by David Almond
PART ONE: THE HART OF EVRYTHING
The Start of It
A Littl Memry
A Littl Boy
The Best of Tyms
Tuching His Woonds
A Vishon of the Stars
The Box of Beests
The Gayms I Playd with Beests
The Game of Maykin Life
Words & Pitchers
A Paje of Wilfreds Words
Riting on the Wall
A Masterpees
A Poor Littl Mows
Is Enybody Ther?
The Hart of the Mows
The Days of Waytin
The Cuming of the Bird
Words Abowt Killin
The Masterpeese
Dads Horra
The Maykin of the Mowsbird
PART TWO: BLINKBONNY
Out
The Kitchen
Blinkbonnys Smithereens
Crunch Crunch Rattl Crunch
The Stray Strands of Missus Malone
A Wark Throu the Ruwins with Missus Malone
The Story of the Day of Doom
The Byutiful Enjins of Destrucshon
Fragments of Jesus & the Aynjel
The Story of the Days Beyond My Birth
The Joy of Haredressing
The Butcher & the Butchers Shop
A Bit of Cow
Crunch Crunch Crunch Crunch
The Treshur Hunter & the Wildaness
My Introducshon to the Mistiryos Planshet
The Day the Hairdresser Met the Priest
So How Did That Make Me?
The Miracl That Was Workd Upon Mam
The Mistry of the Fish & the Eggs
Dealin with the Dead
The Story of a Girl in Trubbl
Silens in the Relm of Darknes
A Pitcher of Billy Dean
The Growth of Hair & Riting Rongs
The Gift of a Nife
The Saynts Reveal Themselvs
Words for Winter
The End of the Treasure Hunter
The First Poseshon of Billy Dean
He Was Him
I Becom the Aynjel Childe
Jack & Joe
Discoverin Daisy
The River
The Glint of Gold
The Fase in the Mud
The Hevanly Kitchen
The Tale of Shugahed & the Birds
How I Discoverd the Healin Tuch
The Gloryus Nothingness
The Disypls
The World Within
Elizabeth in the Glayd
Bluddy Fool
I See Him Fase to Fase
The New Voys in the Dark
Just Ther She Lys & She Is Dead
Bluddy Blessings
How It Was Intended
The Truth
The End
PART THREE: THE ISLAND
This tail is told by 1 that died at birth by 1 that came into the world in days of endles war & at the moment of disaster.
He grew in isolayshon wile the enjins of destrucshon flew & smoke rose over the sitys & wile wilderness & waste crept all acros the world.
He grew up with the birds & mise as frends.
He wos a secrit shy & thick & tungtied emptyheded thing.
He wos tort to read & rite & spel by his tenda littl muther & by Mr McCaufrey the butcha & by Missus Malone and her gosts.
So he is not cleva so plees forgiv his folts & his mistayks.
Mebbe you alredy no him. Mebbe you came to Blinkbonny & to Missus Malones door & into the parlor wer he told you of all the spirits that wer still arownd you and that stil lovd you even tho you thort they wer gon.
Mebbe he roamd the afterlyf for you & sang for you & dansd for you & became the thing you thort youd lost the thing you lovd so much.
Mebbe you came in serch of healing & he tuchd you jentl jentl & askd you wer the pane wos & drew that pane owt from you & you wer heald.
Mebbe you even stood ther & watchd wile he tryd to heal the ded.
Bak in those days he wos the Aynjel Childe.
He wos the worker of majic & miracls the speaker in tungs & the yellerowt of drivel & bollox & nonsens.
Those days ar long gone. The ded ar gone. God & his aynjels & sayntes are gone.
The Aynjel Childes no mor.
The Aynjel Childe has dun the deeds of monsters.
Wether you no him or not he has been here always.
He cud be just a thing of dreem & nitemare a thing that prowls within you at the ded of nite & glares into yor hart & prowls inside yor deepest dreems.
Whatever he is it is tym to tell the tail.
Mebbe it is not for you. Mebbe you do not want these words to be ritten into you. Mebbe you do not want them to enter yor blud & boans & to infect yor dremes.
Turn away if you must.
Or read on if you wish. Try to desifer the words. Or lissen. Or do watever els you do to allow these words to enter you.
I am Billy Dean. This is the truth. This is my tail.
I am told I wil lern how to rite the tale by riting it. 1 word then anotha 1 word then anotha. Just let the pensil wark. Let it move like footsteps throu the dust & leev its marks behind. Let it leev its marks just like birds & beests leav ther misteryous footprints in mud.
Just fill the pajes.
A word a mark a word a mark.
What do I hav to begin with?
Objects.
Things like this hand of Jesus.
Thees fethers from an aynjels wing.
This dryd out skin of long ded mows.
This purpl scarf with blak frinjes on it.
I tuch them & sniff them & stare deep into them & O what stories start to rise. What memries feelins thorts & horras loves & dremes. They churn together like tormented water. How to get them into orda how to get them maykin sens?
I have these pajes. I hav this pensil.
I hav this nife that sharpens the pensil that tells the tale that leeds to the nife & to the act that had mebbe always been intended.
No. Dont think of that not yet.
Sharpen the pensil & go to the start & wate for the word.
Wot is the word that is at the start of it?
Dont pawse. Rite it.
Darkness.
Darkness with a boy in it.
Im very small. Im wyd awayk. Im staring up into the sqare of niyt. Thers dozens of stars even in that smarl spays. They glitta & they even seme to dans.
Thers a clik & a clak & a shaft of lite farls ova me. Thers the sownd of footsteps. A dark shado stands abuv me.
Hands reech under me & lift me qwikly up.
I see his eyes glitterin lyk 2 massiv nereby stars.
1 of his hands suports my bum. 1 hand raps arownd my bak & holds me cloas to him. I fele the cloth of his blak jaket the stubbl of his blak hare the smooth skin of his throte. Im held so cloas agenst him. And O the sents of him. O the feel of his breathin agenst my body & his breth agenst my skin.
My son, he siys. O my dere son.
And his body vibrayts & eckos with the words & so dos mine.
My son. My dere son.
And he sways with me in his arms almost lyk hes dansin with the stars.
This tym its her tuch that draws me back. I feel her fingers & her thums on me. They hold my hed & tilt it. They stroke my hare & lift it to feel the lenth of it & then the cowm moovs throu it & I feel the teeth of the cowm agenst my scalp. I here the sownd of the sissors snipping snip snip. And her voys sings in my ere & her breth is on my skin. And the cuttas sweep up from the bak of my nek towards my hed & they sweep ova my templs. Then I feel
the fingers rubbin the brilcreem onto me & I smel the smel of that. And then she finishes her cowmin and she laffs & stroaks my cheke & she says how lucky she is to hav such a lad.
Now the vishon cums & I see the woman & the boy befor me in the littl room. Much tym has passd sins he wos the bayby on the bed. Hes a littl boy. Hes sittin by the tabl on a chare & shes behynd him & the sunlites shinin down on them from the sqare abuv. Shes taking a towel from his sholders now & tippin the snippdoff hare into the toylet & flushing it away.
He smiles & runs his fingers across the new sharp luvly stubbl on his templs & his nek.
Thatll do she tels him. Billys bak to bonnynes agen.
She kisses his cheke. She smyls. But look cloasly. Her eyes ar tyrd. She sags a bit. Tyms alredy started takin its toll on her.
He sees a mows runnin along the bottom of the warl. Then anotha. He poynts he wayvs he sqweeks he laffs.
Mows! he crys. Mows! Eek eek! Eek eek!
She laffs as well. She says she wishes she cud do sumthing abowt them. But wots to do? Blinkbonnys riddld with them. And it cud be wors. It cud be rats. Dont encuraj them Billy.
Eek eek! he gose. Eek eek!
She siys. Dont she says. She givs him a cup of lucozayd & she givs him a biscit. She says shes got to go owt to cut & styl & trim. She kisses him & leevs & loks the dore behynd her.
By by he wispers. By by.
I go closer as I rite. Its lyk seein a gost of myself. Its lyk bein in the afterlyf & tryin to contact a spirit & bring it bak agen. I cud almost tuch myself.
Billy, I wisper. Billy.
He dusnt moov of cors. Dusnt flinch. Sqweeks lyk a mows then crowches by the warl & crumbls the biscit & baks away & watches the nervos mise cum cloaser to nibbl & ete.
Billy, I wisper. Billy.
Dus he here me? He gose ded stil. He looks arownd.
Dont be afrade I say.
Its just me, I say. Its just you.
He blinks & shayks his hed.
Eek eek! He crumbls the biscit. Eek eek!
I dont want to scair him so I speke no mor to him but I cant leev him.
And the pensil keeps on movin & I keep on riting.
I rite thees things of memry & of luv. The green carpet with the red & yello flowers on it. The walls with the grate craks & gowjes in them. The crumblin seelin with the fine roots growin down throu it. The littl windo to the sky. The lockd dore wich is the dore I must never go throu. Yes even that is a thing of luv. I stair into the grane of it & the cracks in its fraym & I see tiny worms & beetls that liv in it.
I rite the bed with the red cova on it.
The littl bluw sofa.
The pitchers on the wall. I gaze into thees pitchers now. They sho the Holy Iland. I remember how Mam told me that the iland was like a littl bit of Heven. It was a plase were sayntes wons warkd. It was a plase that sumtyms floted on the water & sumtyms rested on the land. She yoosd to say that we wud go ther togetha 1 fine day.
I gaze at the sea the sand the cassel on its rok. I see the bonny puffins flyin in the air in littl groops. I look for the beest calld a seal that pops its hed up in the warter. I look at the upsyd down botes. They ar paynted blak & they hav dores in them. Mam yoosd to tel me that pepl livd in thees botes & at nite the botes flew upsyd down across the stars. I yoosd to laff at that & wunder wot on erth she was on abowt. For ther was no way for me to understand. The pitchers had no meanin for me just as the words abowt them had no meanin for me.
I turn and look at him agen. His eyes ar blank & emty lyk an emty paje.
Shes ryt, I wisper. The iland is byutiful & it is reely lyk a littl bit of Hevan. And yes pepl liv in the botes & yes they fly across the stars at nite.
He stares into the empty air as if hes lookin for the plays the voys cums from.
Beleev her Billy, I wisper. For her words ar trew.
The mise scamper & the world terns & the day drifts by.
I cant leev.
I no shell be bak soon. Shes neva gon mor than an hour or 2. Shell cook a cupl of Mr McCaufreys best pork sossijes or 1 of Mr McCaufreys piys.
I hear swete singin and I luk up to the windo to the sky & there are sparras there. Billy luks up too. He laffs & stretches his arms towards the birds. O how wonderful & nesesary they wer. They caym to the windo. They droppd from the sky. They fluterd ther wings & wistld & sang & they peckd with ther beaks on the glass lyk they wer carlin me. I wistld bak & I stretchd my arms to them just as Billy the boy dos now.
Sumtyms Mam lifted me up & I wud reech towards them & she wud laff and say go on son. Carl the burds & sing at them.
Sumtyms in days of hete & lite she opend the glass with a pole & the windo hung down & the lite & the air pord down on me. And the songs of the burds pord down on me & the songs wer byutiful. Some of the burds caym tym & agen. Ther wos a blak blak skwawkin crow a bunch of cheepin spuggys a pare of pijons that cood & tilted there heds & eyes at me. Mam said they caym cos I wos a good boy. She said they wer my frends & that they caym with messajes and greetins to me.
Wot messajes I askd.
Messajes of hope & luv she anserd.
Look at how he stairs upwards at how I staird upwards. He stands & spreds his arms & is entransd & O how I remember that entransment.
I no he dremes at nite of risin to the littl sqare windo & cliymin owt & bein with the burds & flyin up into the sky. I stil dreme that dreme. I stil imajin risin to the sky. Mebbe evrybody dremes that dreme. Mebbe non of us think that standin & warkin on the world is enuf for us. Evrybody wants to rise. Even a littl boy in a littl lockd room with waste & wilderness arl arownd.
The key is turnin in the lok agen. He turns his eyes down from the birds & the sky.
She cums in agen. She sits with him agen. They ete sossijes & darkness starts to farl & soon its nite.
He lissens. Thers crekes & craks & owls & a far off groanin & a jentl thuddin. Thers a littl suden clik & clak nereby & he catches his breth & stiffens & trembls a bit. He looks with wyd eyes at the lockd dore.
And so dus she for a littl instant.
But its not his daddy not tonite.
The nites of his daddy cumin ar gettin fewer & far betwene. Alredy his mammy sumtyms wispers that the daddys a buggerin bluddy bastad sod. Alredy shes startin to say that 1 day therll just be Billy & her & no 1 else.
Billy dusnt want to hear that dusnt want to no that dusnt want to beleev it.
This is how it wos at the best of tyms.
She nos that he wil cum.
Daddys on his way, she tells her boy. He will be with us tonite.
He grins & trembls & repeets her words & looks up to the sky & wishes it to darken darken.
She roles up her sleevs & brushes & cleens Billys room. She polishes the pitchers & the dore & scrubs the toylet & the bath. She brushes the sofa & the bed. She plugs the mows holes with rolld up paypa. She sings as she works.
Tonite ther wil be no mornin star.
All things brite & byutiful arl creechers grate & smarl.
Shes all smiles & kisses & cuddls & words abowt how byutiful & strong her boy is & how lucky she is to hav such a boy & such a fyn strong man. And abowt how the boy wil gro to be just as fine & just as strong & just as wonderful.
Wont that be a thing, she says. To grow up to be just lyk Daddy Billy Dean.
And the sun passes throu the sky & heds for afternoon.
She cleans the boy hisself in his bath. Washes his hare and trims & brushes it & puts the brilcreem on. Dresses him in nete clene clowths & tels him sit stil on the sofa.
Stay nete & tidy, she says. Be good.
And leevs him. And now her singin is in the warls just beyond the lockd dore & beyond the pitchers of the iland.
He looks up at the sky.
Darken, he wishes. Darken darken. Let owls be ther in plays of sparras. Let stars replase the sun.
In she cums agen & shes so pritty & so yung. She wers a wite & bluw dress with flowas on it. Her hares arl brushd & shyning & her eyes gleem & shes weri
ng perfyoom & red nale polish & blusha & maskara. Thers a red choka rownd her nek. She puts 2 glasses & a cup & a ashtray on the taybl. She sits besyd her boy but she cant kepe still. She taps her fete & tuches her hare & inspects her nales.
They both kepe lookin at the sky & tellin it to darken darken.
And it darkens.
And she switches on a littl liyt.
And she kisses Billy & leevs him.
Very soon, she says.
And Billy waits.
A good boy sitting on the sofa waytin for his Dad.
And tym passes slo as slo & slo as slo & he kepes lookin up & wishin the nite to stay & stay.
Then at last the click & clack & the turnin loks & the openin dore.
And O Im bak ther as he entas. O here he cums. Hes tarl. Nerly as tarl as the dore. Hes arl in blak & his hare is dark as deepest nite & his eyes are bluw as summa sky. He cums strate to me pulls me up & holds me in his arms & asks me.
Hows my lad? Hows Billy Dean?
I stamma stutta carnt get owt a word.
Hes doin fine Wilfred, says Mam.
Aaa, he growls. I see that. I see how big & fyn hes growin. Look at thees mussels. How cum yore gettin to be so strong & fyn?
Tell yor Daddy, says Mam.
But still I gasp & stamma & cant mayk words.
Daddy laffs. He kisses me. Thers the sent of sigarets on him & the sents of candls & of insens & of aftashayv. His hands so clene and strong & his arms so big & firm as he cuddls me & cuddls me.
No nede to be shy of yor father, boy! he says.
Hes brout a bottl of red wyn or of wisky or of jin & sum lemonayd for me.
We arl drink togetha on the sofa.
Dad tayks owt a pak of blak sigarets with golden shinin tips on them. He tels me that ther from far far away from a plase carld Rusha. He smoaks with Mam & the smoke rises & the weard sent of it fills the room. He puts his arm rownd Mam & they wisper & giggl & drink & smoak & look so happy to my eyes.
And sumtyms thers tayls & storys lyk the tayl of Moses flotin down a riva in a baskit or of Noa & his ark or of Jona gettin swollowd by a wale or of Jesus wanderin in the wildanes & getin temted by Satin. And O Im bak ther as I rite it now. Im ther on the sofa with ther bodys & ther sents & ther wisperin & laffter. And the tayls ar such a mistry to me. Whats a riva whats a baskit wats a wildaness who is Satin? And what ar arl those other things & other playses & other beings that he tarks of. What can I no or understand of Hevan or of Hel or Purgatry or Limbo? How can I understand the noshon of an aynjel or a saynte? But the mistry dusnt matta. I luv his voys I luv him nere me luv the way the storys move acros his lips & throu the air and into my ere & into my brain. & even now despyt evrything I go on lovin him & lovin him & lovin him & thinkin of him brings the memrys of him porin bak.