by David Almond
I bared my teeth at her. “You,” I said. “Dobbs is right. All you think about is you, you, bloody you.”
And she stamped off down the corridor.
Then the bell went and I headed down to French. I passed Askew being yelled at by Chambers, the deputy head. Askew was a lout, he said, an imbecile, a disgrace to the school. Askew lounged against the wall with his head down, just taking it all. He lifted his eyes and sneered at me as I passed.
“Mr. Resurrection, eh?” he muttered.
“What was that?” said Chambers. “What was that you said to me?”
“Nowt,” said Askew, and I heard the deep tedium in his voice. “Nowt. Just nowt.”
Then French, and math, and sandwiches that tasted like cardboard in my mouth, and snappy teachers and miserable kids and the rain pouring, pouring down. Everything inside and outside just a blur. Just wanting to get back out and get back home again and see how Grandpa was. Kept gripping the ammonite in my fist. How long had it been down there, in the earth, till it was found again? How long did anything have to be in the dark before it was found again?
Then English, and Burning Bush wanting to make a fuss about the story again. Maybe we should get some illustrations, she said. Maybe we should make a colored cover for it. She smiled at me. What did I think?
“Aye,” I muttered. “Anything.”
She looked at me. “Good,” she said. “Maybe we could talk about it when the lesson’s over.”
“Yes. Anything,” I said.
And she talked about Shakespeare and Chaucer while the rain came to an end at last and the clouds began to break and weak beams of sunlight shone on to the sodden wilderness.
“So,” she said, when the others had gone. “Illustrations. Any idea who we could get to do them for us?”
I shrugged.
“John Askew, maybe,” I said.
She raised her eyes.
“He’s a talented artist,” she said.
I nodded.
“And a friend of yours?”
I nodded.
She looked at me.
“Is everything all right, Kit?”
“Yes, thanks.”
I looked out, saw the others gathering at the gate. Allie there, scowling.
Burning Bush started on about the cover, how it would be great if we scanned an illustration into the computer, put the title above it, my name beneath it, just like a proper book.
I stood there, let her go on. Outside, Askew and Jax disappeared over the edge of the wilderness.
“I’ve got to go,” I said.
“Sorry?”
“Got to go.”
“I thought this might be interesting for you.”
“It is. But . . .”
She caught my arm as I tried to leave.
“Christopher. What’s going on with you? What is it, Kit?”
“Nowt,” I spat. “Bloody nowt.”
And I shook my head, pulled away, lifted my bag, just left her there, hurried out. Why didn’t I hurry home to Grandpa? Why did I rush to play the game called Death instead? The questions stormed inside me as I stood there at the gate with the others. I saw Burning Bush watching from a window. What you looking at? I wanted to yell at her. What’s it got to do with you? I told myself, Go home. Go home. But I stood there sullen and silent with my eyes downcast, held back by the terror of what I might find if I did go home, and driven to the darkness that my grandpa knew, driven to the darkness that I knew I’d find again in the den that day.
Allie didn’t look at me. We set off across the soaked ground. Great pools of water in the grass. Water vapor rising and drifting white beneath the weak rays of the sun. Cold breeze coming from the river. Clouds low and gray, scudding slowly over the wilderness. Feet splashing, trousers soaked, not a word spoken. The long wet grass. Standing there in silence. Jax’s bark. Askew’s hand. The door drawn back. We go down, into the drenched den. Crouch with feet in the shallow pool that covers the floor. Look across at Allie’s eyes. You, they say. You drive me wild. You’re on your own. Look at my name, Christopher Watson, carved into the wall, into the long list of the dead. Sip the water, smoke the cigarette, watch the spinning knife. Me, not me, me, not me, me, not me . . . I know that it will be me again. The knife stops, pointing at my feet. I take Askew’s hand, kneel in the pool, crouch in the pool, hear Askew’s whispered words, stare into his eyes, feel his touch. This is not a game. You will truly die. This is death. Collapse into the pool. Darkness. Nothing.
Then the end of it all.
I’m deep in darkness; then I hear my name, time and again.
“Kit! Kit! Kit! Kit!”
Light shines in on me. Hands grip my shoulders, shake me. Water splashes across my face.
“Kit! Kit! Kit!” I open my eyes.
Burning Bush crouches at my side. She’s kneeling in the pool, her red hair’s burning in the light that pours down into the den.
“Kit,” she says, more softly. “Kit.” She strokes my face, puts her hands beneath my shoulders, begins to pull me from the floor.
Beyond her, all the faces stare down from the edge of the den.
“What is this?” whispers Burning Bush.
I can’t speak. I see Allie leaning in toward us, desperation on her face.
“Don’t wake him!” she yells. “Don’t wake him, stupid Burning Bush!”
Tears are pouring from her eyes. “Don’t wake him!” she yells.
Burning Bush lifts me further from the floor.
“Come on,” she says. “Come on. Wake up, Kit Watson.”
She glares up at the faces. “What is this?” she shouts. “What’s been going on?”
The faces disappear. Only Allie stays, staring in, weeping.
“Come and help us,” says Burning Bush.
And Allie clambers in. The two of them haul me to my feet. My legs are leaden. I remember nothing, just darkness, nothingness. I hear whispering, giggling. I see skinny bodies shifting at the edges of my vision. I turn and turn my head, trying to see them true.
“Kit!” says Burning Bush. “Come on, Kit! Snap out of it.”
They help me up toward the entrance and out into the light.
I scan the wilderness. Children are scattering away across the grass toward their homes.
Burning Bush names them as they flee.
“Daniel Sharkey,” she says. “Robert Carr, Louise McCall . . .”
We rest on the grass. Burning Bush’s face is set in anger.
“What is this?” she demands.
Allie strokes my face, my hair, my shoulders.
A dark thickset figure and a dog move away along the riverbank.
“And John Askew,” whispers Burning Bush. “I might have known. John Askew.”
PART TWO
* * *
Winter
Next day, all but one of us stood in Chambers’ office. He had Burning Bush’s report in front of him, and the list of our names. He watched us, as if he was mystified, as if we were strangers to him. He said he was troubled to see such leanings to darkness in those who were so young and who had such bright futures before them. “What am I to make of it?” he said. “How can you explain it?” Outside, frost had formed on the wilderness. I peered out past Chambers’ confused face. Askew was out there, a black figure on the white ground, walking heavily through the white misty air. Bundled up in heavy clothes, black woolen hat pulled down over his head, sketch pad under his arm, Jax by his side.
“Watson!” snapped Chambers. He peered into my eyes. “Can’t you even concentrate on what I’m saying, boy?”
I tore my eyes away from Askew. The others told the story of the game: the way we played it, the way we died, the way we came back to life again. Chambers asked about Askew, and it was agreed that yes, it had been Askew’s game and Askew’s den, and Bobby went on to cry and say that we couldn’t help ourselves, that there was evil in Askew. That he had enticed us and threatened us. That we were under his spell. Daniel and Louise no
dded their heads at that.
“Yes,” they whispered. “We couldn’t help ourselves. Askew is evil. We were under his spell.”
They hung their heads and said they would never go near Askew again.
Allie clicked her tongue.
“Yes, Alison?” said Chambers.
“Well,” she said. “It’s nonsense. It was just a stupid game, that’s all. And Askew’s just a lout. A caveman. Evil, huh!”
Chambers pondered.
“Be careful,” he whispered. “There is such a thing as evil in the world. And it may well be that those who doubt it are those at most risk from it.”
He scribbled in his notebook.
“Christopher?” he said. “You’re very quiet.”
I shrugged. “No,” I said. “He isn’t evil. There’s good in everyone. There’s good in Askew. He’s just different from the rest of us. And it was just a game.”
Chambers shook his head and went on writing.
“You’re just children,” he said. “Innocents. It is our duty to protect you. You have to understand that there are people who can lead us into great danger.”
He looked at our faces one by one. He said the board of governors would decide what action should be taken against us.
“I think that our Mr. Askew will be taking his leave of us,” he said. “Make sure you don’t follow him into the wilderness.”
As we left his office I caught Bobby staring at me.
“What you looking at?” I said.
“She woke you up,” he said.
Allie clicked her tongue.
“A living death,” said Bobby. “That’s what he said you’d have. Living death.”
Allie got him by the throat.
“You’re a worm,” she said. “D’you know that? If anybody’s evil or living dead, it’s you.”
And she shoved him away.
The days passed. Askew was expelled. We were warned about our future conduct. We were warned not to inflame the minds of the younger children in school with stories of what had gone on. We stood at the edge of the school yard and watched the bulldozer heading across the wilderness to fill in the den.
Burning Bush called me back as I was leaving her class one day.
“You’re all right now, Kit?” she said.
“Yes, thanks, Miss.”
“You had me terrified, you know.”
“I know. I’m sorry, Miss.”
“An imagination like yours is a powerful thing,” she said. “But it can be overwhelming, especially in one so young.”
“Yes, Miss.”
“Be careful with it, eh?”
“Yes, Miss.”
“Stick to writing stories with it, eh?”
“Yes, Miss.”
She smiled.
“No need to act the stories out, Kit. The words are enough.”
They were gentle at home. They talked about Grandma’s death and Grandpa’s illness. They said the main thing was that the game was over now, and that awful John Askew was gone. Dad even laughed about it. He talked about the old game of dancing round the graveyard memorial in the dark.
“Scared ourselves half to death with tales and visions. The strange thing was, we wanted to be terrified. It was like we were driven to play the stupid game. Taken further, suppose it could have ended up like yours did.”
He shook his head.
“Kids’ games, eh? Still, it’s over now and lessons learned. You’ll not be up to anything like that again, eh?”
I shook my head.
“No.”
They tried to keep the tale of Askew’s den from Grandpa, but he got the gist of it. He came in and sat behind me on the bed while I was reading.
“Bit of bother?”
“Aye,” I said.
“It’ll pass. That’s the great thing you can say about everything—it’ll pass. Want to tell me about it?”
I shrugged.
“Don’t think so,” I said. “It was just a game, that’s all. And it went wrong.”
“Fair enough, son.”
He peered over my shoulder. “What’s the homework this time?”
“Geography. How all the continents were once one single continent.”
“Is that right, now?”
“Yes. It was called Pangaea. Then the continents broke away and separated.”
I showed him the map of how the world was all those millions of years ago, how the earth could twist and tear, how it was endlessly changing, endlessly reforming itself.
He smiled. “You’ll go a long way, lad.” He got up to go out again. “Mind you,” he said. “Hope you’re not keeping it from me ’cause you think an old bloke like me wouldn’t understand.”
I turned to him. “No, Grandpa,” I said.
I didn’t tell him that he’d be able to understand it more than any other.
Winter deepened in Stoneygate. Hard frost on the wilderness, ice on the pools there, white flowers and ferns on the windowpanes. Grandpa moved in and out of his darkness. Some days his eyes were bright and his singing echoed gently through the house. Other days he was lost to us, staring through the wintry world with vacant eyes. Allie came for me each morning. She stood on the step with a red pom-pom hat on, green scarf red coat, white plumes of breath rising from her lips. On his good days, Grandpa would grin out of the kitchen at her, call her the little bad lass.
“Fairy Queen!” he’d call. “Red and green should never be seen, except on the back of a fairy queen!”
And Allie would laugh and say, “Come on, Mr. Watson. Let’s get away from that bad old man!”
The air like ice, stinging. Frost and ice on the pavement. Our voices hanging in the air, muffled by the cold, going nowhere. The clack of Allie’s little heels. The voices and footsteps of others around us, heading to school. A bunch of young ones used to watch us at the gates. They whispered together, deepening the rumors of what had really gone on down there. Suddenly Allie would jump at them, hiss, bare her teeth, raise her fingers like claws, and they would scatter, giggling, loving the fright.
“And I’ll be good today again,” she used to say, straightening her back and raising her head as we approached the doors. “Just like yesterday, and the yesterday before.” She giggled. “Miss Perfect,” she said. “Yes, sir, Mr. Dobbs. No, sir, Mr. Dobbs. The Great Rift Valley. Really? How fascinating, sir. Please tell us more.”
We moved easily through the days. Listening, taking notes, answering questions, asking questions. Condensation streamed down the windows. The sun outside trickled through the mist. Frost relented in the mornings, took hold again each afternoon. And Allie really said those things: Yes, sir, Mr. Dobbs. No, sir, Mr. Dobbs. She said that the great Rift Valley was fascinating. And Mr. Dobbs raised his eyes and smiled at her.
“Well, Miss Keenan, so good to see you’re continuing to turn the new leaf. There’s hope for us yet.”
“Jeez, Kit,” she said as we walked home again in the fading light. “Isn’t it boring being good?”
Often we saw Askew looming through the dusk with Jax, as he crossed and recrossed the wilderness.
“He must get freezing, Kit,” said Allie. “He’ll turn to ice.”
“It is boring,” I said. “But maybe we’ve had enough excitement for the time being.”
“Hope it comes again,” she whispered, and she tilted her head back, breathed a long fast plume of breath into the darkening air.
Another early morning. More frost and mist on the wilderness. Dawn breaking. Winter deepening. It was weeks now since the final events in the den, weeks of calm and quiet, just broken by the fears caused by Grandpa’s lapses. We’d been told that someday, maybe soon, he’d have to be taken away from us, that we wouldn’t be able to care for him any longer.
We turned the heat up high now, and flowers and ferns didn’t form on the windowpanes. The world out there was distorted and confused by a thousand beads of water, by sudden trickles of water.
Grandpa was at the table with hi
s morning tea, wrapped in memory, smiling gently into the past. His song trickled from his lips.
“When I was young and in me pri-ime,
Eh, aye, I could hew . . .”
Then he blinked and lifted his head. “There was one year,” he said. “Cold as Hell. Wonderful. Ice that stayed for months. Deep snow in the lanes and fields. Even the river froze. Yeah, froze from bank to bank. D’you believe it? True as I’m sitting here, boy.” He smiled at me. “Yep. Wonderful. Days as bright as Heaven when the sun shone. And at night, all the frost and snow and ice shining under the stars. Glistening nights!”
Mum came in and shook her head.
“That old tale,” she said. “And the day you walked with Johnny Sharkey and Col Gullane right to the other side and back again?”
“Ha, you’ve heard it before, eh, pet? Once or twice? Mind you, with much slipping and sliding on the way.”
“And there were snowmen standing in the middle of the river, and skaters . . .”
“Ha. All of that. All of that. Cold as Hell for months and months.”
He smiled into himself again. Mum winked at me, touched him gently on the shoulder, leaned forward and kissed him softly on the head, then went upstairs.
“Mind you,” he said. “Lethal, too, specially when spring come. One lad drowned when the ice began to melt down Bill Quay way. Went through the ice, sled and all, poor soul. Put an end to it. Watched the gap growing at the center, the river running free again.” He pondered. “Grand days, grand days. But aye, spring was dangerous.’
The letterbox in the hall clicked.
“Post!” he said.
Just one brown envelope lay on the mat. “Kit” was written on it in clumsy writing. No stamp, no address. I slowly tore it open.
It was a charcoal drawing, deep black. I saw the tunnels of the pit, the men bending forward to the coal, the cones of light from their lamps. Behind them stood a glistening fair-headed boy in shorts and boots. His head was turned, he looked out of the drawing. He was poised as if to begin running. Silky.
On the back of the drawing, in the clumsy writing, it said “For your story.”
