grips my hand with such force that pain shoots through me.

"Forgive me," he says, shame-faced, lowering his gaze.

"I’m leaving, Hector," I tell him.

"I know."

"I’m going."

"I know! Don't repeat it! I heard you!" Hector cries, rising abruptly to lean against the windowsill.

"I merely wish... I wish to tell you something," I say to the man who now stands in contemplative silence, watching the falling bread beyond the glass.

"I wish to tell you—if it proves possible—do the same with me. Please. The same thing I did for you."

Then a terrible cough seizes me.

Hector doesn’t so much as blink.

I remember the days when I would stroke his forehead, as if beads of sweat had gathered there. That was long ago.

He nods.

"You know well that I shall," he says at last. Anguish gleams in his eyes. "I owe you that."

He offers me the mint tea. Something constricts within my chest.

 

 

He sat upon the bed where light fell most favourably. In one hand he held a pencil taken from my study.

"What are you writing?"

"Nothing," he replied. The tone of his voice indicated I should not disturb him. Still, I paused to observe him. Immense joy swept through me.

"Hector," I addressed him. "You are composing poetry, are you not?"

He smirked.

"Yes, and what of it?" he said.

"I merely... it becomes you."

"Truly?" Pleasure flickered in his voice.

I nodded.

"Where have you been?" he asked.

"At the corner shop. I brought you something."

From the bag I withdrew a delicacy wrapped in greasy paper. Hector craned his slender neck with curiosity.

"Cut yourself a portion. It is excellent and nourishing."

He approached the table.

"Cheese!" he exclaimed. "I adore cheese!" And immediately he carved himself a piece, seated himself at the table, and attended to the cheese with quiet care.

I discreetly glanced at his papers.

"Don't look!" Hector said indignantly. "Wait until I finish!"

His brow furrowed; he appeared so childlike. He moved toward me to snatch the pages from my grasp. He need not have struggled—I surrendered them willingly.

"Know this," I said, "I’m always eager to read what you write. You have talent. I am proud of you, Hector."

"Thank you," he said.

He returned to the bed and once more took up paper and pencil. Occasionally he glanced at me, checking whether I might be spying.

"How is Carmen?" I inquired.

"Well."

"When will she come?"

"Perhaps this very evening."

"Should I prepare something?"

"Do not trouble yourself. I shall prepare something."

"Very well, as you wish. She is a lovely girl," I said. It seemed to me that his gaunt face flushed.

"Only a passing thought," I added.

Indeed he blushed. Then he nibbled at the cheese like a timid mouse.

A terrible cough came upon me.

"Are you well, Father?" he asked.

For a considerable while he watched me with concern, neither eating nor writing.

 

 

"Father," he called, while I arranged bundles of papers upon the shelves. It had taken me long to sort them, and I rejoiced to have finished. My eyes were weary; I required sleep.

"Father," Hector repeated. He favoured calling me thus.

"Yes?"

He appeared bashful and uncertain.

"May I request something of you? It is important to me. Not so much for me, as for..."

He hesitated to complete the sentence.

"For whom?"

"For her."

I seated myself upon a chair, cleared the age-dimmed film from my eyes, and regarded Hector. I smiled.

"What is her name?"

"Carmen," he said quietly. "She is ill. Could you examine her? I know you have concluded your medical practice, but... could you?"

"Certainly, Hector. I may have ended my practice, but helping others—that endures for life. Will she come here?"

He nodded.

"In fact," he continued, "she will arrive momentarily. I invited her to our home. Did I do something wrong?"

"No, my boy. Quite the contrary. You did exceedingly well."

He was pleased. He rubbed his thin fingers together, said nothing, merely stared at the floor. For an instant, a fleeting smile crossed his face.

"I shall await her and inform you."

"Very well, Hector."

I resumed my work while Hector tapped restlessly upon the panelled frame. He gazed at the cherry tree before the house. Leaves were falling from it.

A cough overtook me, the like of which had not come for some time. I felt weak and worn.

"She approaches," said Hector, hastening to the door.

A slender girl with long brown hair entered the courtyard. Wind blew stubbornly through her hair, and she swept it from her eyes. She wore a rose-coloured dress, her shoulders wrapped in a violet shawl.

They spoke quietly at the threshold. At last they stepped inside.

"This is Carmen, Father."

The girl greeted me courteously and offered her hand as young as she was.

As I examined her, I perceived how deeply Hector cared for her. He waited anxiously for whatever diagnosis I might pronounce.

"The girl has merely caught cold," I said.

Clearly—both were relieved.

I sent them to my colleague to collect medicine. They departed immediately. Hector wound his scarf about her neck; he merely turned up his own collar. He took her hand, and they stepped into the colourful autumn street. With her presence, it seemed even more vibrant.

 

 

That day I found him seated by the hearth. He stared rigidly into the flames. When necessary, he added wood.

"I wish to find a girl," he said into the silence. "I wish to find a girl, but none even look at me. They laugh at how thin I am."

Worry had carved furrows across his brow.

"Thin as a ladder," he added with anger.

He shook his head. Scratched at his hair. Felt along his smooth cheeks.

"Should I eat more?" he asked me.

I sighed.

"You eat sufficiently, Hector. You likely will not change. You must make peace with this."

He stared blankly at the floor. Folded his hands upon his knees.

"You are a physician. Can you not help me?"

I cannot, I thought. And besides... is it even possible? Has not enough already been accomplished? Perhaps this is as far as it extends.

"I regret that I cannot," I said.

"At school, in the poetry club, there is a girl... she has long brown hair and several golden freckles about her nose... I believe she appreciates my poems. I sense that she listens with her entire soul and... heart. Heart. Few listen with their hearts."

"Calm yourself, Hector. The world has changed. Be cautious whose heart you attempt to touch—if you manage to do so at all."

"You believe me incapable? That I remain some shapeless matter, unable to think or feel? You are mistaken!"

"I did not say that, Hector. I understand what troubles you. I understand you completely.

If I did not know what you lacked, you would not be here."

"I am here. But... sometimes, when wind blows, I place small sacks of sand in my coat pockets, so that I might walk like a normal person."

"You are a normal person."

"Hmm... but I shall not weep. I have endured worse things. I fought in Paris, even survived the plague. What worse could befall me?"

Well, you speak truly, I thought. In that case, nothing worse can likely come.

 

 

I smoked my pipe and waited for Hector. He should have returned home, and I merely hoped no misfortune had befallen him.

I glimpsed his fragile figure as he entered the courtyard. He wore a shirt that hung awkwardly upon him. His eyes seemed at times ready to crawl from their sockets, and the backpack containing several books, hanging from his right shoulder, pulled him earthward.

I must tell him not to carry it on one shoulder alone, flashed through my mind. Else he will become deformed.

When he entered, he brought with him a breath of fresh summer breeze. He greeted me, and immediately I noticed—his face bore an expression of delight.

I asked why he appeared so cheerful.

"Today—imagine!—they accepted me into the young poets' club! I recited my own poems to them, and they did not hesitate for a moment!"

"That brings me great joy, Hector. Incidentally, I wished to ask how you do at school."

"All is well, Father. Truthfully, history comes rather easily to me."

"I am not surprised."

"Yes, sometimes it even amuses me."

"Have you learned much that is new?"

"I must say yes. Some things seem almost incredible. Especially the technology—such marvels! I must admit, though I am older than my classmates, it sometimes takes me longer to comprehend. I believe the fault lies in my mind. It is simply... older. Do you understand?"

"Do they mock you?"

He hesitated before answering.

"They do. They laugh... sometimes.

When I tell someone how people once battled plague and cholera, how lime was poured into wells, how dead bodies were burned in the streets, how they murdered their own children when..."

Tears welled in his eyes.

I sought to calm him. I grasped his shoulders.

"Do not dwell upon it, my boy. Come now."

"What troubles me most is that they call me Skeleton," he said through tears.

"Because you are thin?"

"Yes."

"Pay it no mind. You will depart from there soon."

He wiped his nose with a handkerchief. When he had calmed, I took him for a walk.

Hector seemed to tremble—or perhaps I merely imagined it. I had not expected him to fear a new environment, though such was possible.

We stood in the corridor, where several unruly students ran about. They vanished presently, for the headmistress finally appeared.

"Good day, Headmistress. I am grateful you found time."

"Doctor, it is nothing. How may I assist you?"

"This boy..." My voice faltered. I indicated Hector, who stared at the floor. He appeared frightened. Was he truly cold, or did fear cause his trembling?

With my arm I attempted to embrace him entirely, that he might not freeze.

"This boy... is my nephew Hector, Headmistress. He requires several weeks at school."

The headmistress greeted him, but he merely glanced at her briefly before returning his gaze to the floor.

"He has recently endured great trauma. I speak to you as a physician," I said.

"I cannot relate the particulars of the case," I continued, and the headmistress nodded with understanding.

"I wish to say, however, that the boy requires time at school, to be among people, to learn, to revisit reading, to discover new things. Consider him somewhat... delayed. But not stupid! He learns with great rapidity. I am certain he will soon surpass even the finest students of his year. You see, he appears older as well."

"I observe that he is shy," said the headmistress.

"Yes, but he merely needs time to adjust. At home I even discovered his little poems. I believe he has talent. Please, read them. But I beg you, return them to me afterward! Notice—his handwriting trembles slightly. Notice, he himself trembles. It is from all that is new."

The headmistress gently touched his shoulder. She intended to comfort him—and instead caressed his bones. For a moment she seemed startled.

"Doctor... is this boy not undernourished?"

He is not, I wished to say. He is merely somewhat thin. He will gain weight. But observe, notice this: he writes poems. The boy composes poetry!

And that he is somewhat thin? That he stares at the ground?

The essential thing is that he lives at all!

When he opened his eyes, they held a dim light. Likely because only a candle illuminated the room.

I feared discovery. Yet I had done nothing wrong!

My thoughts were so strained that I needed rest. I seated myself upon a chair.

I gazed at the boy. Say something, I thought.

"What is your name?" I asked him.

For hours I had listened to his heart with a stethoscope. Gently tapping his cheek, awaiting his reactions, as though this were the finest medical technique.

When he opened his eyes, his breathing quickened briefly. He appeared surprised to be breathing. I could not fault him for that.

"What is your name?" I asked again.

He attempted to move his lips, but they seemed frozen. After a moment, however, he overcame them.

"Hector," he whispered.

Joy overcame me, and I knew not what to do with myself. My composure fled through the window. I fidgeted upon the chair, crossing and uncrossing my legs. I wondered whether to prepare him soup—surely he had not eaten for long, and he appeared thin, thin as a skeleton. Carefully with him now, I told myself, only carefully, else he will vanish again, and I do not wish that. My purpose is to sustain life, not squander it. And thus, since he has returned to this world, surely he deserves the greatest care.

The boy fell asleep and awakened at dawn.

Eagerly I asked him, "Whence did you come? What befell you?"

He stirred slowly, so I posed but one question, "What happened to you?"

And he, breathing laboriously yet concealing the growing vital force within, answered, "They killed me. Because... the plague."

I swallowed my sorrow and touched his body with care. As though I still could not believe he lived. That he lay living—and whole—in my bed, as though nothing had occurred.

"What happened?" he now asked me.

I touched his chest. His ribs could be discerned from a hundred meters, but this no longer seemed significant.

Am I to lose my reason? Or retain my sanity?

Should I be conveyed to an asylum for witnessing this transformation?

Merely an hour past, his body was not clothed in skin with human pigment, but only in deeply embedded dermis. Shortly before, it had been wrapped solely in subcutaneous tissue.

Earlier—I envision clock hands moving backward—only muscle fibres emerged, sheathed in capillaries.

First appeared the frail muscular bundles, encased in veins and arteries. I had believed blood would never flow through them.

I was mistaken.

But before veins and arteries took root, within him organs proliferated: lungs, liver, kidneys—the heart strengthened, the stomach expanded—all in proper place. I am a physician; I understand these things. These organs grew as if by miracle, from white matter, or from the tissue connecting all bones?

Did blood and lymph spring from there?

No?

Then whence?

For before, there was nothing—only bare skeleton. It resembled a ladder. Even after such time it remained white, as though untouched by any filth, mold, time—nothing.

It took me long to carry those bones to the bed and assemble them once more into a human form. The shape of the pelvis indicated it was a boy. I stroked his frontal bone, as though beads of perspiration had gathered upon it.

In my own hands I bore your bones, for a long time, dragging them by dozens.

And now you ask what occurred?

I found you in the cellar. I unearthed you from the dry soil, where winter raged through your bones. But you did not shiver, nor did your teeth chatter.

You yearned for the world.