These Old Bones

A Short Story

The Hanged Monk Francisco José de Goya y Lucientes c.1810

Carrigen ran his fingers over the small linen sack. He probed its contents through the cloth, tracing the bumps and ridges until his fingers found the cinched opening. The compulsion always hit him after a job: he wanted to take it out and look it over properly. He muttered to himself.

“I didn’t get a good look. It was too dim.”

His hand flinched away as if bitten. He did not want his curiosity to get the better of him. The tavern was not crowded, but that always made a regular man more conspicuous, to say nothing of a thief.

Over the sound of slamming mugs and blurted drunken laughter, Carrigen heard the bells of the distant cathedral. They were tolling the third watch—and nothing else, thankfully.

The client was late. They had agreed to meet to make the exchange an hour ago, but the strange crippled man had not yet appeared.

“Probably the rain.”

The unlikely client was a priest, if his clothing was to be believed. The plain brown robe of a familiar holy order had been visible beneath his hooded cloak, and the rosary beads around his neck had been well worn. All of which which made his request all the more strange. Carrigen had not done a job for a simple priest before. Bishops or cardinals? Sure. But never a priest. And never something from a church.

“Maybe he kicked the bucket. A wreck of a man.”

A lot of money was at stake. Enough to ensure that Carrigen complied with the client’s rather strict instructions that he only steal the item—almost worthless removed from its context—and forego taking anything else: silver candlesticks, chalices, coins from alms box, or the bejeweled golden box he had opened to remove the artifact.

“If he doesn’t show, I’m tossing that bone in the river going straight back to that church and taking that box.”

But he was curious. He fingered the drawstring of the bag.

“Why would that boney old fool want this fool old bone? Probably thinks it can heal him.”

There was a thud at the tavern door, Carrigen’s hands recoiled from the bag again. The door swung open slamming against the wall. A gust of wind rushed through the room bringing in the sounds and smells of the storm outside with it. A rain-soaked figure followed behind, oblivious to the glares of the men seated nearest the entrance whose backs were now spattered with cold water.

Carrigen slid the bag off the table and onto his lap, covering it with his left and palming the hilt of a concealed dagger with his right.

Cursing, a patron rose and slammed the door shut.

Carrigen’s client stumbled forward. One leg was stiff and unbending, the other was twisted and buckled suddenly at every step. It occurred to Carrigen that the priest must have been tall, before he became a hunched spindly scarecrow, that is. He was cloaked, and water soaked the hood that concealed his face and ran all the way down to drip from the silver toes of his crucifix. The hood had also been up on the occasion of their first meeting a few days prior. The priest left a slick of water across the uneven floor. With a wet sigh he slumped down into the seat opposite Carrigen.

The priest held out an open left hand, fingers gnarled with age. Carrigen shook his head.

“You first.”

With the same left hand, the old man retrieved a leather purse from inside his cloak. He jingled the coins inside. They sounded heavy, valuable. He tossed the bag on the table.

With the silent speed of a pickpocket, Carrigen swapped his own bag for the coins and secreted the money away, his other hand always on the knife.

The priest tried to speak, but only a slack slobbering sound came from beneath the cowl. He held up a finger in a request for patience. Working open the drawstring with his one good hand, he upended the bag and dumped out its contents.

The smooth jawbone clattered onto the table. He looked it over, apparently counting the teeth. The priest slowly lifted the bone into the dark shadow of his cowl. To the accompaniment of a sucking squelching sound, his hand pressed and shifted, meeting resistance before finally relaxing. He slid the hood back off his head to reveal an ancient weathered face; eyes kind, but cunning.

He rubbed at his jaw.

“It’s been a long time,” he rasped, then clearing his throat, “A job well done, my son.”

Carrigen’s own jaw hung open.

The priest pushed the cloak off his right shoulder to reveal his sleeve, rolled up and hanging heavy where his arm should have been. A knotted string kept the sleeve in place. He undid the knot. The sleeve uncoiled in a rush and at its opening a boneless hand slapped down onto the tabletop.

“If you are available, I have another job that requires your special touch.”