by David Almond
“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.
We picked up the feathers and smiled.
“Three,” said Mina.
“One for the baby as well,” I said.
As we crouched there, the owls flew out into the room and perched on the frame above us. Then two fledglings appeared, tottering in the shadows by the far wall. They were round and almost naked. Little cheeps came from their wide open beaks. We gasped at how beautiful they were, how delicate. Then the owls went out hunting. We stayed for a while. We watched the owls flying back in with the meat from tiny animals they’d killed. We watched the fledglings gorge themselves.
“Little savages,” I said.
“That’s right,” said Mina. “Beautiful tender savages.”
We smiled and prepared to tiptoe away. Then the owls flew back in and came to us. They laid something on the floor in front of us. A dead mouse, a tiny dead baby bird. Blood was still trickling through the ripped fur, through the young feathers. The owls flew quickly away again, and we heard them hooting in the thickening night.
“Savages,” I whispered.
“Killers,” said Mina. “Extraordinary presents, eh?”
“They think we’re something like them,” I said.
“Perhaps we are,” said Mina.
We lifted the creatures and tiptoed out.
“Goodnight, little chicks,” we whispered.
Outside, we buried the mouse and the fledgling in a border in the garden. We stared up toward the attic and saw the owls, lit by moonlight now, flying in with more meat for their young.
“The builders’ll be coming soon,” said Mina. “I’ll make sure they do nothing until the chicks have flown.”
Chapter 45
THAT SATURDAY THE BUILDERS CAME to sort the garage out. There were three of them, an old man in a cap, Mr. Batley, and his two sons, Nick and Gus. They thumped the walls and watched them sway and tremble. They heard the roof creaking and sagging. They scratched the bricks and watched them flake easily away. They yanked Dad’s planks off and peered inside.
Mr. Batley took his cap off and scratched his bald head.
“Wouldn’t get me in there even for extra money,” he said.
He pondered. He shrugged and twisted his mouth and looked at Dad.
“Know what I’m going to say, don’t you?” he said.
“Suppose so,” said Dad.
“Nothing else for it. Knock it down and start again.”
Dad looked at me.
“What d’you think?” he said.
“Don’t know,” I said.
“Easy choice,” said Mr. Batley. “Knock it down or sit and watch it fall down.”
Dad laughed.
“Go on, then,” he said. “Get the stuff out from inside and knock it down.”
They put steel props up to keep the roof from falling in while they worked inside. They brought the junk out and laid it around Ernie’s toilet in the backyard: all the ancient chests of drawers, the broken washbasins, the bags of cement, the broken doors, the tattered deck chairs, rotted carpets, the ropes, the pipes, the newspapers and magazines, the coils of cable, the bags of nails. Dad and I went through it all as they brought it out. We kept saying, “This’ll come in useful,” then saying, “No, it won’t, it’s just a piece of junk.” A truck came and left a huge Dumpster in the back lane. We chucked in everything. We were all covered in dead bluebottles, dead spiders, brick and mortar dust. When it was empty, we stood around drinking tea and laughing at the mess.
I went to the door alone and stared in.
“Michael!” said Dad.
“Yes,” I said. “I know. I won’t go in.”
He told the builders about how desperate I’d been to get in there after we’d moved in.
“Just like these two used to be,” said Mr. Batley. “Show them something dark and dangerous and it was the devil’s own work to keep them out.”
I kept on staring. Just rubble and dust and broken pottery, and in the far corner a couple of take-out trays, some brown ale bottles, a scattered handful of feathers, the pellets. I sighed and whispered, “Goodbye, Skellig.”
Then the builders and Dad were at my back.
“See,” said Mr. Batley, pointing past me. “Looks like you’ve had a vagrant spending a night or two in there. Lucky the whole lot didn’t come down on his head.”
Then we finished the tea. Mr. Batley rubbed his hands.
“Right, then, lads,” he said. “Time for a bit of knocky down.”
It only took an hour or two. We stood in the kitchen and watched them work with crowbars and sledgehammers and saws. We bit our lips and shook our heads each time a bit of roof or a bit of wall fell with a massive thump. Soon the garage was just a great pile of bricks and timber and dust.
“Bloody hell,” said Dad.
“Least we’ll have a nice long garden for the baby to play in,” I said.
He nodded and started talking about the lawn he’d lay, and the pond he’d dig, and the shrubs he’d plant for the birds to build their nests in.
“Ha!” he said. “A little paradise for us all.”
When it was over, Gus and Nick stood proud and happy with their hands on their hips. Mr. Batley, white as death with dust, gave us the thumbs-up and we went out with more tea.
“Bloody lovely, that was,” he said.
“Aye,” said Gus. “You cannot beat a bit of knocky down.”
Chapter 46
SHE CAME HOME ON A SUNDAY. A beautiful bright warm day. It was really spring at last. Dad went off in the car and I stayed behind to finish cleaning the kitchen up. I wrapped last night’s take-out containers in newspaper and threw them in the bin. I put the kettle on for Mum. I got a can of beer and a glass ready for Dad.
I went upstairs and slipped the baby’s feather under her mattress. I smiled, because I knew she’d have the best of dreams.
I waited, looking out into the empty space left by Mr. Batley and his sons. Even the cracked concrete floor was gone now. There was a wooden fence instead of the back wall. I imagined the garden, filled it with all the shrubs and flowers and the grass that would soon be growing where the ragged yard had been.
I trembled when I heard the car. I couldn’t move. Then I took deep breaths, and thought of Skellig and went to open the front door. Dad had the baby in his arms. Mum stood there beaming.
“Welcome home, Mum,” I whispered, using the words I’d practiced.
She smiled at how nervous I was. She took my hand and led me back into the house, into the kitchen. She sat me on a chair and put the baby in my arms.
“Look how beautiful your sister is,” she said. “Look how strong she is.”
I lifted the baby higher. She arched her back like she was about to dance or fly. She reached out and scratched with her tiny nails at the skin on my face. She tugged at my lips and touched my tongue. She tasted of milk and salt and of something mysterious, sweet and sour all at once. She whimpered and gurgled. I held her closer and her dark eyes looked right into me, right into the place where all my dreams were, and she smiled.
“She’ll have to keep going for checkups,” Mum said. “But they’re sure the danger’s gone, Michael. Your sister is really going to be all right.”
We laid the baby on the table and sat around her. We didn’t know what to say. Mum drank her tea. Dad let me have swigs of his beer. We just sat there looking at each other and touching each other and we laughed and laughed and we cried and cried.
Soon there was a gentle knock at the door. I went and found Mina standing there. She was shy and quiet, like I’d never seen her before. She started to say something, but it was a mumble and she ended up just looking into my eyes.
“Come and see,” I said.
I took her hand and led her into the kitchen. Sh
e 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.
A Note from the Author
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.
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David Almond
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