David Almond - Skellig

“Come and see,” I said.

I took her hand and led her into the kitchen. She said good evening politely to my parents. She said she hoped they didn’t mind. Dad shifted aside to let her in beside the table. She looked down at the baby.

“She’s beautiful,” she gasped. “She’s extraordinary!”

And she looked around and laughed with us all.

She was really shy again when she said, “I brought a present. I hope you don’t mind.”

She unrolled a picture of Skellig, with his wings rising from his back and a tender smile on his white face.

Mum caught her breath.

She stared at me and she stared at Mina. For a moment, I thought she was going to ask us something. Then she simply smiled at both of us.

“Just something I made up,” said Mina. “I thought the baby might like it on her wall.”

“It’s really lovely, Mina,” Mum said, and she took it gently from Mina’s hands.

“Thank you,” said Mina. She stood there awkwardly. “I’ll leave you alone now.”

I led her back to the door.

We smiled at each other.

“See you tomorrow, Mina.”

“See you tomorrow, Michael.”

I watched her walk away in the late light. From across the street, Whisper came to join her. When Mina stooped down to stroke the cat, I was sure I saw for a second the ghostly image of her wings.

Back in the kitchen, they were talking again about giving the baby a proper name.

“Persephone,” I said.

“Not that mouthful again,” said Dad.

We thought a little longer, and in the end we simply called her Joy.

I GREW UP IN A BIG FAMILY IN A small steep town overlooking the River Tyne, in England. It was a place of ancient coal mines, dark terraced streets, strange shops, new real estate developments, and wild heather hills. Our lives were filled with mysterious and unexpected events, and the place and its people have given me many of my stories. I always wanted to be a writer, though I told very few people until I was “grown up.” I’ve published lots of fiction for adults, and I’ve won a number of prizes. I’ve been a mailman, a brush salesman, an editor, and a teacher. I’ve lived by the North Sea, in inner Manchester, and in a Suffolk farmhouse, and I wrote my first stories in a remote and dilapidated Norfolk mansion.

Writing can be difficult, but sometimes it really does feel like a kind of magic. I think that stories are living things—among the most important things in the world.