“Hhn?” The old man put his hands on his knees and bent down, craning his head to one side to look the dead man in the face. “Ah, nah, he’s not using those eyes anymore. He’s gone.” The old man straightened up, wincing slightly and putting a hand to the small of his back, joints creaking, breathing heavily. “Course,” he went on after he’d caught his breath, “something else could come along and use those eyes for themselves, which is what I’m worried about.”
The old man turned to Patrick.
“You got the paint I gave you in there?” He gestured with a knobby finger to the knapsack in Patrick’s arms.
Patrick blinked for a moment, then nodded, trying not to look at the dead man’s face. “Y-yes, Uncle Alf.”
“Bring it here, then.”
Patrick hesitated at the shadow’s edge.
“Now, boy,” the old man said, growing impatient.
Reluctantly Patrick shuffled forward, and held the knapsack out to his great-uncle.
The old man turned to him and shook his head. “Don’t need the bag. Just the paint.”
Patrick unzipped the knapsack and pulled out the small mason jar inside. The old man took the mason jar, and began to screw off the metal lid. “Got a brush, a stick, anything like that?”
Patrick looked into the knapsack, and shook his head slowly. “S-sorry, Uncle Alf. I hardly ever . . . I mean . . .”
He seldom used the paint. The old man paid Patrick a quarter for every one of the marks that he cleaned around the neighborhood, which usually involved plucking off vines or moss, or wiping away dirt or mud. But if any of the paint in the grooves had chipped away since the last visit, his instructions were to fill it back in with the special paint, as a temporary fix until his Uncle Alf could make more permanent repairs.
“Okay, okay, don’t worry. I can use my finger this time. The mark won’t have to last.” The old man handed Patrick the metal lid, lips pursed. Then he slowly lowered himself down on the pavement with considerable effort, his joints creaking audibly. “This—” he said, then grunted before continuing, “used to be easier.”
Finally, he was seated on the ground beside the dead man, breathing a little heavy, like he’d just walked up a few flights of stairs. He carefully placed the mason jar on the pavement beside him, and then stuck his index finger into the jar’s open mouth. When he pulled it out the finger was covered up to the first knobby knuckle in viscous white paint that sparkled faintly when the light struck it.
“But you should carry a brush, boy,” the old man said, as he bent low over the pavement. “No point in taking my paint if you don’t have a way to use it proper.”
“Yes, Uncle Alf.”
The old man began to draw a spiraling pattern on the pavement beside the dead man’s head.
“Course, if you’d found this fella a few blocks south of here, this wouldn’t be a problem.” The old man dipped his finger in the mason jar again, then shifted position and began to draw another spiraling pattern by the dead man’s left elbow. “There are enough marks on the houses there to protect entire blocks. But the Kururangis’ place is the closest house to here, and they’re a good . . . what? Two blocks away?”
The old man took a brief rest to catch his breath, and then held his finger in front of his face, studying the paint closely. “Could use more sea salt in the next batch, I think. Not quite enough crystals in this mix.” He sidled down until he was near the dead man’s feet, and started inscribing another spiraling pattern on the pavement there.
“He stinks.” Patrick pinched his nose. Standing this close, he could smell the dead man. Judging by the state of his clothes and hair, the vagrant probably hadn’t smelled very good when he was alive, but in death his smell was something else entirely.
The old man glanced up at him, chuckling. “You think this is rough? When I was a boy, back on the island, and my grandfather was tohuna, I had much worse jobs than this. But when he was a boy, he had to help his grandfather prepare the bodies of the dead for burial. Do you know what he had to do?”
“No.” Patrick lowered his hand and shook his head. “What?”
“First, the tohuna would slice the body open.” Reaching out his hand, the old man pointed at one side of Patrick’s stomach, then moved it quickly across to the other. “Then they would remove all of the organs and . . .” He broke off when he saw the stricken expression on Patrick’s face. “Maybe I’ll tell you when you’re a little older,” he added with a sympathetic smile.
Patrick nodded, swallowing hard.
The old man moved on to the space beside the dead man’s right arm, and rested for a moment. Then he dragged his finger along the pavement one last time, back and forth, up and down and around, leaving a trail of sparkling white paint behind.
Finally he sat up straight and regarded his work. “That should do.” He picked up the mason jar and held it out toward Patrick. “Here, take this.”
Patrick kept his hands at his sides, and looked from his grandfather to the dead man who lay on the pavement between them. In order to take the jar, Patrick would have to step closer and lean over the dead man himself.
“He can’t hurt you now,” the old man said. “That’s the whole point. Now close this up before it dries out.”
“Yes, sir.” Patrick stepped forward, took the mason jar, and then hurriedly stepped away as he screwed the metal lid back in place.
With his joints creaking audibly, the old man climbed to his feet, and then stood for a long moment with his hands on his knees, struggling to catch his breath. Then he wiped the remainder of the paint from his index finger
