David Almond - Skellig

I wore a pair of old gloves. I used an old pair of scissors to cut the stems that wouldn’t snap. I dug down with a trowel to get at the roots. Thistle thorns stuck in my skin. There was green sap all over me. I made a big pile of weeds and a heap of stones against the house wall. I found spiders dangling from my hair and clothes. Shiny black beetles scurried away from me. Centipedes squirmed down into the loosened soil. As the morning went on I cleared a wider and wider space. Dad came out and we drank some juice together. We sat against the house wall and watched blackbirds come to where I’d been working. They dug into the soil, collected worms and insects for their young, flew over the gardens and rooftops to their nests.

We talked about what we wanted to have out here: a pond, a fountain, a place Mum could sunbathe, somewhere to put the baby’s playpen.

“We’ll have to cover the pond once she’s crawling,” he said. “Don’t want any dangers in her way.”

We went back to work again.

My arms were aching and my skin was stinging. Dust and pollen clogged my nose and throat. I crawled through the weeds, dug down into the earth, slashed and pulled at the stems. I dreamed of the baby crawling out here. She was strong and she kept on giggling and pointing at the birds. Then I saw how close to the garage I had crawled and I thought of the man in there, how he just sat there, how he seemed to be just waiting to die.

I stood up and went to the garage door. I stood listening. There was nothing but the usual scuttling and scratching.

“You can’t just sit there!” I called. “You can’t just sit like you’re waiting to die!”

There was no answer. I stood listening.

“You can’t!” I said.

No answer.

That afternoon, we went to the hospital. As we drove out of the street in the car, I saw Mina, sitting in the tree in her garden. She had a notebook in her lap and she was writing or drawing. She looked at us, and she waved, but she didn’t smile.

“Strange one, that,” said Dad.

“Yes,” I murmured.

In the hospital, the baby was in a glass case again. There were wires and tubes going into her. She was fast asleep. Mum said everything was fine. The doctors had told her the baby could go home again in a day or two. We looked down through the glass and Mum put her arm around me. She saw the blotches on my skin. She asked the nurses for some cream and rubbed it gently into me.

The baby woke up and looked straight into my eyes and screwed up her face like she was smiling.

“See?” said Mum. “She’s going to get better for us. Aren’t you, my little chick?”

She closed her eyes again. Mum said she would stay at the hospital that night as well. Dad and I headed home.

“27 and 53 again?” he said as we drove through the traffic.

“Yes,” I said.

“Right,” he said. “A bit more work, then you can go round to the Chinese later.”

We drove into the street. Mina was sitting on the low wall to her front garden, reading a book. She watched us as we drew up, as we walked toward our door. I waved at her and she smiled.

“Take a break,” said Dad. “You can finish the garden tomorrow. Go on. Go and see Mina.”

“THE BABY MIGHT NOT DIE,” I said.

“That’s good,” said Mina.

I sat on the wall a few feet away from her.

“You weren’t at school today,” she said.

“I wasn’t well.”

She nodded.

“Not surprising, considering what you’ve been through.”

“You weren’t at school either,” I said.

“I don’t go to school.”

I stared at her.

“My mother educates me,” she said. “We believe that schools inhibit the natural curiosity, creativity, and intelligence of children. The mind needs to be opened out into the world, not shuttered down inside a gloomy classroom.”

“Oh,” I said.

“Don’t you agree, Michael?”

I thought of dashing across the yard with Leakey and Coot. I thought of Monkey Mitford’s temper. I thought of Miss Clarts’ stories.

“Don’t know,” I said.

“Our motto is on the wall by my bed,” she said. “ ‘How can a bird that is born for joy/Sit in a cage and sing?’ William Blake.” She pointed up into the tree. “The chicks in the nest won’t need a classroom to make them fly. Will they?”

I shook my head.

“Well, then,” she said. “My father believed this too.”

“Your father?”

“Yes. He was a wonderful man. He died before I was born. We often think of him, watching us from Heaven.”

She watched me, with those eyes that seemed to get right inside.

“You’re a quiet person,” she said.

I didn’t know what to say. She began reading again.

“Do you believe we’re descended from apes?” I said.

“Not a matter of belief,” she said. “It’s a proven fact. It’s called evolution. You must know that. Yes, we are.”

She looked up from her book.

“I would hope, though,” she went on, “that we also have some rather more beautiful ancestors. Don’t you?”

She watched me again.

“Yes,” I said.

She read again. I watched the blackbird flying into the tree with worms drooping from its beak.

“It was great to see the owls,” I said.

She smiled.

“Yes. They’re wild things, of course. Killers, savages. They’re wonderful.”

“I kept dreaming I heard them, all through the night.”

“I listen for them too. Sometimes in the dead of night when all the traffic’s gone I hear them calling to each other.”

I joined my hands together tight with a space between my palms and a gap between my thumbs.

“Listen,” I said.

I blew softly into the gap and made the noise an owl makes.

“That’s brilliant!” said Mina. “Show me.”

I showed her how to put her hands together, how to blow. At first she couldn’t do it, then she could. She hooted and grinned.

“Brilliant,” she said. “So brilliant.”

“Leakey showed me,” I said. “My pal at school.”

“I wonder if you did it at night if the owls would come.”

“Maybe. Maybe you should try it.”

“I will. Tonight I will.”

Hoot, she went. Hoot hoot hoot.

“Brilliant!” she said, and she clapped her hands.

“There’s something I could show you as well,” I said. “Like you showed me the owls.”

“What is it?”

“I don’t know. I don’t even know if it’s true or if it’s a dream.”

“That’s all right. Truth and dreams are always getting muddled.”

“I’d have to take you there and show you.”

She opened her eyes wide and grinned, like she was ready to go right now.

“Can’t go now,” I said.

Along the street, Dad opened the front door and waved.

“I’ve got to go,” I said. “I’ve got to go and get 27 and 53.”

She raised her eyes.

“Mystery man,” she said. “That’s you.”

The blackbird flew out of the tree again.

I stood up to go.

I said, “Do you know what shoulder blades are for?”

She giggled.

“Do you not even know that?” she said.

“Do you?”

“It’s a proven fact, common knowledge. They’re where your wings were, and where they’ll grow again.”

She laughed again.

“Go on, then, mystery man. Go and get your mysterious numbers.”

JUST BEFORE DAWN, NEXT MORNING.