by David Almond
Askew stood up, yanked Bobby to his feet, shoved him on his way. We watched him disappear into the dark, heard his stumbling feet as he hurried out toward the longest night. Then Askew turned to me, and I saw it in his eyes: You’re on your own down here, Mr. Watson.
He put the axe down, threw more twigs onto the flames, stripped his shirt off, crouched half-naked, skin glistening in the firelight, eyes heavy, filled with darkness.
“This is Death,” he whispered.
Jax crouched in the entrance, ripped at some bloody bones. Teeth and eyes glittered. Saliva drooled. He kept watching, growling.
I rubbed my eyes. They stung with smoke from the burning hawthorn, from the scorched rabbit’s flesh. Smoke hung low over us; it swelled gently into the surrounding tunnels.
Askew watched and smiled. “We’ve disappeared, Kit,” he said. “That’s Death. That’s truly Death.”
“Askew, man,” I whispered.
He looked at me, then at the wall. I followed his eyes, saw it written there: John Askew, aged thirteen. Christopher Watson, aged thirteen.
“Me and you,” he whispered.
“Not me and you. It was long ago. They were poor children forced into the pit. Now dead and gone.”
“Dead and gone?” He smiled. We listened. We heard them, through the crackling of twigs and the hissing of flesh. They whispered in the tunnels. We raised our eyes and saw them there, half obscured by the smoke, half hidden by the dark: our poor little children staring at us from the past.
“See?” he whispered.
“Yes, I see.”
“I know you do. There’s them that do and them that don’t. You and me, we’re just the same.”
He turned the rabbits on their skewers. Blood and fat dripped into the flames.
“You didn’t pretend,” he said.
“Eh?”
“Eh? Eh? You didn’t pretend. When we played the game you didn’t pretend.”
“No, I didn’t pretend.”
“Everything disappeared. There was nothing.”
“Yes.”
“That’s Death. There’s them that know what it is to die. There’s them that know nothing. You and me, we’re just the same.”
He licked his fingers, threw more twigs onto the flames.
“John Askew, aged thirteen,” he whispered. “Christopher Watson, aged thirteen.”
“Askew, man. Come on out.”
He laughed. He lifted the sheath knife. He pointed it at me.
“We can’t. We have come into this place to play the game called Death.”
He watched me.
“I could do anything to you down here.” His eyes glittered beneath his dark hair, from his blackened face.
“You know that, don’t you?” he said.
“Yes.”
“Why did you come, then?”
I shrugged, didn’t know what to say. “Dunno,” I said. “Something about you. Dunno.”
“About us, Kit. The caveman and the good bright boy. John Askew and Kit Watson. We’re just the same.”
He dropped the knife into the dirt.
“It’s not a game,” he said. “I wanted to take you with me, Christopher Watson. I wanted to make you disappear, then disappear myself. Wanted both of us to disappear from the world, to become like the ancient children from the ancient pit.”
He smeared his hands across his chest. The faces there twisted and blurred. He dipped his fingers into the ash at the fire’s edge, scraped long black marks across his cheeks.
“Down here,” he said, “there’s no day, no night. You’re half awake and half asleep, half dead and half alive. You’re in the earth with bones and ghosts and darkness stretching back a million million years into the past.”
He threw more twigs into the fire. The flames flared, smoke rolled into the tunnels, the demons sneered from the walls.
I rubbed my eyes and Askew grinned.
“That’s right,” he hissed. “Keep your eyes clear. Keep watching, Kit.” He held a cigarette out. “Take a drag, Kit.”
I took a drag. My head reeled. He laughed. His wild face and glistening body rocked through the light. His necklace swung. He raised the axe and thumped it into the earth.
“Tell us a story, Kit,” he said.
“Eh?”
“Eh? Eh? Hahaha. I’ll tell one, then.”
He thumped the axe into the earth again. “There was a boy,” he whispered, “with a drunken father. The father’s face was black with rage and red with drink. He raged against his son. He called him stupid lout. He thumped him as a little boy and he thumped him harder as he grew. Sometimes he thumped him until the boy’s skin beneath his clothes was black and bruised and his head stung. He whispered to the boy that he’d be better dead, he’d be better if he’d never come into the world. Sometimes he thumped him so that there was nothing left but silence, nothingness, deadness, so that there was no boy left. He’d simply disappeared. Till he started waking up again and it all began again.”
He thumped the axe into the earth.
“Askew,” I whispered.
He threw more twigs onto the flames.
“Keep watching, Kit,” he said. “Keep listening. You hear the skinny children whispering and whimpering? That’s right, Kit.”
I saw the tears running from his eyes.
“I’ve seen him howling across the wilderness for you,” I said. “I’ve seen him weeping for you.”
“It’s him I have to kill, Kit. Not you. Me and Jax, we’ll get him.”
“Askew, man.”
He threw more twigs onto the flames. He rocked and reeled. He thumped the axe into the earth.
A half-seen little body rushed past us, shimmered in the smoke, flickered in the light.
“Silky!” I whispered.
He passed us again. He paused at the edge of the light, turned his eyes to us, hurried on into the dark.
“Yes, Silky,” said Askew. “Little Silky. Same as ever. But listen, Kit. Down here, I see the ghosts of deeper darkness. I see them rising from the deepest darkness of the past. I see John Askews and Kit Watsons and little Silkies from a thousand thousand years ago. They come to me because I see them and I bring them back. Ayeeeee! Ayeeeee!”
He thumped his chest. He wiped more ash marks onto his skin. He tilted his head back and roared like a beast.
“Ayeee! Ayeeee!”
He leaned toward the flames and gasped. “Help me, Kit,” he said.
“Eh?”
“Eh? Eh? Help me bring them back. Help them to appear. Agh! Agh!”
He threw more twigs onto the flames. He sucked on a cigarette. He thumped the axe into the earth. He stared into the tunnels.
“Keep watching, Kit,” he whispered. “Squeeze your eyes. Squint. Watch them come.”
I watched, saw nothing.
“I’ve seen them,” he whispered. “I’ve really seen them. Agh! Agh!”
I reached out toward him, touched his shoulder.
“Askew, man,” I said. “Askew.”
“Agh!” he muttered. “Agh!”
He slumped, pulled his shirt back on, pulled it close about him. Shivered. Hunched beside the fire. I placed hawthorn branches on the fire. I picked two blankets from the heap, wrapped one around Askew and one around myself. I scooped water from among the melting snow and drank. I turned the rabbits on the skewers. I thought of the deepening night outside. I thought of my mother’s eyes as her understanding of my disappearance deepened. I rubbed my eyes, gazed at the frightened children watching from the dark, little Silky brightest of them all.
“I wrote a story for you,” I said. “I was going to bring it to you. Then you were gone.”
He was silent. He drank melted snow from his cupped hands. He lit a cigarette. I touched his shoulder again.
“You’re right,” I said. “You and me, we’re just the same.”
“Are you my friend?” he whispered.
“Yes, John. I’m your friend.”
The
rabbits were scorched black outside and bloody inside. We ate them in silence, slurped and drooled. Saliva and grease and blood trickled from our lips. Jax squatted between us with his bones.
“There’s good in everyone,” I said.
He spat into the fire.
“There is,” I said. “Just a matter of finding it, bringing it out into the light.”
“I’ve dreamed for years of doing it,” he said. “Dreamed of how I’d do it. Dreamed of rocks and knives and poison. Dreamed of us standing over him, seeing him dead. Dreamed of how happy we’d be.”
I clicked my tongue. “That’s stupid, man.” I saw the darkness in his eyes as he turned them to me.
“Careful, Kit,” he whispered.
The dog curled his lip and growled.
“It is,” I said. “It’s you they need, not some stupid wild kid with a hatchet in his fist.”
There was long silence. We chewed the rabbits. Then he turned his eyes to me again. He threw the remains of the rabbit into the fire. He lifted the axe. He drew its blade across his thumb tip. The blood bulbed, then ran free. He held the axe toward me.
“Give me your hand,” he said. “Let me cut you.”
I watched his eyes, I held out my hand. He gripped it. He sliced the axe blade through my thumbtip. He pressed our wounds together, held our thumbs tight between his fist. We gazed deep into each other’s eyes.
“Now I feel you entering me. You feel me entering you. John Askew, aged thirteen, Christopher Watson, aged thirteen. Just the same. Joined in blood.”
He freed our hands. He lit a cigarette. I nibbled the rabbit bones. The skinny children watched. Silky watched.
“Taste the blood,” he said.
“Eh?”
“Taste the blood on your thumb.”
I licked my thumb, the metallic sour taste of blood.
“Which blood is mine and which is yours?” he asked.
I shook my head.
“No way of knowing, Kit. The taste’s the same.”
“That’s right,” I said.
“And almost the same as the rabbit’s blood you’ve just tasted.”
“That’s right. And almost the same as bear’s blood or deer’s blood.”
“Ha. Dead right, Kit. The blood of beasts, the blood of people, they’re just the same.”
He pulled his blanket closer and stared into the flames.
I rubbed my eyes, shook my head, squinted, saw him as a boy in a bearskin, baby held against his chest.
I gasped.
“What?” he said.
“Nothing. Tired. Falling to sleep.”
“More blankets there,” he said.
I shook my head.
I rubbed my eyes. I scooped melted snow from the bucket. I saw the bearskin again, covering Askew’s shoulders. I heard the baby whimpering.
“They need you, Askew. They love you. If you go back you can help them. They’ll have someone to protect them. Even your father would have someone to protect him from himself.”
He stared at me, narrowed his eyes as if he stared at a low bright sun. I shuddered. I rubbed my eyes, my ears, shook my head. I chewed my lip. The baby whimpered from its place by Askew’s heart.
I caught my breath again. “Askew!” I gasped.
“What is it?”
I shook my head. “Nothing. Dreams. Nothing.” I reached across at him, touched his arm. “Askew. Come back home. Keep the baby safe.”
Narrowed his eyes again. Reached inside the bearskin, whispered words of comfort. The skinny children sighed. They were closer now, edging in from the deepest dark. They watched, watched.
I shook my head, looked at my watch. So late. Deep into the deepest night. My head swam with smoke and sleep and shifting visions. I closed my eyes and saw a night so dark and long it went on forever. Opened them and saw Lak watching from the bearskin.
“What was the story?” said Askew.
“The story?”
“The one you would have brought to me.”
“About a boy, from a long, long time ago.”
The baby whimpered. I reached out and touched Askew’s arm.
“It’s you,” I said.
“Who else?”
“I’m tired, Askew. Need to sleep.”
“There’s blankets there.”
He threw more wood onto the fire. The smoke and flames intensified. We wrapped ourselves in blankets and lay down on the stony ground beside the fire. Closed my eyes, saw Lak’s mother crouching before me, pebbles held out in her fist, mouth opening and closing: Bring him home.
“Tell it to me.”
“I’m tired, John.”
“Tell it to me.”
Bring him home, she said.
The baby whimpered from Askew’s heart.
“What was his name?” said Askew.
I looked through the flames, saw his eyes staring from within the bearskin. I closed my eyes. I gathered the threads of the story. ,,
His name was Lak, I murmured, and I set off into the tale as if it was a dream.
As I began, she came out from the deepest darkness, from the depths of the earth, the depths of time. She came through the longest tunnel into the fringes of the light. She paused a moment there, behind the skinny children, behind Silky, then came on again, came past them, through them. I watched through narrow squinting eyes. I watched her flickering and shifting beyond the flames. I watched her come into this wider space. She was wrapped in animal skins. Skins were tied around her feet. She squatted by the wall, beneath the beasts and names and demons. She rested her eyes upon me. I murmured the story. There was anguish in her eyes as I told of the great struggle in the cave, the loss of her baby, the disappearance of Lak.
“I see it all,” said Askew. He lay there with his eyes closed. “I’ll draw it perfectly.”
“That’s great,” I whispered.
“Go on,” he said. “Don’t stop. Go on.”
I told the story to the two of them. I squinted, met her eyes, saw her joy at Lak’s victory over the bear, her wretchedness at the return to the empty cave. She seemed about to speak to me, to explain perhaps, to tell me the route that Lak and the baby must take. But she just held up her hands, frustrated, mouthed the words at me: Bring them home. Bring them home.
“You’ve stopped again,” said Askew. “Keep going. Don’t drop off to sleep.” He looked at me, saw nothing but me. “Go on,” he whispered.
I told the tale. I told of the killing of the deer, of the drinking of the deer’s milk and blood, of the hope that grew in Lak’s heart. He moved quickly now, heading south. The baby slept against him, contented. Behind them, the great dark birds spiraled from the sky, flapped heavily down into the hollow.
All day they walked the crags above the ice. He trickled melted snow into the baby’s mouth. He murmured comfort to her. He nibbled at the strips of deer meat. The short day ended. Night came on. They sheltered in a shallow cave above a rock face. Lak built a fire with the twigs of stunted thorny trees that grew out from the rock. He lay sleeping against the dog Kali with the baby safe and warm between them. He dreamed of his family. He dreamed of being with them in a high-arched cave. There was a bank of grass outside, then a river flowing free beneath the sun that blazed from the center of the sky. The green valley stretched upward to thickly forested mountains. Fish leapt and glittered. There were trees heavy with fruit. Long grasses arched beneath the burden of their seeds. The family sprawled at ease on the riverbank. The baby lay naked on soft turf with bright flowers growing all around her. She kicked her legs, waved her arms, gurgled with joy. Just a dream. He woke to a new bitter day, the sun inching up into the icy sky, the fire gone out, ice creeping into his bones. They drank melted ice, nibbled deer meat, a handful of harsh berries from the stunted trees, and walked on. Their journey seemed endless to Lak. Endless mountains all around, endless sheets of ice. Short cold days, long dark bitter nights. Nothing to guide them but the low sun that drew them south. They slept in shallow c
aves, in crevices in the rock. Lak killed another deer one day. Kali brought a rabbit that dangled bloodily from his teeth. Below them in the valleys they saw bear and mammoth and bison. Dark birds gathered above them each day in the sky. The baby in the bearskin grew thinner, thinner. The dog shuffled and whined. Lak’s skin crumpled upon his bones. His hands trembled as he touched the baby’s lips with water, as he struck the flints to make their fires. Each day he woke and touched her with his trembling hands and each time was certain she’d be dead. They struggled on, toward the sun, until there was no strength left, no hope left, no way to go on. Lak stumbled through the morning, then skidded on a patch of ice, slipped, tumbled down into a gully, lay there unconscious on the ice. He woke again, but only to give himself and his baby sister up for dead. He reached inside the bearskin, felt her cold and still against him. He breathed a final prayer to the Sun God, that they would be taken quickly, before the birds came down. Then held his sister close, and beneath the shallow noonday sun slipped quickly with her down into the deepest dark.
I paused. I squinted through the flames. She held her hands against her face. Tears ran through her fingers. She watched me, begged me.
“Don’t stop,” whispered Askew.
He lay with his face turned toward the fire, eyes closed, as if he was sleeping. In the flickering light his blanket turned to bearskin and then to wool again. In the hissing of the fire the baby’s whimpers could be heard. The world slipped moment by moment into a distant past and back again.
“Go on, Kit. Just go on.”
“Askew,” I whispered.
“What is it?” He looked at me. I turned my eyes toward Lak’s mother.
“There,” I whispered.
He looked through the dying flames.
“Narrow your eyes, John. Squint.”
“What is it?”
Then he caught his breath, and stared.
“Yes,” he said. “I told you, didn’t I?”
He held up his palm to her, as if to greet her. She watched us both with yearning eyes.
“Go on,” he whispered. “Don’t stop, Kit. Keep going on.”
I closed my eyes, gathered again the threads of the tale, set off again.
He held the baby tight. She was still and silent. He descended through the dark with her. He heard the voices of his ancestors—the voices of the dead, calling him, welcoming him. He felt their fingers touching him, guiding him toward them. He entered the great cave into which all the dead descend, the cave where no fire burns, where no sun lights the entrance. And rested there, crouched against the wall, the baby by his heart, the unseen ancestors all around. It was her whimpering that brought the light, a tiny chink of it. She whimpered again, frail, high-pitched. She shifted in her wrappings. Her tiny fingers scrabbled against his chest. She cried out more loudly. He shifted, opened his eyes, the light intensified. He found her trapped beneath him. He rolled so that she lay within the bearskin at his side. The light was brilliant and endless, glaring down into the narrow gully, so bright he couldn’t turn his eyes toward its source. The baby wailed and screamed, filling the world with her voice, her hunger, her refusal to die, her demand for life. He tried again to turn his eyes toward the sun, but couldn’t bear it. There was sweat drenching his skin, fire burning in his bones. He looked downward from the gulley, down across the crags into the valley, down to a sparkling free river, fruit trees, long grasses. A herd of deer moved slowly across the slopes. Flights of brightly colored birds flew below the crags. And there were people there, lightly clad, with necklaces, paintings on their bodies, feathers in their hair. Lak stared. The baby screamed, and within the screams Lak heard the words: These things will come again. These things will come again. These things will come again.
