by David Almond
Billys dad went away, I rite. He is stil away.
Billy cum owt into the world, I rite. The world is a plase of wunder.
Billy has a nife. Billy has a butchers tuch.
Trees and shrubs hang over the water. I love to sit beneath them harf hiden in the shadows. I make my marks here too carving my name into ther bark with my nife & carvin the names of mam & Mr McCaufrey & Missus Malone.
I carv the naym of my father ther and I draw pitchers of him to keep the memry of him alive in my mind and in the world.
1 day he will return, I carv. 1 day I will look upon him fase to fase agen. I will. I will.
I aso rite my names & storys with my fingers on the water as I stand in it. The words turn to nothing as I rite. Nothing but invisibl meanins remayn to be carryd away towards the distant sea.
Bein at the river becoms another kind of poseshun for me. I forget myself. I am entransd. I am enchanted by the byuty of the world. I wark throu the lejons of the lovely living things. I wander in the relms of lite.
On this day Im deep in the river naked. The sun is shining throu the trees. Water surjes over me & fish swim rownd me. I open my mouth & cry owt & it seems the birds sing throu me. I riggl my feet in the rivers mud. I rayse my eyes to the sky & bak to the warter agen & I see it cuming towards me.
A tiny glint of gold.
A glint of gold carryd on the surfas of the water.
It curvs away with the curving of the water. I stretch and reech for it.
I lunj for it and almost fall.
I lunj agen but on it flows qwikening at the rivers powerful senter & is carryd fast away.
It was.
I am sertan of it.
It was the golden tip of a blak sigaret.
I stare all around. I fall and stumbl as I hurry from the water as I stand nayked on the bank as I rush bak & forth beneeth the trees as I try to catch a glimps of him.
But thers nothing.
I see a mark in the mud that I tel myself is the print of an elegant shoe but even as I tel myself that I tel myself that that too must be ilushon. It is where a stone has fallen or where the water has made a rapid swirl and an elegant meaningless mark.
I return to the bank.
I carl out his name.
Thers nothing of cors.
Missus Malone has told me that if ther is a God I mite catch a glimps of him in the relms of darkness. She has told me that if my father is dead I mite catch a glimps of him ther too. Now I seek a glimps of my father in the relms of lite.
I see nothing.
No glimpses.
All is trickery & ilushon.
I put my clothes bak on & the otters dans arownd my feet.
It was an ilushon.
It must hav been.
Words flo & turn & spin lyk warter. They hurry onward. They carry glimpses & ilushons. They moov throu Blinkbonny & throu the frinjes of Blinkbonny. Just as Billy Dean dus now.
Here he is warkin as my pensil warks. Hes on his own. Hes cumin bak from a time of poseshun at Missus Malones.
Its late afternoon.
Hes warkin throu the ruins beneeth the pink & blue & reddenin gorjus sky. Like always thers shiftin figurs & thers footsteps & like always he keeps turning lookin seein nothing but shadows nereby & sumtyms pepl further away. He moovs throu Blinkbonnys frinjes to the river to the plays hes coming to love the best of all. He dus not forget the glint of gold. He looks & looks for glints of gold or shifting shadows or moving figurs or watching eyes. He sniffs and sniffs.
The waters low today. Below the drydowt mud and the weeds at this part of the bank thers blak mud thats smooth & wet as water — mud that shines like the watery taybl of Missus Malone. Its mud thats blak but like most blak things it glissens with mor colors that slip across its surfas as the sun sinks down. Thers streeks of blue & red & pink & yello just like in the sky abuv.
Thers the weard traks of birds that look lyk riting that you cud understand if only you new how to read it rite. And the birds ar singin the sounds of the words that they hav rit.
The river eddys flows & wirls. Thers stiks & weeds carryd upon it. Its smooth in some playses & in other places it twists and twists in torment. Far downriver the lites of the sity ar starting to burn. He thinks of the pepl that liv down ther. He think of those from the sity that no of him from ther trips to Missus Malones. He nos that mebbe hes like a person in a dream to them — a fragment of some weard tale — a person they cannot truly beleev in til they tuch and see. And ther like dreams to him as wel. He looks down throu the dark and sees faroff movin misteryos liyts shinin and moovin in the sity. He hears the clankin and roar of enjins and masheens. He thinks he heres voyses carryd on the niyt.
The sky above him darkens darkens.
Cloas by low down he sees the sparkle of little eyes from little beests.
“Hello” he says dead soft. “Its only me.”
He smiles into the dark towards the creechers that he nos are ther the creechers that are friends to him the creechers that are weardly made of the saym stuff as him. Blood & skin & bones & flesh & heart. And he smiles at the shades & shados moovin throu the dark — the shades and shados that he nos mite be the spirits of the dead and that he yerns to be the body of his father watching.
He hears his name.
“Billy! Billy!”
His Mams voys. Its not a yell. Its a kind of intens wisper the wisper shes lernd to make that travels throu Blinkbonny at dusk wen the air is still & carm — the wisper that drifts across the rubbl to seek him owt.
“Billy! Billy Dean!”
He turns his head he lissens. Its so lovely that sweet voys of hers.
“Billy! Billy!”
He shud leev this plays go bak to her and carm her fears.
“Where ar you Billy?”
“Im alrite, Mam,” he ansers in his own strong wisper.
“Its getting dark son. Cum bak home.”
He imajins her standin in the dilapidayted garden with the last layt sunlyt farlin down on her. He sees her clear in his mynd. He thinks of what he sees. If he can imajin that thing so intens that it seems reel, then what dos that meen for all the things arownd him that seem reel?
He turns from the unanserabl wundering and he wispers,
“Im cumin Mam!”
He dusnt move. He wotches the river darken til its dark as the mud at its edj. He lissens to the lovely lappin of the water agenst the bank. He wotches how nite starts taking over evrything & he sees that this chaynj is as byutiful as dawn & he nos that the end of things can be as gorjus as ther starts.
His Mam wispers agen & then agen.
He wispers back that hes OK.
He feels in himself the wish to step into the water to go in very deep as deep as his chest his sholders his hed. He feels in himself the wish to be tayken by its darknes to be carryd away to be ended as the day is ended to discover what is to be found in the darknes of drownin and death. But he nos the pain that it wud bring to the wons that love him.
“Billy Billy!”
“Yes Mam!”
Hes about to turn bak to her when a bird apears a grate wite bird that flotes upon the water. A bird with a long and lovely curvin neck & grate wite wings that ar folded down upon its bak. It moves slowly upon the water befor his eyes. It shines brite in the darkening day. He reaches owt to it but its just beyond his reech.
“Billy! Billy!”
“Swan!” he wispers. “O swan!”
He is lost in its byuty for a moment.
“Billy! Billy!”
Hes agen about to turn when he sees the fase thats lying in the deepe dark mud and looking up at him. He crouches. He reaches down to it. He slides his fingers into the mud. He reaches beneath the fase and clowses his hands arownd it. Then he lifts and a hole head comes up from the mud into the air with a suckin sound like its gaspin for preshus breth. Most of the hed is pitch blak like his hands but a sircl of the fase is pale and the eyes ar brite. He holds it in the flowing water and washes su
m of the blak away.
The bird flotes nearby & watches & is sylent & it dips its hed.
“Billy! Billy!”
“Yes Mam!”
He gazes at the swan another moment. Then he turns and hurrys homeward. Does he see a body standing in the trees? Does he see the distant glo of a sigaret burning? Dose he smell the smoak of that black sigaret?
He hesitates he looks he smells he lissens he says its all just triks hes playing on himself.
Then hurrys homeward carrying the hed of Jesus in his hands.
He runs bak home towards her voys into the ruwind garden. Shes standin at the dore. He puts the hed of Jesus in her hands.
“O Billy,” she goes. “O my littl Jesus!”
She carrys the hed to the kitchin & holds it to the liyt.
Hardly a crak in it hardly a chip and the eyes ar jentl and the lips turnd up in the tenderist of smyls.
“See what I ment, Billy! See how speshal & sweet he is! O tell me where you found him.”
He tells her that he found it at the river at that plase of peril.
“O you shudnt hav gon ther,” she gasps. “But O look what you found.”
She washes Jesus with sope and rinses him with water and drys him with towls. They get the claggedtogether body of Jesus and carefully put on the head. They put flower-and-water paste between the body and the neck. They wynd wyr around to tie the head to the showlders to make sure it wont farl off. Jesus wers a short skirt thing & his arms are held owt like he is carryin sumthin. Mam says it was a little lamb he had becos he had been like a shephad boy. And so they create a lamb out of an old jumper for him and put it in his arms.
Then paint all of him with old paynts. And strate away they see that this mite be a mistayk. For they ar not artists and the infant Jesus looks ded stranj. He is messy and lumpy and crumbly and his feet stick out at weard angls. His eyes apear bewilderd by what is happening to him. His halo is jagged and crackd and bent.
But mam says that he dos look sumthin like he used to. She says yes of cors he is all funy shapes and no he is not as byutiful as wons he was, but he is stil byutiful isnt he? And despite evrything he is stil Jesus, isnt he?
“Aye Mam,” Billy ansers. “Yes he is.”
They stand him up strate. They hamma a nale in the tabl and tie him to it so he wont fall down. Billy stands at his side & sees that Jesus is about the same size as him.
Mam neels down and crosses herself and puts her hands together.
“Its wunderful to see you agen Infint Jesus,” she says.
She closes her eyes and dips her head and starts to pray.
“Jentl Jesus meke & milde, Look on me a little childe . . .”
Then she stops and wispers to her son, “Do you think he hears me?”
“Dunno Mam,” says Billy Dean.
Then she siys so deep.
“Whats up Mam?” asks Billy.
“Probably he carnt,” she says. “For they took all the holyness out of him, Billy.”
“They took the what?”
“They tuk the holyness away. After the boms and the ruwinayshun and the scatterin of the statues and the altars and befor they knocked down what was left, they said sum prares and tuk the holyness out of it all. It was yor Dad himself that said the prares in fact. Then they bulldozed it all back to nowt.”
“And where did the holyness go?”
“Who nos? But away it went.”
“Then we must put the holyness bak in.”
She laffd at that.
“Who are we to do a thing like that?”
“Billy Dean & Veronica Dean. If the priest Wilfred can take it out then we can put it bak. What should we do?”
“I suppos we pray to God,” she says. “We pray to God and ask him to put the holyness bak into Infint Jesus.”
And so they neel down ther in the dilapidated kitchen. Billy says the words along with her.
“Lord,” they say. “Please return holiness to Jesus. We found him in the Blinkbonny dust & in the river mud and we put him back together agen. Pleese acsept our prayer and return his holiness to him and to the world.”
The mothers words ar spoken to a God but the words of her son are spoken to the yoonivers of beests & birds & water & stars & not to God at arl. As he speaks, Billy imajins birds flyin & singin in the shockd head and crooked body of Jesus. He imajins beests roaming throu him & water flowing throu him. He looks close as he speaks and he smiles to see the littl flees & beetls that crarl across Jesus and he imajins the wons that crarl insyd him too.
In the days that follow Billy brings many things to Jesus. He brings dust and stones & fethers that he finds lying in the dust & stones. He brings a fragment of birds egg and a bit of bone that miyt hav cum from a dead dog. He brings mud from the river & a leaf from a tree. He brings a bluw flower. He brings a tiny bit of cow from the butchers. He rites words on littl bits of paper. His own name & the names of the pepl he nos. And he rites words like star & sky & sun & sea.
He makes many tiny openings in Jesus body with his nife and sqeezes these littl gifts into him.
He cuts his thum with the nife & makes an opening in Jesus neck & lets his blood drip into him.
He breeths on Jesus fase. He wispers in his ere.
“Live Jesus. Acsept yor holyness agen.”
Mam goes on praying.
Then 1 nite Billy is in the kitchen with her drinking tea & eating jam & bred. The moon shines in throu the crackd windo. And all of a suden he feels Jesus breething & mooving inside himself. It is like he is being possesd by Jesus & Jesus is being possesd by him. He stops eating and drinking and closes his eyes.
“Is it you?” he wispers.
“Aye” ansers Jesus from the silens and the darknes deep inside. “Its me, Billy.”
Billy smiles. He tells his mother that the holyness is bak.
She drops to her nees.
“Is it true?” she says.
“Aye Mam its true.”
“O Billy,” she says all intens. “Its like being inside Hevan.”
And yes it is a bit like Hevan for them both to be together in that kitchen with Jesus & with all the reassembld sayntes & aynjels & with the wildernes of Blinkbonny all around.
Now I recall the feel of fingers in my hair. Fingers & thums & parms moov across my hed & sqwosh my hair into choobs & horns. And Mam giggls at my back & I feel her breth on me as she works the sirup into me.
This all begins with a lady that has a tiny bedsit in Blinkbonny Court. Her hair is tough as the hair of a hors & oranj as an oranj & she loves it stickin out, rite out.
She looks dead savaj but in truth she is as sweet as hony & she givs the swetest of all biscuits. Her name is May cos she was borne in May — a hundred yeres ago she says, thinkin a simplton like me will take that in. She giggls & says that her hair is her messige to the world & to anybody that wud try to shift her from Blinkbonny.
DANGER! WILD OWLD BINT! KEEP OFF!
Lacker & sprays do nothin for it & the way to get it done is to put sugar & water on it. I wotch Mam mixing warm water & sugar to a thick paste. She starts claggin it onto Mays hed using her fingers & thumbs & palms to make wayvs & corkscrews & curls. She strokes it & smooths it as it drys & hardens till it glitters as if scatterd with preshus jewls.
It looks just wonderful.
That nite at home I make sum sirup for myself & start putting it on my hair.
“What you doin Billy?” laffs my mam.
“Turning to a shugahed!” I say.
I mix & clag & pull & sqosh till my hair is all pointy & sticking up like it is a bluddy crown or like I am a starhead. Mam shakes with lafter & says I am as daft as May but qwikly she is at my back & at my side & her own hands are upon me sqeezin claggin shiftin shaypin.
She giggls. She says I hav a hed of lollypops & that the birds will be dropping down to pick at it if I dont watch out & I just love the sound of that.
And the shuga drys and stiffens on my head & I put my hands up to it & f
eel the lovlyness of it. I stand befor a darkend crackd & blemishd mirro & I see a wild fase & a wild head & wild hair with lite sparkling within it.
I take my clothes off and stand back from the mirro & try to see the hole of me standing there. & I see the curv of my lims & the shapely mussels & the fuzz of hair arownd my cok & barls & the littl spots & scratches & scrapes on my skin. & I stand for a long long time & gaze carmly bak towards myself. & I see how I am growing from a boy into a man from Billy Dean into another kynd of Billy Dean. And I see how the shape of me is lyk the shapes of Jesus & the aynjels & the sayntes & how lyk all things growing in this world I am a thing of wunder & of byuty.
Next morning I wake as dawn is beginnin to brake. My pillo is scatterd with shinin shuga dust & shuga crystals like I am lyin on a pillo of fallen stars. My hair is crackd & crushd. So I tiptow from my bed into the kitchin & I do it all agen the water & the shuga & the shaypin and the dryin. I look into the crackd mirro & I tees it into lovely shaypes. When it drys I tiptow from the house & stand out in our tatty garden ded still with my fase lowerd & I offer myself up to the birds of the sky that are now singing dawn chorus arl arownd.
I am ded quiet inside & owtside & yes the birds do seem to start cuming closer & I can hear them sqweeking & twittering in the weeds & grass & in the thorny bushes & on the little brick walls close by.
“Plees,” I say inside myself. “Plees fly rite here. Plees let me feel a sparrow or a tit or a robin or a finch perching on my head & picking at my hair.”
And nothing gos further but I just stand ther & stand ther. I must hav been ther for an hour or mor 2 hours or mor.
I close my eyes for I no that the birds are shy.
I hum to myself the song about the brite & byutiful things of the world that Mam & Missus Malone both sing.
All things brite and byutiful,
All creechers grate an small,
All things wize an wonderful,
The Lord God made them all.
I try to sing it truly sweet and brite so that my voys is nerly like a birds. I try to feel that my arms are the wings of a bird & that my throte is the throte of a bird. I try to feel that I can sing & fly as if I am a bird inside meself.
