David Almond - Skellig

“See?” she said. “I said we’d get you singing.”

The night deepened and we knew we’d have to go home soon.

“I could sleep here,” she said. “Just like this. And be happy forever.”

I sighed.

“But we have to go.”

We didn’t move.

And then there was a sudden rustling in the air outside, the stars were blocked out, the window creaked, and there he was, climbing in through the arched frame. He didn’t see us. He crouched on the floor, gasping for breath. His wings slowly settled on his back.

“Skellig,” I hissed.

He turned his moon-pale face toward us.

“Michael. Mina,” he said. His voice was shallow, thin, strained, but a smile was forming on his face.

I held out the paper bag.

“We brought you this, Skellig. 27 and 53.”

“Ha!”

I opened the bag and we took it to him. We knelt at his side. He hooked his long curved finger into the food, lifted out a string of sauce and pork and bean sprouts. He licked it from his finger with his long pale tongue.

“Sweetest of nectars,” he whispered. “Food of the blinking gods.”

“And this,” I said.

I snapped the top off the bottle and he let me trickle the beer into his open mouth.

“Thought it was cold mice for supper and I come home to a banquet.”

He ate again, sighed with contentment.

“Pair of angels,” he said. “That’s what you are.”

We watched him eat and drink, saw him gathering his strength.

“You went to my sister,” I said.

He laughed.

“Hm! Pretty little thing.”

“You made her strong.”

“That one’s glittering with life. Heart like fire. It was her that gave the strength to me.”

He sipped at the beer again.

“But worn out now,” he said. “Exhausted.”

Then he reached out and touched Mina’s face, then mine.

“But I’m getting strong, thanks to the angels and the owls.”

He put the food and drink aside and leaned against the wall.

We sat in a tiny circle, the three of us, and for minutes we just watched each other and smiled.

“You’re going away,” I said at last.

He closed his eyes and nodded.

“Where will you go?” I said.

He shrugged, pointed out to the sky.

“Somewhere,” he said.

I touched his dry, cold hand.

“What are you?” I whispered.

He shrugged again.

“Something,” he said. “Something like you, something like a beast, something like a bird, something like an angel.” He laughed. “Something like that.”

He smiled.

“Let’s stand up,” he said.

We made our circle and we held each other tight. We looked deep into each other’s eyes. We began to turn. Our hearts and breath were together. We turned and turned until the ghostly wings rose from Mina’s back and mine, until we felt ourselves being raised, until we seemed to turn and dance in the empty air.

And then it ended and we came to earth again.

“We’ll remember forever,” said Mina.

Skellig leaned forward and hugged us both.

He licked a drop of red sauce from his lips.

“Thank you for 27 and 53,” he said. “Thank you for giving me my life again. Now you have to go home.”

We watched him as we walked toward the door and as we pulled it open. We peered through as we slowly pulled it closed. He gazed back at us with his tender eyes. Then we went silently down through the house and we stepped out with Whisper into the astounding night.

I WAS BRILLIANT AT SCHOOL NEXT day. Nobody could get the ball away from me. I did body swerves and dribbles and flicks. I skipped over tackles, back-heeled the ball to my teammates, scored with diving headers and with long shots curled into the corners of the net.

After the bell rang and we were trailing back to the school across the field, Leakey ran after me.

“Lucky dog,” he said. “You’ll never play like that again.”

I laughed.

“Luck? What about this, then?”

I dropped the ball and dribbled it round him. I flicked it between his legs and ran on with it. Then he got me with a thumping tackle into the back of my legs that sent us both sprawling.

“Foul!” I shouted. “Foul!”

We started wrestling, rolling over and over on the grass. He was bigger than me and he pinned me down, sat over me, pressed my shoulders into the ground.

He was grinning.

“Say it again,” he said.

“Foul! Bloody foul!”

He lifted his fist like he was going to smash me in the face but then he just laughed and flopped down and lay beside me.

“Bloody hell,” he said. “You were brilliant.”

We lay there laughing; then Mrs. Dando started yelling.

“Get in, you two! You’re going to be late!”

We walked together toward school.

“It’s like you’ve been miles and miles away,” he said.

“I know,” I said.

“Would you tell me about it?” he said.

We paused and I looked at him and I knew he really wanted to know.

“Someday I’ll tell you everything,” I said.

We saw Coot in the school doorway waiting for us.

“Might even tell that crazy nut,” I said. “If I think he might believe it.”

Then Mrs. Dando was yelling again.

“Come on, you two! Come on! Get in!”

THAT EVENING AND THE EVENINGS that followed, I helped Dad in the house. I mixed wallpaper paste for him and carefully painted door frames and window frames with him. We went to see Mum and the baby in the hospital. The baby soon came out of her long sleep and she got stronger and stronger. They took the wires and tubes out of her and they switched off the machine. The bandages on her chest were smaller and smaller. Every evening she sat in my lap, twisting and turning and gurgling. She learned how to stick out her tongue at us, and her mouth and eyes started to smile.

“Look at her,” we’d say. “Little devil.”

And Mum would laugh and say, “Watch out. We’re coming home soon.”

I used to look for Dr. MacNabola, but I never saw him again.

We had lots of Chinese take-out. Dad winked and said we had to keep it quiet or Mum would have us on salad for a month. I poked his stomach.

“Mightn’t be a bad idea, Fatso.”

“You don’t want them, then?” he said. “No more 27 and 53, then?”

“That’s right, Fatso,” I said. “I’ll have … 19 and 42 instead.”

“Ha! A bit of imagination, eh?”

After we’d eaten, I’d go to Mina’s. We drew and painted on her kitchen table. We read William Blake and we wrote stories about adventures in old houses and journeys to far-off imaginary places.

Each evening, Mina used to ask, “When’s she coming home, Michael? I can hardly wait. I haven’t even seen her yet.”

We went one more time to the attic before the baby came home. The sun was still shining. It hung low and red and huge over the city.

The attic was empty and silent. She pointed to the heap of owl pellets beneath the nest.

“Don’t go near,” she said. “They’ll defend their chicks to the death.”

We stood at the center, remembering Skellig.

“Someone else might find him now,” said Mina.

“Yes,” I said. “I hope they do.”

Then we saw the outline of a heart scratched into the floorboards beneath the arched window. Just outside the heart was scratched, Thank you . S., and inside were three small white feathers.