by David Almond
He puls my fays rite close to his.
“I no sumbody that mite not be pleesd to no yor owt and abowt,” he says. “I no sumbody that mite pay good money to keep mowths like this won shut.”
I bite his hand rite throu the skin. I taste his blood & see it triklin.
“Wel yor a rite fukin moster arnt you?” says the treasure hunter. “Yor a —”
“No hes not,” cums another voys.
Its Mr McCaufrey cumin acros the rubbl. He grabs the treasure hunter by the throte.
“No hes not but yes I am,” he says. He yanks the man off me.
“Yes I am” as he gets the nife from him and drags him acros the rubbl rattl rattl scrayp scrayp crunch crunch crunch.
“I am” as he pulls the man behind a harf farlen wall.
“I am” as his hand with the nife plunjes downward.
“I am” as the man screams & screams agen.
Then silens.
Minuts pass in silens.
Mr McCaufrey cums owt to us agen.
“You didn’t hav yor nife?” he says to me.
“I kepe it for the butchers shop.”
“You must keepe it with you now & keepe it sharp. Sumtyms the butchers shop must be owt here in the world.”
Mam gasps sliytly at my syd.
“Dont wurry” wispers Mr McCaufrey. He wipes his hands on his butchers apron. “Evrythins OK. Ill chop him up & fling him deep. He wont be fownd. Whats the end of 1s like him in tyms like this? Go hoam in peese & never menshon this agen.”
Watch now. Follow the pensil and look upon this. Its an ordnry afternoon in Missus Malones. Or whats becum an ordnary afternoon in the life of Billy Dean. He is with the bereaved & hes swayin & swingin & naymin the words. The mother Cristina & the dorter Maria ar ther agen. He looks into ther eyes with such tenderness such simpathy. He does this job so well. I feel yor pane he says. I share yor loss. He tells them with his own eyes that thers nowt today — thers silens in the relms of darknes & other suchlike stuff. Missus Malone keeps looking at him too and he just stares bak at her. Nowt, Missus Malone. She looks away. Mebbe she has stoppd beleevin in it & she just gos on with it for the coyns & notes that are pressd into her parm eech time the day is dun.
Billy looks throu the warls. Its spring owt ther & wil soon be summer. He looks beyond Blinkbonny towards the sea & then the iland and he trys to imajin bein ther — to see the sunlite on the sea & to feel the sand beneeth his feet. Wil sand feel like dust? Wil it feel like rubbl? And how wil it be to see a horizon that is just empty just sea just sky just emptiness. O to go ther! To be ther! He and his mam tark mor & mor of leaving this plase & of going there & of bein free. Its time for that. Hes growin older stronger. Shurely its coming to the time that they must go. But they are timid & wary of the world & the wilderness of Blinkbonny seems so safe.
He sags down in his seat. Allows his finger to be pushd and pulld. Allows himself to swing & sway above the shining leters beneeth the dangling lite. He no longer wunders who dos all this pushin & this pullin. He serches the dark no longer. Giv me lite he siys within himself. Whos ther? carls Missus Malone. Whos ther whos ther? He shuts his eyes lets her voys & the voyses of the bereaved slide over him. O giv me lite! He trys to see the castl the beach the upsyd down boats the shining sea the bonny puffins flying in the air. Then thers faroff slappin lyk the lappin of warter. Then thers winds & breezes. Thers kind of muffld wispers muffld breth muffld crys & carls & gasps & siys. He lissens. He trys to hear more clerely. Its lyk lissenin to sumthin far away & deep insyd him all at wons. He lissens deeper deeper & its not like lissenin to the sownds of death at all. He sags down further in his seat. O giv me lite!
And then it comes.
It comes like hands at his throte sqeezin the life owt of him.
It comes like a hand shuvd rite inside his chest that grabs his heart and grips it and stops it.
It comes like hands liftin him up hiy & flingin him down to the erth & breakin arl his boans.
Like hands that rip him arl apart & fling the bits of him away across the world.
Like a hundred creechers porin in throu all his openings — mise & ants & dogs & cats & rats that run in throu his eyes his nostrils his mowth his ears his arse.
Like a roarin & screechin & yellin & thumpin.
Like evrythin thats insyd him is burstin to get owt.
Like evrythin thats owtsyd him is burstin to get in.
Its noys & anger fury yellin screems & payn & kik & punch & stab & smash & payn & yells & Aaaaaaa & Aaaaaaaaa & Aaaaaaaa & Aaaaaaaaaa!
And then just nothing just the pane of it just silens & the deep & endless pane of it.
Its pane that has been here for ever & that wil go on goin on for ever ever mor.
And then despite the endlessness ther cums a sudden stop.
And a wisper that is deep inside him a deepinsidehim plays that he has never nown til now.
A wisper that grows from the deepinsidehim plays & turns into a groan.
The groan is his. The groan is him.
“Yes. Yes. I am here. Yes. I love you.”
And then thers nothin nothin at all just a deep blak casm that he farls throu & farls throu & farls throu & farls throu for the rest of tym.
Tears farl like warm rane to his fase. Warm breth & tender fingers tuch his cheek. Gladsom words ar wisperd arl arownd.
“Yes! It was him! Yes it was!”
He opens his eyes. All blaknes is gon. His body is put together agen. He lies crumpld on the flore. Deep silens is in him. No payn no fury no fere. His spirit is stil.
Ther ar fayses abuv him.
Cristina & Maria & Missus Malone & others are clusterin arownd.
“It happened” says Missus Malone. “You wer possessd at last. You brout a messaj from the relms of darknes, William. You brout a messaj from the dead.”
“You wer my father, Aynjel” says Maria. “Ther was no mistaykin his voys. He spoke throu you, Aynjel. You wer truly him.”
And so Billy Dean becoms The Aynjel Childe at last. The 1 whos life is stoppd and who is rippd apart and flung into the relms of darknes. After that first time ther is poseshun & poseshun & poseshun.
He gros to dred it for it brings such pane. He gros to love it for it leevs such peese in its wake. The voyses of the dead posess his throte & tongue & lips. They gossip & natter & wisper & grone. They are as deep as the voys of an old man & sweet & hiy as a childes. They tell tales that seem so real. Tales of Blinkbonny wen the streets wer payvd & the houses wer all in orda & the shops like the shop of Mr McCaufrey wer shynin brite & filld with goods for sale & with cues of natterin customas.
The voyses come like memries from insyd himself of bein a childe in a family with bruthas & sistas & a dad that bownsd him on his nee & a mam that laffd with the joy of her happy life.
The voyses let him liv the lyvs of othas & let him be in ther bodys & feel ther feelins & remember ther memrys & feel ther heart & breeth ther breth.
Sumtyms the voyses sing from him & he finds himself singing songs abowt love & dremes & yernin & loss. He sings abowt the sea & the wind & the moon. The songs pore out from him like things that hav been hidden in him always & that have been yerning to be set free.
He is told that the voyses are things of byuty. He is told that they are voyses from the the deepest of arl memrys. He is told that they rise from the aynshent past of evrywon sittin at the taybl watchin and lissenin in astonishment and wunder. He is told that they rise from the deepest & most aynshent parts of arl of us.
And all the time the pepl gasp and wisper and cry out.
“It was just as he was! O it was just as she was! Yes! Thats how things wer then! O yes thats him. It cudnt be enywon els but her!”
Sumtyms thers no voys ther is just the dead person ther in the darknes presentin themselves to Billy Dean & at such times he speaks of how they look & how they stand or how they limp or what they wear or how ther hair is & if they hav a scar or a blemish or a speshal twinkl in ther eye.<
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“Yes! Yes that must be him! Yes thats her!”
Sumtyms the voyses cum to him as words for the paje. He waits with a pensil in his hand until the poseshun takes him and his hand starts scribblin & curlin & jaggerin arownd the paje. And he mutters & sqweals as he rites & as the poseshun pushes the pensil arownd & arownd & bak & forth.
And afterwards Missus Malone trys to extract a meanin from the mess & to disern the words & tel the tales they tel & the cry goes up.
“Yes its from him! Yes from her! Yes thats exactly how it was!”
Sumtyms at the best of times the most intens of times it is evrything all at wons. It is the body & the voys & the memry & the sole. And Billy Dean is completely overtook. Ther body is in his body & ther brain is in his & ther voys is in his & Billy Dean is gon. Ther is no Billy Dean at all. He warks like the dead 1 arownd the watery tayble. He speaks to the bereaved as the 1 inside him wud hav dun in life. He sings like them & even danses like them. Who nos how it happens or how he dus it but it happens and he dus it & yes he becums the Aynjel Childe.
It is then that he begins to be nown to the world beyond Blinkbonny. Mor and mor peple come to Missus Malones dore & to the watery tayble & to the planshet & to the miraculous Aynjel Childe.
Perhaps you remember it, my reader. Perhaps you yorself wer won of those who came to the dore. Perhaps you came in serch of yor lost love. Perhaps you came in curiosity like meny did. Perhaps you came to laff like meny did & went bak home agen in tremblin and wunder. Yes perhaps you wer won of those that sat at the tayble wile the aynjel was sylent til he was flung to the flore & rippd apart & sent into the relms of darknes to bring bak tayls & memries & payns & joys from arl the lejons of the dead. And now here you are agen lissening agen reading agen wile Billy Dean is possessd agen & his pensil jaggers across the payper from word to word & brings the story of himself owt from the darknes of himself.
2 that cum in serch of me are the bruthers Jack & Joe. They say they cum from a faroff sity but they also cum from Blinkbonnys past.
Missus Malone stairs at them as they take ther plases at the taybl.
“Dont I no you?” she says.
Turns owt shes rite. Turns owt they wer in Saynt Patriks itself on the day of doom. They wer the altar boys ringing bells & chantin prares when the roof fell & the walls crumbld & the splendid windos cascaded down. They carry the marks of that day on themselvs. Jacks left eye is burnd away. Joes rite cheek has melted & reformd. They ar tarl. They hav clene clowths & nete blond hair & soft voyses.
Missus Malone peers close at them.
“The Elyot boys,” she wispers.
“Yes” says Joe.
“And you survivd?”
“Yes” says Jack. “We wer taken away by famly. Becos our parents . . .”
He looks down & he wyps a tere from his singl eye. Joe puts an arm arownd him.
“It is why we cum today” says Joe. “We hav herd of this speshal boy.”
Missus Malone siys.
“They livd just down the street from me Aynjel.”
“Thats rite,” says Jack. “And we remember you so wel.”
“And my dorter?” she softly says.
“O yes. We used to see her in the park. We used to swing her bak & forward. Hiyer hiyer! she wud call.”
“Good boys,” wispers Missus Malone. “Hiyer hiyer! Hiyer hiyer Mammy!”
“Daisy isn’t it?” says Jack.
“Wasnt it” says Missus Malone. “Daisy. Yes. Enuf. Let us begin.”
That day I find ther parents in the darknes. A shadowy man & woman with pale fayses & glitering crusifixes arownd ther throtes & blak prare books in ther hands.
“Tel our boys we ar fine,” they carl as if from an aje away. “Tel them to be good. Tel them that we wate for them.”
I cum bak to the lite bering my messaj.
“That was them?” I ask.
“O yes” says Jack.
“That looks & sownds like them,” says Joe.
Ther eyes qwikly fill with wonder & gratichood & prayse.
I turn to others at the tabl. I set off agen serching in the dark.
As I wark home that dusk I fynd Jack & Joe a few footsteps behynd me.
They halt & clasp ther hands & lower ther eyes.
“Forgiv us,” says Jack. “Send us packing if you hav no nede of us.”
“But we wish to ofer orselvs,” says Joe.
“Ofer yorselvs?” I say.
“If ever you hav need of us,” says Jack.
“In eny way,” says Joe
I am confyusd & I turn away & wark on.
Jacks voys continus.
“We are redy for yor carl, Master.”
I shud now say that I hav a sens of dred but I dont. Im the 1 supposd to hav the speshal senses but I dont even have the sens to hav a sens of dred.
I wark on.
Jack & Joe set up home in an abandond cottaj. Sumtyms I see ther distint silowets leening on warls or sitting on heeps of stoans. Sumtyms they rase ther hands & wayv acros the distanses between us. Or they simply watch in silens wayting for my carl.
Daisy. Yes. Soon afterwards I find Daisy for Missus Malone. It is in a time of peese and qwiyet. The bereaved hav gon & the locks hav been lockd & I sit in the curtand room with Missus Malone.
She sips a glass of wisky. She tels me it is time agen to try.
She givs me a smarl red shoe to hold in my hand, the kind of thing that the bereaved so often do to help me in my jurneys to ther loved wons. Littl objects help so much. Littl things like this red shoe or a scarf or broach or a seashel or a pen or a pyp or a dol.
It is a marvel to me how the tales and memries and spirits & bodys seem to be raysd by such littl things.
These things hav never livd themselvs but they seem filld with life. How can that be so? It is the same with the things of my own that I tuch & hold — like an aynshent scarf or the tip of a blak sigaret or a peese of drydowt mows skin — & which when tuchd begin to gliter with memrys tales & dreams.
For the bereaved these objects hav the power to draw the dead wons back. Is that because the spirits of the dead have enterd those things? Becos the sole at death goes not to Hevan or to Hell but into the ordnary littl objects of the world? Who can no? As always who can ever bluddy no?
Anyway I hold the smarl red shoe & I collaps am torn apart & here is Daisy waytin in the dark as if she has been waytin for all tym. And wen she rises in me I see Missus Malone throu her eyes & Missus Malone is pretty & yung with soft brown hair & jently shynin eyes & the words of Daisy begin to spill off my tongue & call out “Mammy Mammy.”
And Missus Malone takes me & raps me in her arms & gasps out “Daisy Daisy Daisy!”
We do this many times.
And Missus Malone says she wil hav her dorter ever mor now that she has the aynjel William Dean.
Now that she has the boy who can recreate the world.
The river gliters glos & flashes owt beyond Blinkbonnys edj. It flows away downhill throu the sity to the distant sea. Mam nos I look towards it but shes told me keep away. It is a plays of byuty but grayt peril too.
“Like all the world,” I say.
“Yes” she says. “Like all the world.”
And so I keep away. And I am wary of stepping away from the rubbl wary of stepping away from the things I no. But days pass by & keep on passing & I get older & I gro. And I begin to mock myself. Billy Dean — the boy thats brave enuf to enter the afterlife but not brave enuf to go into the world.
Erly 1 morning I step from the crunch of Blinkbonnys rubbl. I wark across a field onto soft turf & the mud & pebbls of the riverbank.
I dip my hands into the warter & wotch the way it swirls & eddys rownd my fingas.
I drop a stik in & watch it spin & twist & disapear. I drop a stone in & watch how thers nothin of it left after its splash.
I imajin what cud happen to a body that was tayken by it.
I imajin myself spinnin away upon it. I imajin my body sinkin ly
k a stone into its depe wet swirlin dark. I imajin it carryin me as far as the sea as far as the iland.
After that first tym I go to the river meny tyms. Sumtyms at the brake of mornins befor Mam wakes. Sumtyms on returnin from my tyms of posseshun at Missus Malones.
I take off my clowths & leve them on the bank & walk into the river to stand in it & feel it flowing wet & cold across my skin & tuggin at the hairs that grow ther. I lov the sound of it the sent of it the way it splashes & sprays & the way tiny ranebows cum & go upon it. And I love the fish the glitter of them in the depths the way they leap from the warter to the air and curv bak down agen.
As tym goes on I wade deeper deeper — deep as my nees deep as my wayste. Wons on a ded stil day wen mist is lyin in the feelds arownd I stand with the river gushing across my chest & I feel how I cud just lean back & it would rapidly cary me away. That is the day I feel the fishes for the first time movin tenderly across my skin. I look down & see the silvery flashes of them twisting & turning about me withowt eny fear of me. I slide my hands in & the fish cum to nudj & nibbl me & they rise up to the surfas like they are lookin up at me.
“Lovely fish” I wisper & ther mowths open & close in straynj reply.
“O O” they say in silens. “O O. O O.”
Ther ar other beests that cum to me as wel. A pare of beests I cum to no ar otters. They riggl from the water when I stand ther on the bank to gambol & curl abowt my feet. And birds of cors — meny birds that gather in the bushes nearby & sing ther songs arownd me. And beests lyk rabbits hares & mise & rats are never trubbld by my presens ther.
In the mud at the warters edj meny creechers leav ther traks & marks — footprints & pawprints and clawprints that show wer birds and beests hav bene. They ar like weard langwaj ritten on the surfas of the world. I make my marks as well — the impreshuns of my fete and hands. I make marks and letters with my fingas and name myself ther in the mud. BILLY DEAN, I write. AYNJEL CHILDE. I fill the marks with warter and watch them fayd and turn bak to blank mud agen. I rite bits of my tale in 1 or 2 short weard sentences that mingl with the weard sentenses of the beests & birds.