This one is based on a thing my father once showed me, way back a few years ago. A wire fence, stretching across a property line, studded with animal bones and tiny flags. No reason for it that I could see. It seemed too odd not to turn into something.
So here’s something.
The Rattle-Bone Wire hung on the edge of Saxon land, down near the pond and the road of the same name.
It marked the boundary of Saxon land. Still does, as a matter of fact. It stretches from Cornsnake Road over to Callygar, and every inch of it is twined with bones. Some bleached, some brown.
Some white as new-fallen snow.
Nobody knew why the bones where there. Nobody except the Saxons and nobody could get a word out of them half-ways understandable. They replaced the bones when one fell off, though where they got the new bones no one asked. And they added to it constantly, so much so that the wire was more a bone-wall than fence at times.
There was a rumor that cropped up from time to time that not all the bones were deer or cows or hogs. Some of them were too long, too straight. Those rumors never went far. The law didn’t go onto Saxon land. Not one toe, not one inch. So the rumors would fade and go dark for a bit until some hunter caught sight of the bone-wire again and saw a jawbone that didn’t quite look right or a femur that was too long. Then the whispers would start all over again.
It was said, by those as who had been, that whenever an outsider stepped over the bone-wire, it would begin to click and clack, as if a strong wind had come up. Only there never was no wind. But them bones clickity-clacked all the same. That’s why folks took to calling it the Rattle-Bone Wire, I suppose.
But you’d have to ask the Saxons to be sure.