by David Almond
I saw the suspicion and anger in Geordie’s eyes.
“I’ve just saved your bliddy life,” said Stephen. “I’d like you to stay here.”
They watched each other for a moment. Then Geordie shrugged.
“We’ll not be long,” said Stephen. “Come and see, Davie.”
I hesitated. My heart was still thundering, but it started to calm as I gazed back at Stephen.
“Howay,” he said. “You’ll be interested.” He stepped towards the back door and opened it. “Bring your jam and bread if you want to. Come with me, Davie.”
four
Crows flew out from the grass as he led me to the shed. He took me in, shut the door behind us.
“Forget the outside, Davie,” he said. “Forget what you were scared of.”
The place was pale with clay dust. Dust on the bench top, on the dark creosoted timber walls, on the window. Milky light fell on us.
“It’s great stuff,” he said, “the stuff I get from your pond. Slick and smooth, easy to work, like it wants to live.”
I shivered at the thought of ever going to the pond again. I shivered at the thought of Mouldy waiting beside it in the shadow of the rock.
“You’re still thinking about Mouldy, aren’t you?” he said. “You’re safe here, man.” He laughed. “Mouldy! What a name, eh? Mouldy!” He licked his lips and laughed. “Mouldy. That’s what he will be when he’s dead.”
There was clay in glass bowls with wet cloths over them. There were finished figures, half-formed figures. Stephen dipped his hand into a bowl of cloudy water and splashed it over them.
“Don’t want them drying out too quick,” he said. “Don’t want them cracking and crazing, do we?”
He grinned and flicked water at me, too.
“Calm down, man,” he said. “Everything’s all right now.”
There were figures that were nearly formless. Just blocks of stone with lumps for arms and legs, and skulls like boulders balanced on top.
“Mebbe God made things like these first,” he said. “Before he got to us. Tryouts. Thick stupid lumpy things without a soul. What d’you think, Davie?”
“Dunno,” I said.
“Dunno,” he echoed. “Mebbe there was a time of beasts and monsters before there came the time of us. Mebbe there’s things like them things walking still. Mebbe there’s things around us that was created by the devil and not by God. Things like the thing that snarled through the door at you. Things like your Mouldy.”
“Aye,” I said. “Mebbe. Aye.”
He watched me.
“Or mebbe,” he said, “the time of beasts and monsters is just about to start. What do you think, Davie?”
I shrugged, shook my head. I saw a fallen twisted crucifix among the clay. I reached down and tried to stand it up. I pressed it into a lump of soft clay to stop it falling.
“D’you ever think you might still want to be a priest?” I said.
“No. That’s all over, Davie. There’s other ways to live a life and serve the Lord.”
He drew one of the bowls towards himself. He took the wet cloth off. He ripped a little lump of clay away. He started shaping a human body with it. He paused.
“I wanted to do this last night with you,” he said. “But you saw me and you didn’t come down.” He grinned. “Why not? Too scared to come out in the dark?”
I twisted my face, turned to go.
“Don’t be stupid,” I said.
“Now the thing called Mouldy’s drove you here,” he went on. “It’s nearly like there was a purpose to it….” Hepaused. “Do you think there was a purpose to it?”
“A purpose to what?”
“To Mouldy driving you here. Do you think there’s a purpose to you and me getting together like this?”
“No,” I said. I shrugged. “I dunno.”
I looked away from him. Sometimes Stephen made me feel so stupid and young. I wanted to leave the shed, to get back to Geordie, but I also wanted to stay. Yes, I did feel some sense of purpose. I did feel like I’d been drawn to him, ever since I’d seen him for the first time in the graveyard.
“Strange, eh?” he said, like he could read my thoughts. “But you’ll not tell nobody.”
“Eh?”
“You’ll not tell nobody about me.”
“What’s there to tell?”
“Well, there’ll be the tales of what I get up to in here. The secrets.”
I looked back at him.
“Aye,” he said. “And the secrets of what you could get up to as well.”
“Me?”
“Aye, Davie. You.”
I watched the dust tumbling through the light, gathering on us. I watched the clay figure taking shape between his hands.
“Watch this,” he said.
The figure was tiny, delicate, half formed, not like the other formless soulless lumps, but like a baby, half made. He lifted it to his lips.
“Move,” he whispered to it. “Move, my little one.”
He sighed and smiled.
“There. Did you see, Davie?”
“See what?”
He breathed the words again.
“Move. Live, little one. See?”
I moved closer, gazed down. There was nothing.
Stephen held the child in one hand, and stared at me. He passed his other hand before my eyes once, twice, then again.
“Look again,” he whispered. I looked down into his hands, to the baby lying there. “Move,” he whispered. “Live!”
He sighed with pleasure.
“Look, Davie,” he said. “Look deep. Look with the eyes of the spirit, Davie. When I say you’ll see it move, you will see it move.”
He lifted the child towards me. He passed his hand before my eyes again.
“Now, Davie,” he whispered. “You will see it move.”
And I did see, and I nearly cried out with fright, but he stopped it dead. He dropped the child onto the bench, clapped his hand across my mouth.
“You got to tell nobody, Davie,” he said. “You got to promise me. Promise me now.”
I goggled back into his eyes. I nodded. I reached out and touched the child. It was cold stiff clay, nothing more.
“Do you see what we’re capable of?” he whispered. “You and me, Davie? Mebbe this is where the purpose is. Mebbe we’re destined to work together, to make something—”
Then there were footsteps outside, and he quickly moved back from me.
“Remember,” he said. “Tell nobody nothing! Tell them nowt!”
five
There was a knock at the shed door; then Father O’Mahoney came in. He stood there tall beside us in his black suit with the single band of white around his throat. His coppery hair gleamed. There was a scent of incense on him.
“Now then, lads,” he said.
“Hello, Father,” I said.
“Aye, aye, Davie. You’ve found a couple of pals for yourself, then, Stephen.”
Stephen smiled.
“Yes, Father.”
“That’s grand.”
The priest ran a finger through the dust on the bench. He straightened the crucifix. He lifted the baby.
“There’s an artist come among us, Davie. Did you ever see the like of these grand things?”
“No, Father.”
“Indeed no. God lavishes his gifts on some. Thanks be.”
He crossed himself. He allowed his gaze to linger on me.
“Are you all right, Davie?”
“Aye, Father. Yes.”
“Nothing troubling you?”
“No, Father.”
He rested his open hand on my head for a moment.
“To some God gives a true and simple heart,” he said. “Do you see that, Stephen?”
“I do,” said Stephen.
“There are some who would make use of such a thing. Who would take advantage of it.”
“I know that, Father. Davie’ll be a good friend for me, Father.” The priest clasped his
hands and nodded at the two of us.
“That’s grand,” he said. “That’s just what I would hope. We must care for each other in our time on earth. It is the simplest of things and the most difficult of things.”
He lifted up the kneeling figure of an angel. “Just look at this!” he breathed in admiration. He tapped his cheek, deep in thought.
“Would you like me to go, Father?” I said.
He laughed, like he’d been brought back to his senses.
“Ha! Indeed no. That is, if Stephen doesn’t mind discussion of some private matters before you.”
Stephen shook his head.
“That’s grand,” murmured the priest. “Davie should know which way the land lies if he’s to be a pal of yours. So. I come from a visit to your mother, Stephen.”
Stephen’s face fell.
“Do you?” he whispered.
“Indeed,” said the priest. He turned to me. “Your pal’s mother has been very ill, Davie. You must know that. And you must also know some of the tittle-tattle that surrounds it. You must take no notice of that. Some of us, like Stephen’s mother, are tested much more severely than others are.”
“How is she?” whispered Stephen.
The priest sighed.
“A little better, I believe. We prayed together. I ministered communion to her. We talked a little of Whitley Bay and the beaches there. Ha! She told me about ice creams and bags of chips and spinning on the roundabouts when she was a little girl. It sounded so grand!”
“Did she mention me?” said Stephen.
“Ah, now.”
“Did she?”
“She is distracted, Stephen. She sleeps a great deal. She is calm. The medication does its work.” He tried to rest his hand on Stephen’s shoulder, but Stephen shrugged it off. “And she will come out of it, my son. Very soon, perhaps. They thought they could assure me of that.”
Silence again. Stephen stared blankly at the floor. The dust fell on him. The priest stood close by his side.
“We must remember, I suppose,” he said, “that the Lord himself was tested more than any other.”
He glanced up through the little window in the roof and shook his head. He murmured a quick prayer over Stephen’s head.
“This is all private stuff, now, Davie,” he said. “You understand that?”
“Aye, Father.”
“That’s grand.” He rubbed his hands together. “And now,” he said, “I believe your good aunt Mary was about to put a kettle on.”
He opened the door, stepped out, then leaned back in again.
“Aha!” he said. He winked at Stephen “Nearly forgot. I heard somebody giggling about your new pal, Stephen.”
We said nothing.
“I did. A nice lass named…ah, it’s slipped my mind.” He winked again. “Soon they’ll all be after him. And after you as well, eh? You just watch.”
He raised his hand.
“Don’t worry, Stephen,” he said. “You’ll be grand here. An ordinary life, with good ordinary folk around you…”
He moved his hand through the air and blessed us and was gone.
“Stupid sod!” hissed Stephen. “He’s what they wanted to turn us into at Bennett.” He mocked the priest’s voice. “‘You’ll be grand here. An ordinary life. Ordinary folk.’ Cretin.”
He lifted the angel and flung it at the floor.
“You don’t know him,” I said. “He’s—”
“Damn him!” he said. “Damn his bliddy ordinariness. Damn it all!”
He glared. His eyes shone with tears and rage. He caught my arm as I turned away.
“And damn my mother, too,” he said. “If she had her way she’d have me bliddy dead!”
“That can’t be true.”
“Can it not? How do you know?”
He started to cry.
“Tell nobody!” he said. “Bliddy nobody! Nobody!”
He lifted the baby up again. He glared at it.
“Live!” he snapped. “Move, you stupid object! Live!”
It squirmed in his cupped hands. I closed my eyes, opened them. It was still again. He pinched jagged little wings into its back. He pinched a jagged tail into it. He raised it to his lips, whispered to it.
“Damn them all,” he said.
Its wings started to open; then he flung it at the angel on the floor.
I picked it up. I held it and watched it and watched Stephen.
“How do you do it?” I said.
“It?” he said. “It is nowt. It’s a piece of bliddy cake. But one day I’ll do something that’s really something. I’ll make a proper monster. I’ll make a thick stupid vicious thing without a soul. There’ll be death and doom and murder, Davie. D’you believe me?”
I looked at the angel on the floor, at the devil in my hands. Had I really seen what I thought I’d seen?
“No,” I said.
“No?” He laughed at me. “After everything you’ve just seen, you say no?”
I nodded. I shrugged. I shook my head.
“Yes. No. How do I know?” Then I looked him in the face. He was just a kid, just like us. “No,” I said. “I don’t believe it.”
He took the devil away from me. He held it like he was going to command it to move again; then he crushed it to a simple lump of clay.
“OK,” he said. “Let’s doubt, let’s say no, let’s not believe.”
“OK,” I said.
I stood there watching him. The dust tumbled through the light between us. I knew I didn’t want to leave. I knew I wanted to see it again—moving clay, living clay.
“What you waiting for?” he said. “It didn’t happen. You were deceived. You must have been. You’re just an ordinary kid in an ordinary town and nowt special can happen here.”
I went into the daylight, then to Father O’Mahoney and Crazy Mary drinking tea and Geordie sitting with them trying to be polite. He stood straight up when he saw me. The priest raised his hand, went on murmuring to Mary. Geordie and I went out into Felling’s streets. Geordie breathed a massive sigh of relief.
“What I need is a tab,” he said.
We slumped on the bench on Watermill Lane and smoked Senior Service and stared down to the Swan.
“So what was all that in the shed?” he said.
I looked at him.
“Nowt,” I said.
He looked at me.
“What’s up with you?” he said.
“Nowt,” I said.
He kept looking.
“Nowt, man!” I said.
He shrugged and smoked.
“OK,” he said.
But he kept on looking.
six
All week, clay babies crawled and whimpered in my dreams. Little devils with stunted wings strutted and cackled and flew. I told myself I was wrong. I must have been. Like Stephen said, I’d been deceived. It was all illusion. I thought of God making us. I wondered if artists were like God, if they had a bit of God inside themselves. I wondered, Is it only God who can breathe life into the world, only God who can create? I kept recalling Stephen’s voice. Move. Live. I kept recalling what I’d seen before my eyes. I wanted to see it again, and to touch it for myself, to hold living breathing clay between my hands.
Prat brought bags of clay into his lesson that week. I molded lumps of it. It was cold and gritty stuff. It wouldn’t take the lovely shapes I wanted it to take. All I could create were stupid clumsy hopeless things. I looked at Stephen’s beautiful apostles standing on a shelf. I watched Geordie quickly extruding arms and legs, eyes on stalks, forming scales and claws. I watched him make a multilimbed disgusting thing. Prat held it up to show it to the rest of us. Such a bold exciting piece, he said. A thing from deep down in the dark, a true true monster.
He laughed.
“Some would say, of course,” he said, “that what the artist does is to give an outer form to his inner self.”
And he held the monster’s face by Geordie’s face and gasped in horror at the
similarity. I caught Maria looking at me then. I closed my hands around my useless shape. She held up a thing that was becoming a horse and pretended to race it through the air in front of her. She smiled at me and suddenly I felt so stupid, so small. I raised my hand.
“Sir,” I said.
“Yes, Davie?”
I tried to form the question.
“Do you think,” I said, “that an artist is a kind of god?”
“Aha!” Prat flicked his hair back. He tugged at his scrawny beard and pondered. He suddenly reached up to a shelf behind him and pulled a dusty Bible down.
“‘And the Lord God formed man of the dust of the ground,’” he read, “‘and breathed into his nostrils the breath of life; and man became a living soul.’”
He closed the book. He walked back and forward before us with his chin in his hand.
“We are certainly copying him in some way,” he said.
Some of the kids were throwing clay about. Prat didn’t even notice, or he pretended not to notice, when a little bit of it just missed his head and smacked into the blackboard.
“But is human creativity equal to the creativity of God?” he said. “That question has led many down a darkening and ever more terrifying path. What would our priests say to such a question? At one time their answers might have involved boiling oil and thumbscrews and racks.” He smiled at Geordie’s monster. “No, Davie,” he said, and he addressed all of us. “I think an artist is simply human, a human with an astounding skill, a skill that may indeed be God-given, but nevertheless…human.” He gently handed Geordie his monster back. “We cannot, like God, create a soul. We cannot, like God, create life. But who is to say what the limits of our creativity might nevertheless be?”
Geordie poked and pulled at the clay while Prat blathered on. Geordie blew into his monster’s horrible mouth. He held it up and rocked it in his hand and grunted,
“Hello, Davie. Me gonna eat you up.”
Maria jogged her horse across her bench. She kept on smiling at me.
When Prat shut up, Geordie nudged me, dead chuffed.
“You’ll never guess what I’ve done,” he said.
“You’re right,” I said. “I’ll never guess.”
“I’ve sorted out a meeting with Mouldy,” he said.
