David Almond - Skellig

No answer.

“You looked everywhere?” I said.

“Yes, everywhere.”

I touched my heart again and it was still the same.

“She’s dead,” I whispered.

“But maybe she’s fine.”

“I’ll phone the hospital,” I said, but I knew I wouldn’t dare.

We went out into the spring light. As we stepped out, we saw blackbird fledglings tottering into the cover of hedges. In the lane, an unknown cat hunched behind a rubbish bin, and watched us pass with hostile eyes.

“Your dad’ll come for you soon,” said Mina. “He’ll tell you everything’s fine.”

“Don’t tell him about me,” I said. “He doesn’t need to worry about me.”

She smiled and squeezed me tight.

“Where the hell’s Skellig?” I said.

She shook her head and we walked on. Miles above us, a great heavy bird flapped across the blue.

“William Blake used to faint sometimes,” said Mina. “He said the soul was able to leap out of the body for a while, and then leap back again. He said it could be caused by great fear or enormous pain. Sometimes it was because of too much joy. It was possible to be overwhelmed by the presence of so much beauty in the world.”

We walked on. My body was heavy and awkward, like I was arthritic, like I was turning to stone.

“I think you understand that,” she said.

I couldn’t speak. My mouth was dry and sour, like I’d swallowed the owls’ leavings from the windowsill.

“Yes,” she said. “That’s what he said. The soul leaps out and then leaps back again.” She laughed. “It’s like a dance.”

We went back to Mina’s house. We sat on the step and watched the fledglings.

“Maybe he’s gone away forever, like he said he would,” I said.

I held my hand against my heart, and we waited for Dad to come home.

MINA’S MOTHER RESTED A WOODEN board on her knees. She smiled and put a pomegranate on the board.

“Pomegranate,” she said. “Isn’t it a lovely word?”

She cut through the fruit with a kitchen knife. The red juice leaked out. The hundreds of seeds inside were exposed.

“It’s what Persephone ate while she was waiting in the Underworld,” she said.

She gave a quarter to me, a quarter to Mina, and took a quarter for herself. She gave us pins to pick the pips out with, and we sat there nibbling away the sweet flesh from the bitter seed.

“Look at all the life in this,” she said. “Every pip could become a tree, and every tree could bear another hundred fruits and every fruit could bear another hundred trees. And so on to infinity.”

I picked the pips from my tongue with my fingers.

“Just imagine,” she said. “If every seed grew, there’d be no room in the world for anything but pomegranate trees.”

I licked my lips. Mina sat close against me. We watched the blackbirds returning time and again to feed their young. I watched the sky and imagined Skellig flying away, a tiny black speck traveling over the endless curves of the world. The phone rang and my heart thudded and raced as Mina’s mother went inside, but it wasn’t Dad.

I picked seed after seed from the fruit.

“How’s your heart?” whispered Mina.

I tried to find the baby’s gentle beat beneath my fast and frightened thud.

I shook my head.

“She isn’t there.”

The sun climbed through the sky, became warmer, warmer.

Soon Mrs. Dando cycled into the street and saw us sitting there. She bustled into the garden while the blackbirds squawked their warning calls from the rooftop and the fledglings scuttled into cover.

“Such a lovely day,” she said.

She beamed at us.

“We’re all missing you again,” she said.

Mina’s mother gave her the final quarter of the pomegranate and she nibbled the seeds and giggled.

“Pomegranates,” she said. “Not had one of these since I was a girl of twelve.”

She told me about Leakey and Coot and all the others.

“They keep telling me—‘Get Michael to come back.’ ”

She gave me a new folder of work. There was a drawing of the opened body with arrows pointing to its parts. Rasputin’s note told me to write the missing names.

Mina and I looked at the drawing together.

“Tibia,” we said. “Fibula, sternum, clavicle, radius, ulna, kidneys, liver, lungs, heart, brain.”

“And spirit jumping in and jumping out but never seen,” said Mina.

Mrs. Dando looked at her. I knew that Coot would have talked to Mrs. Dando about her. A crazy monkey girl, he’d have said. The girl that sits in a tree like a crow. The girl that’s keeping him away.

Miss Clarts had written, “Write another story like the last one, Michael. Something just as lovely. Let your imagination fly.”

I closed my eyes. I wanted to imagine nothing. The baby was dead. Skellig was gone. The world that was left was ugly, cold, terrifying. The blackbirds squawked and squawked while Mrs. Dando told Mina’s mother about what a great footballer I was, about how I loved having a crazy time with the other boys.

Mina’s mother smiled.

“How’s the baby?” Mrs. Dando said at last.

“Don’t know,” I whispered.

“She’s having an operation today,” said Mina.

“Oh, poor little soul,” said Mrs. Dando.

“Yes,” said Mina. “And to be quite honest, Mrs. Dando, the last thing Michael needs is to be troubled by petty things like football and school.”

Her mother sighed.

“Mina,” she said.

“Well,” said Mina. “Isn’t it true? Michael?”

I couldn’t stand it. I went to sit on the front wall, facing away from them.

“See?” said Mina. “See how you’ve upset him?”

And then Dad drove into the street and parked the car in front of me. He held the door open. I got in beside him. He put his arm around me.

“It’s over, son,” he said.

I WAS WRONG. SHE WASN’T DEAD. She was in a long, deep sleep that followed the anesthetic. She was snoring gently beneath white blankets. Mum told us about the great wound in her tiny chest and the massive bandage that covered it. There were wires and tubes again and a machine that bleeped in rhythm with her tiny heart.

“They said everything’ll be all right now, Michael,” she said. “They’re sure everything’ll be all right.”

We sat there, the three of us, hand in hand, looking down at the delicate creature.

“They said there was a moment when they thought they’d lost her,” she said. She put her arm around me. “But she burst into life again.”

A nurse came. She checked the wires and tubes and the machine. She patted my head.

“Your sister’s got a heart of fire,” she said. “She’s a little fighter. She won’t give in.”

“You still say your prayers for her?” asked Mum.

“Yes,” I said.

“We’ve been wondering again what to call her,” said Dad.

“Persephone,” I said.

They laughed.

“Too much of a mouthful,” he said.

“It has to be something very little and very strong,” Mum said. “Just like she is.”

“Gus,” said Dad, and we giggled.

“Butch,” I said.

“Garth,” said Mum.

“Buster,” said Dad.

“Look,” said Mum. “She’s dreaming.”

And she was. Her eyes were moving behind their lids.

“Wonder what she sees,” said Dad.

“Only nice things, I hope,” said Mum.