Kit's Wilderness

by David Almond

  Long silence.

  “That’s the way of it,” he said. “You draw what you dream. Then you dream what you draw.”

  “That’s the way with stories, too.”

  Silence, just skinny bodies shifting in the darkness.

  “You see them?” I whispered.

  “Them?”

  I squinted, saw them, black silhouettes within the dark, starlight catching in their eyes, starlight glistening on their skin.

  “Them,” I said.

  Askew grinned, turned his face to the dark. The bodies crouched, stared. I heard the intake of their breath.

  “There’s more than them,” he whispered. “There’s things from further back. You’ll come to see them with your dead eyes, Kit Watson.” He stepped closer. “I was going to find you out here. I was going to bring you down here. Throw you in, or let Jax on you.”

  “Askew, man. Why?”

  “Why? ’Cause I was. ’Cause everything was fine till you came here. ’Cause you were the one that brought the teacher running. ’Cause you were the one that got the game ended and me chucked out.” He laughed.

  “But mebbe it’s better this way. Mebbe it’s what I’ve always wanted. Mebbe you’ve done me a favor, Kit Watson. Pushed me further out toward the dark.”

  I heard how his breath shuddered as he breathed, how his body shuddered. Closer to him, I saw how he was growing, how he was thickening, how massive he was becoming.

  “Why don’t you go home?” I said. “You’ll freeze out here.”

  Nothing.

  “Heading out soon,” he whispered. “Me and him. Getting out.”

  “Where to?”

  “Don’t matter. Nowhere. Somewhere. They’ll wake up, we’ll be gone.”

  “Askew, man,” I said.

  Silence.

  “I’ll bring a story round,” I said. “Like you brought the picture.”

  He grunted.

  I felt the ice deepening in my bones.

  “I will,” I whispered.

  “Silky,” he said.

  “Eh?”

  “Eh? That Silky. I see him too. He shows himself to both of us, Kit Watson.” He didn’t turn, just stayed hunched, facing the river. “You’re closer to me than you think,” he said.

  “I know that. I’ve said I know that. So we should get together more, eh?”

  “Together! Aye, mebbe we will. But it’ll be me that chooses the time and chooses the place and we’ll see if Kit Watson’s brave enough to really get together with John Askew.” Askew spat and turned away.

  “It’ll be in deep darkness,” he muttered. “It’ll be where there’s nobody, just John Askew, Kit Watson, and many many of the dead.”

  I watched him fade into the dark. I walked home, heard the distant whispering behind me. The snow crackled under my feet. The little ones had gone, the glowing embers of their fires left behind.

  A shooting star streaked toward Stoneygate’s heart.

  His name was Lak. He was fourteen. He wore the skin of the bear he’d killed. Deerskin was wrapped around his fret. He gripped a stone axe that had once belonged to his grandfather. The baby Dal was wrapped against his chest. The dog Kali lay at his side. He squatted on the crag and gazed down to the river of ice below him. Ice was everywhere, in the valleys, in the cracks of stones, in fissures of the rock, in his hair, in his eyebrows. It covered the world: bare rock above, ice beneath. It glistened and gleamed in the morning sun. Lak narrowed his eyes against the glare. He peered across the world, searching for smoke rising, for a sign of humanity, of his lost family. He saw nothing, just the white ice, the dark rock, the great blue sky, the low yellow sun.

  He called out: “Ayeeeee!”

  His voice came back to him from the ice and rock, it echoed and died away as it traveled down the valley:

  “Ayeeeee! Ayeeeee! Ayeeeee!”

  The dog lifted its head, stared out, ears pricked.

  Lak laughed. “It’s only me,” he said. “Me echoing forever on the ice.”

  He reached into the bearskin, touched the baby, felt her swaddled close against his skin, felt her warm lips, her warm cheek.

  “It will be fine,” he whispered. “Keep calm, my love. It will all be fine.”

  He crawled on the crag. He found the tiny thorny plants that grew sparsely there, the only things that grew now. He picked them, shoved them into his mouth, chewed, swallowed, twisted his face, spat. Bitter-tasting things. Sharp on the tongue, acid in the belly. He took a tiny blossom, the only sweet part of the plant, moistened it with saliva, held it to the baby’s tongue. He felt her lick.

  “Keep calm,” he whispered. “Perhaps there will be berries this day.”

  He held a plant on his palm for the dog. It licked, didn’t eat, turned its hungry eyes forlornly to its master. Lak grunted, stroked the dog. “Perhaps there will be meat for us this day, Kali.”

  He moved on, holding the bearskin close around him, heading south, sheltering the baby, holding the memory of his family within him, feeling the ice in his bones.

  It had happened at night, days back, weeks back. They were in the cave, a shallow defenseless place above a frozen river. It was a stopping-off point, a night’s shelter in the endless journey south. They were all in there, his mother, his father, his brothers, his sisters, crouched together against the wall. They had a meager fire, built from logs he’d helped his father to wrench out of the ice. Lak leaned against his mother, stared at the entrance. His father snored, pale moonlight trickled in. His brothers and sisters slept silent, innocent.

  “What is the bitterness he holds for me?” he whispered.

  “Hush,” his mother whispered.

  “What is it?” he whispered. “As I pulled the timber out I saw such anger gleaming in his eye. And when I stumbled as I carried it he hit me. He took my throat. There was the glare of a beast in him. I saw it again when I sparked the flint, again as the first flames flickered.”

  She stroked his brow. “Hush,” she whispered.

  “What is it?”

  “He was once like you, but the perils of our world have changed him. He sees in you the strength that was once in him. The strength that in him is fading.”

  Lak watched his father in the flickering light.

  “And where is the love he held for me?” he whispered.

  “Hush, my son. Leave these thoughts alone. There will come a time when you alone must be our strength and guide. Prepare yours4ffor it.” She stroked his brow. “Lean on me, my son. Sleep. I will watch the entrance.”

  And Lak slept, and dreamed of his grandfather, of the old man’s tales of the time when the sun shone warm, and green grass and trees filled the valleys.

  The snarling woke him, then the sound of his mother’s screams . . .

  I stopped writing and watched the falling snow. I ran my fingers across the fossilized black tree on my desk. I went downstairs to find Grandpa. He was in the living room, in front of the television. Mum stood in the doorway with her arms folded, watching him. She put her finger to her lips. He was fast asleep. I sat on the sofa beside him. He snored gently, evenly. His eyes flickered beneath his eyelids. There was rubbish on the telly, some game show where they had to answer questions to stop a bucket of black gunge from falling on them. I grinned. There’d be much more interesting things going on behind Grandpa’s closed eyes.

  I waited for him to wake.

  He woke slowly, ever so slowly. Even when his eyes were open his dream continued. He continued to see it, even as his eyes looked toward the nonsense on the telly.

  “Kit,” he murmured at last. “Kit, lad.” His eyes softened, he smiled at me. “Rubbish, eh?”

  “Aye, rubbish.” I switched it off.

  “Not out in the snow today, son?”

  I shook my head. “I need to know about John Askew’s family,” I said.

  “The Askews?” Grandpa rubbed his eyes, pondered. “Wait till I get it straight. Everything’s such a clutter in me head these days. The Aske
ws, aye. I see them now. The grandfather was a good’n. Tough as old boots and a mouthful of curses and too much of a taste for the drink. But gentle enough beneath. Spent many a shift at his side, got to know his ways. He was a man that scared many around him, specially the new lads, but the true nature of him came out when the roof collapsed in 1948. Askew was the man that burrowed through till his hands was bleeding. It was him that carried out the lad that lay in there. Him that saved the lad’s life. The father? He’s just one of them that’s been wasted, son. No proper work for him to do, nothing to control him. Wild as a lad, got wilder as a man. A fighting man. Spent six months in Durham jail for thumping a lad half to death outside The Fox one night. Afterward, just took to the drink. Takes it out on his own boy now, and I suspect on his wife. He’s a bitter soul, Kit. In another world he might have been fine, but in this one . . .” He shrugged. “Ah, well. And I hear the boy’s heading the same way too, eh?”

  “Could be,” I said.

  “Thing is, he’s never had a proper childhood, not with that for a father. The baby inside him never had a chance to grow. You understand?”

  I nodded. “I think so.”

  Grandpa smiled. “Maybe the baby’s inside him still, still waiting for its chance to show itself and grow.”

  I thought of Askew, of the fear and revulsion he caused around him. I recalled the desperation that could be felt within his violent grip, the yearning that could be seen in his violent eyes. Such a strange boy, such a strange mixture of darkness and light. Where was the baby in him? And I thought of Lak, whose baby was so obvious, held inside the bearskin.

  “Everybody’s got the seam of goodness in them, Kit,” said Grandpa. “Just a matter of whether it can be found and brought out into the light.”

  Allie was evil. There was ice in her eye. She’d been enticed, cast under a spell. All the goodness was frozen in her.

  She tiptoed toward me with her hands raised like claws.

  “Here’s evil come for good Kit,” she hissed. “Here’s icy cold and frost to freeze his heart. Here’s bitter winds to freeze his soul. Touch my finger, feel the frost there. Touch my cheek, feel the snow there. Look into my eye, see the ice there.”

  She came closer, closer; the evil smile grew on her face.

  Then she giggled. She danced on the frozen snow. She kicked a storm of white around her.

  “Jeez, Kit,” she said. “It’s great! I love it! I just love it.!”

  We laughed and walked on.

  She’d been rehearsing all afternoon. They were putting on Burning Bush’s version of The Snow Queen. The day it started, Burning Bush had looked around the class with a smile on her face.

  “Now, then,” she said. “I wonder if I can find what I’m looking for. What I need is somebody that can be really, really evil. Somebody that can look in your eye and send a chill into your heart. Somebody that can be really good, but that can turn suddenly and be really bad.”

  She looked and looked and grinned and grinned.

  “Who could it be?” she whispered.

  And everybody laughed.

  “Allie Keenan!”

  Burning Bush smiled. “Allie Keenan. Of course. Who else?”

  Allie giggled again.

  “It was great when she picked me. And doing it, it’s just . . . Jeez, Kit, man!

  “And guess what,” she said. “Guess who looked into the hall and smiled, and even winked at me. Dobbs! Terminal Moraine Tectonic Dobbs!” And she danced again. “I’ll be a star!” she said. “I will! I will! I’ll be a star!”

  Then she skidded and slipped flat on her back with a thump and she laughed some more.

  “It’s great,” I said. “You’ll be fantastic.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Watson. Perhaps you’d like to be my agent.”

  I pulled her up and we walked on.

  “How’s Grandpa?” she said.

  “Seems okay now. But it’ll come again. No stopping it.”

  She clicked her tongue. “Give him my love.” Then she grunted. “Ugh. Look. Just look at him.”

  It was Askew’s father, leaning at the fence. He rolled his head and stared at us. His eyes were red-rimmed, his mouth hung open in a drunken grin.

  “Here they are,” he slurred. “Here they are. Ha!”

  We crossed over so we wouldn’t have to pass close to him.

  He swung his arm out with a flourish.

  “Make way! Let them pass!”

  He tottered, gripped the fence again. He let out a string of curses.

  “What you looking at?” he shouted. “Eh? Eh? What you looking at?”

  “Brute,” whispered Allie. “Pig.”

  “Come on,” I said. “Hurry up.”

  He lurched across the ice on the lane, stood and staggered in our way.

  “Where is he?” he slurred. “Where’s that stupid son of mine?”

  We stood there.

  “Eh? Eh? Where is he?”

  “Jeez, Kit,” said Allie. “Come on.”

  We walked forward, stood a few feet away from him.

  “Get out the way,” she said.

  “Aha! Madam says get out the way.”

  I gripped the ammonite in my fist.

  “Yes,” she said. “Get out the way, you slob.”

  His jaw hung loose. He snarled. He wiped his lips. “I said, where is he?”

  “Gone for good if he’s got any sense,” said Allie. “And I said, get out the way.”

  He took a deep breath. We stepped back as he came closer. He slipped, caught his balance, glared.

  “I’ll . . . I’ll . . .”

  We crossed the lane again, hurried on.

  “I will,” he said. “I will. What you looking at?”

  We looked back, saw him tottering, waving his fist.

  “Look at him,” she said. “Jeez, Kit. Just look at him.”

  I shook my head. “You’re really brave,” I said.

  She shivered. “It was just an act, Kit.”

  The snarling woke him, then the sound of his mother’s screams. Lak gripped the stone axe in his fist. He saw the huge silhouette of the bear in the entrance to the cave. The dying embers of the fire reflected in its eyes. His brothers and sisters cowered against the inner wall. His mother stood before them, her arms outstretched, protecting them. His father crouched low, a rock in his fist. The bear snarled again. It lurched further in, its great paws raised, the great claws glistening. The cave was filled with the stench of its breath. His father leapt from the shadows, struck the bear’s head with his rock. The bear swept him aside and he lay unmoving on the earth. Now Lak sprang forward. He caught the beast between the eyes with his axe. He struck again at the bear’s arm as it came toward him. He tried to strike again but the bear threw him back against the wall. The children whimpered and screamed. Lak struck the bear’s back. He stretched high and struck its head again. His father stirred, yelled at the beast. He flung the rock and it struck the bear’s shoulder. Lak struck again—the arm, the neck, the head again. The bear roared and bellowed as it reached down, knocked Lak’s mother aside, grabbed one of his sisters by the deerskin that swaddled her and lifted her and carried her out into the night.

  They crouched together, whimpering, terror in their eyes, terror in their hearts.

  “My baby!” cried Lak’s mother. “Little Dal! My baby!”

  Lak ‘s heart thundered. He entered the hell that all boys enter as they come of age. He gripped the axe.

  “Our baby!” cried Lak’s mother. “What will we be without our baby?”

  Lak held her for a moment.

  “Stay here,” he whispered. “Wait for me.”

  And he hurried out into the night.

  Already the bear was far away, across the ice. Lak hurried, moving quietly on his deerskin-clad fret. He followed the bear up onto the rock. It moved upward, toward the crags. He kept losing it, then seeing its silhouette against the thick-starred sky. He heard the baby’s cries. He followed, his brain a storm
. How could he conquer this beast? What could he do when he was so small against it, when the baby was so delicate? He followed the bear from crag to crag. Dawn came, frail light trickled from the east. The bear headed downward now, toward another valley of ice. There was a narrow passage between steep rocks. The bear hesitated before it blundered onward through the passage. Lak ran like the wind, up onto the rock above the passage. He overtook the bear, running high above it. It raised its head as he passed. It snarled, then blundered on. Lak waited, squatting low on the rock, the axe tight in his fist. This was where the bear would come out from the passage. He heard its fret, its grunted breath, he heard the baby’s cries. He waited. As the bear came out he swung the axe against its skull. He struck again and it reeled. And again. And again. The bear roared and tottered. Lak leapt from the rock and as he leapt he struck again. It tumbled. He struck again. It lay on the rock. The baby lay crying on its silent chest. He lifted her and held her tight.

  “Dad! Dad!”

  Mum was calling from downstairs. “Dad! Tea up!” He wasn’t with me.

  “Dad!”

  I went out of my room, looked down at her.

  “Wake him up, Kit, eh?”

  I knocked on his door, called softly, “Grandpa!”

  No answer. I opened his door. He wasn’t there. Just the impression of his body on the quilt. Snow drifted across the window. I went back out, went down to her.

  “He’s not there,” I said.

  “Dad!” she called. “Dad!”

  We looked in the kitchen, in the living room, found nothing.

  “Oh, Kit,” she whispered. “Where’s he gone?”

  I went to the front door, peered out through the snow, saw the kids out there, obscure little figures sliding and throwing snowballs.

  Mum’s hand trembled on my shoulder. “Kit, where can he have gone?”

  “He’ll be fine,” I said. “He can’t have gone far.”

  We stared at each other.

  “Call the doctor,” I said. “I’ll go and find him.”

  I pulled my coat on and went out there. I narrowed my eyes against the falling snow. I grabbed a boy as he ran past me giggling.