David Almond - Skellig

He tipped his head back again, and I poured again.

I looked back at Mina’s dark form looking down at us, her pale face, her mouth and eyes gaping in astonishment.

“Who are you?” she whispered.

“Mr. Had Enough of You,” he squeaked.

“I saw a doctor,” I said. “Not Dr. Death. One that could fix you.”

“No doctors. Nobody. Nothing. Let me be.”

“You’ll die. You’ll crumble away and die.”

“Crumble crumble.” He tipped his head back. “More beer.”

I poured more beer.

“I brought these as well,” I said.

I held a cod-liver oil capsule out to him.

“Some people swear by them,” I said.

He sniffed.

“Stink of fish,” he squeaked. “Slimy slithery swimming things.”

There were tears in my eyes.

“He just sits here,” I said. “He doesn’t care. It’s like he’s waiting to die. I don’t know what to do.”

“Do nothing,” he squeaked.

He closed his eyes, lowered his head.

Mina came in beside us. She crouched, stared at his face as dry and pale as plaster, at the dead bluebottles and cobwebs, at the spiders and beetles that scuttled across him. She took the flashlight from me. She shined it on his thin body in the dark suit, on the long legs stretched out on the floor, on the swollen hands that rested at his side. She picked up one of the dark furry balls from beside him.

“Who are you?” she whispered.

“Nobody.”

She reached out and touched his cheek.

“Dry and cold,” she whispered. “How long have you been here?”

“Long enough.”

“Are you dead?”

He groaned.

“Kids’ questions. Always the same.”

“Tell her things,” I said. “She’s clever. She’ll know what to do.”

He laughed but he didn’t smile.

“Let me see her,” he said.

Mina turned the light to her face, and it was brilliant white, with pitch-dark gaps where her mouth and eyes were.

“I’m called Mina,” she said.

She sighed.

“I’m Mina,” she said. “You’re …?”

“You’re Mina,” he said. “I’m sick to death.”

She touched his hands. She lifted his filthy cuff and touched his scrawny twisted wrists.

“Calcification,” she said. “The process by which the bone hardens, becomes inflexible. The process by which the body turns to stone.”

“Not as stupid as she looks,” he squeaked.

“It is linked to another process,” she said, “by which the mind too, becomes inflexible. It stops thinking and imagining. It becomes hard as bone. It is no longer a mind. It is a lump of bone wrapped in a wall of stone. This process is ossification.”

He sighed.

“More beer,” he said.

I poured more beer into his mouth.

“Take her away,” he whispered.

The roof trembled in the breeze. Dust fell on us.

Mina and I crouched close together, our knees almost resting on him. She twisted her face as she caught the stench of his breath. I took her hand and guided it to his shoulder blades. I pressed her fingertips against the bulge beneath his jacket. She leaned across him, felt his other shoulder blade. When she looked at me her eyes in the flashlight beam were shining bright.

Her face was almost touching his. Their pale skin bloomed in the light.

“What are you?” she whispered.

No answer.

He sat there with his head lowered, his eyes closed.

“We can help you,” she whispered.

No answer.

I felt the tears running from my eyes.

“There’s somewhere we could take you,” said Mina. “It’s safer there. Nobody would know. You could just sit there dying, too, if that’s really what you want.”

Something brushed past us. I shined the light down, saw Whisper entering the space behind the tea chests.

“Whisper!” said Mina.

The cat moved to his side, pressed itself against his damaged hands. He sighed.

“Smooth and soft,” he whispered.

His knuckles moved against the cat’s soft fur.

“Sweet thing,” he whispered.

Whisper purred.

The timbers creaked. Dust fell on us again.

“Please let us take you somewhere else,” I said.

“More beer,” he whispered.

I held out a cod-liver oil capsule.

“Take one of these as well,” I said.

He tipped his head back. I poured the beer in. I dropped the capsule onto his pale tongue.

He opened his eyes. He looked deep into Mina. She looked deep into him.

“You must let us help you,” she said.

He was silent for a long time.

“Do what you want,” he sighed.

WE STOOD IN THE BACKYARD. WHISPER sat beneath us. We picked the bluebottles and webs out of each other’s clothes and hair. Her eyes were burning bright.

“He’s an extraordinary being,” she said.

The breeze blew and the garage creaked.

“We’ll take him out tonight,” she said.

“At dawn,” I said.

“We’ll call each other. We’ll hoot like owls. We’ll make sure we wake.”

We stared into each other.

“An extraordinary being,” she whispered.

She opened her hand and showed me the dark ball of congealed skin and bone she had brought out with her.

“What is it?” I said.

She bit her lip.

“It can’t be what I think it is,” she said. “It can’t be.”

Dad came to the back window. He stood there watching us.

“I’ll go back now,” I said. “I’ll carry on doing the garden.”

“I’ll go back to making the blackbird.”

“I’ll see you at dawn.”

“At dawn. I won’t sleep.”

She squeezed my hand, slipped out through the gate with Whisper at her heels.

I turned back into the yard. I waved at Dad. My heart was thundering. I knelt in the soil, wrenched at the weeds, sent black beetles scattering.

“He won’t die,” I whispered. “He won’t just die.”

Later, Dad came out. We drank orange juice together and sat against the house wall.

He grinned.

“You like Mina, then,” he said.

I shrugged.

“You do,” he said.

“She’s extraordinary,” I said.

I WAS WITH THE BABY. WE WERE tucked up together in the blackbird’s nest. Her body was covered in feathers and she was soft and warm. The blackbird was on the house roof, flapping its wings, squawking. Dr. MacNabola and Dr. Death were beneath us in the garden. They had a table filled with knives and scissors and saws. Dr. Death had a great syringe in his fist.

“Bring her down!” he yelled. “We’ll make her good as new!”

The baby squeaked and squealed in fright. She stood at the edge of the nest, flapping her wings, trying for the first time to fly. I saw the great bare patches on her skin: She didn’t have enough feathers yet, her wings weren’t strong enough yet. I tried to reach for her but my arms were hard and stiff as stone.

“Go on!” the doctors yelled. They laughed. “Go on, baby! Fly!”

Dr. MacNabola lifted a shining saw.

She teetered on the brink.

Then I heard the hooting of an owl. I opened my eyes. Pale light was glowing at my window. I looked down, saw Mina in the yard with her hands against her face.

Hoot. Hoot hoot hoot.

“I didn’t sleep all night,” I said, once I’d tiptoed out to her. “Then at the very last minute when the night was ending I did.”

“But you’re awake now?” she said.