The Bone Caster

She did not speak when she cast them.
She never had to.

The bones made the sound
clicks as they knock into each other,
a toneless tap tap of prenotions and omens.
Each one carved,
worn smooth by generations of palms
who touched more truth than comfort.

No one knew what beast they came from.
Goat, wolf, deer.
It didn’t matter.
Once they were bones.
Now they were language.

She would light the hearth.
Always cedar.
Dried broom bloom to ward off the negative.
She’d set them down in a leather circle.
Let them fall where they willed.

And the fire would flare,
just slightly.
Just enough to listen.

The villagers came with questions
they wouldn’t say aloud.
They’d say:

“For the harvest,”
“For the marriage,”
“For the child.”

But what they meant was:

How long until winter?
Will he still love me?
Will the sickness take him?

She never lied.
Not even when she wanted to.
She’d touch the rib bone,
smooth and white as milk glass,
and say,

“Three nights of rain before the frost.”
“He walks away in the morning.”
“He lives to see spring.”

And when the villagers wept,
the bones were quiet.
They had already spoken.

One winter, the river froze early.
The bones told her nothing.
They fell silent.
She waited.
They cracked.

Just once.

Like a voice clearing its throat
at the end of the world.
She lit cedar.
Sat beside the hearth.
Let them rest in her lap like children.

And when she asked the last question
the one all casters carry and never cast

What will become of me?

They answered with one final fall:
A perfect ring,
all bones touching.

Not a death.
Not a warning.
Just... peace.

Now they rest in a carved box
buried beneath the old stone hearth.
The kindling above them smells like
broom blooms and cedar.

And some say,
on nights the wind forgets where it’s going,
you can still hear the bones roll once,
soft as a whispered sigh,
and tell the fire a secret.

by: Heather Patton / Verdant Butterfly

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©2026 Heather Patton · The Verdant Butterfly
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