Skellig (15 page)

She told me about Leakey and Coot and all the others.

“They keep telling me—‘Get Michael to come back.’ ”

She gave me a new folder of work. There was a drawing of the opened body with arrows pointing to its parts. Rasputin’s note told me to write the missing names.

Mina and I looked at the drawing together.

“Tibia,” we said. “Fibula, sternum, clavicle, radius, ulna, kidneys, liver, lungs, heart, brain.”

“And spirit jumping in and jumping out but never seen,” said Mina.

Mrs. Dando looked at her. I knew that Coot would have talked to Mrs. Dando about her. A crazy monkey girl, he’d have said. The girl that sits in a tree like a crow. The girl that’s keeping him away.

Miss Clarts had written, “Write another story like the last one, Michael. Something just as lovely. Let your imagination fly.”

I closed my eyes. I wanted to imagine nothing. The baby was dead. Skellig was gone. The world that was left was ugly, cold, terrifying. The blackbirds squawked and squawked while Mrs. Dando told Mina’s mother about what a great footballer I was, about how I loved having a crazy time with the other boys.

Mina’s mother smiled.

“How’s the baby?” Mrs. Dando said at last.

“Don’t know,” I whispered.

“She’s having an operation today,” said Mina.

“Oh, poor little soul,” said Mrs. Dando.

“Yes,” said Mina. “And to be quite honest, Mrs. Dando, the last thing Michael needs is to be troubled by petty things like football and school.”

Her mother sighed.

“Mina,” she said.

“Well,” said Mina. “Isn’t it true? Michael?”

I couldn’t stand it. I went to sit on the front wall, facing away from them.

“See?” said Mina. “See how you’ve upset him?”

And then Dad drove into the street and parked the car in front of me. He held the door open. I got in beside him. He put his arm around me.

“It’s over, son,” he said.

I WAS WRONG. SHE WASN’T DEAD
. She was in a long, deep sleep that followed the anesthetic. She was snoring gently beneath white blankets. Mum told us about the great wound in her tiny chest and the massive bandage that covered it. There were wires and tubes again and a machine that bleeped in rhythm with her tiny heart.

“They said everything’ll be all right now, Michael,” she said. “They’re sure everything’ll be all right.”

We sat there, the three of us, hand in hand, looking down at the delicate creature.

“They said there was a moment when they thought they’d lost her,” she said. She put her arm around me. “But she burst into life again.”

A nurse came. She checked the wires and tubes and the machine. She patted my head.

“Your sister’s got a heart of fire,” she said. “She’s a little fighter. She won’t give in.”

“You still say your prayers for her?” asked Mum.

“Yes,” I said.

“We’ve been wondering again what to call her,” said Dad.

“Persephone,” I said.

They laughed.

“Too much of a mouthful,” he said.

“It has to be something very little and very strong,” Mum said. “Just like she is.”

“Gus,” said Dad, and we giggled.

“Butch,” I said.

“Garth,” said Mum.

“Buster,” said Dad.

“Look,” said Mum. “She’s dreaming.”

And she was. Her eyes were moving behind their lids.

“Wonder what she sees,” said Dad.

“Only nice things, I hope,” said Mum.

“I’m sure that’s right,” said Dad. “Look at her face. Sweet and still, nearly smiling. Little angel. I know. We could call her Angela. But no, too long.”

“It was the strangest thing,” said Mum.

She stopped and shook her head.

“What was?” said Dad.

She crinkled her face up, like she was embarrassed.

“Well,” she said. “I was lying here last night, tossing and turning. Kept getting up to look at her. Kept dropping off to sleep. And the strangest of dreams …”

“And …?” said Dad.

“And I saw this man, that’s all. Another dream, though I was sure I was wide awake. He was standing over the baby. He was filthy. All in black, an ancient dusty suit. A great hunch on his back. Hair all matted and tangled. I was terrified. I wanted to reach out to him. I wanted to push him away. I wanted to scream, Get away from our baby! I wanted to shout for the nurses and the doctors. But I couldn’t move, couldn’t speak, and I was sure he was going to take her away. But then he turned and looked at me. His face as white and dry as chalk. And there was such tenderness in his eyes. And for some reason I knew he hadn’t come to harm her. I knew it would be all right …”

She stopped again and shook her head.

“And …?” said Dad.

“And then he reached right down with both hands and lifted her up. She was wide awake. They stared and stared into each other’s eyes. He started slowly to turn around …”

“Like they were dancing,” I said.

“That’s right, like they were dancing. And then the strangest thing of all …”

She laughed at us, and shrugged.

“And the strangest thing of all was, there were wings on the baby’s back. Not solid wings. Transparent, ghostly, hardly visible, but there they were. Little feathery things. It looked so funny. The strange tall man and the little baby and the wings.
And that was it. He put her back down, he turned and looked at me again, and it was over. I slept like a log the rest of the night. When I woke up they were already getting her ready for the operation. But I wasn’t worried anymore. I kissed her and whispered to her how much we all loved her and they took her away. I knew it was going to be all right.”

“And it is,” said Dad.

“And it is.”

She poked me in the ribs.

“Must have been thinking about what you asked me. What are shoulder blades for? Eh?”

I smiled and nodded.

“Yes. Yes.”

The baby’s eyes kept moving, seeing the things she imagined in her sleep.

“Funny little chick,” said Dad. “What can she be seeing?”

“Skellig,” I whispered to myself. “Skellig.”

“It isn’t over,” said Mum. “You know that, don’t you? We’ll have to protect her always, especially at first.”

“I know,” I said. “We’ll love her and love her and love her.”

We left soon afterward. In the corridor I saw Dr. MacNabola coming out of the elevator with a clutch of students in white coats around him. I told Dad just to wait a minute. I ran to Dr. MacNabola. He looked down at me.

“Doctor,” I said. “I told you about my friend. Remember? The one with arthritis.”

He puffed his chest out and drew his shoulders up.

“Aha,” he said. “So is he ready for my needles and my saw?”

“No,” I said. “He seems to be getting better.”

“Splendid,” he said. “Cod-liver oil and a dose of positive thinking, eh? Maybe he’ll escape me yet.”

The students giggled.

“Can love help a person to get better?” I asked.

He raised his eyebrows, pursed his lips, tapped his chin. One of the students took a notebook and pencil from her pocket.

“Love,” said the doctor. “Hmmm. What can we doctors know about love, eh?” He winked at the student with the notebook and she blushed. “ ‘Love is the child that breathes our breath/Love is the child that scatters death.’ ”

“William Blake?” I said.

He laughed.

“We have an educated man before us,” he said.

He smiled properly for the first time.

“Tell your friend that I hope he and I never have to meet.”

Then he winked at me, turned, and led the students away.

“What was that about?” said Dad when I hurried back to him.

“Nothing,” I said. “Somebody I met soon after the baby came in.”

He laughed.

“Mystery man, that’s who you are.”

In the car on the way home we wound the windows down and he sang “The Black Hills of Dakota” at the top of his voice. I put my hands together and hooted and hooted like an owl.

“That’s good,” he said. “I like that. That’s really good. You’ll have to show me how to do that one. Not while I’m driving, though, eh?”

We smiled as we drove through the busy city streets.

“She’s not out of danger yet,” he said. “You do understand that, don’t you?”

“Yes. But she will be, won’t she?”

“Yes!” he yelled. “Yes, she blinking will!”

And he sang again.

“Have to get on with that blinking house now, eh?” he said. “I know! We can have 27 and 53 tonight, eh?”

“27 and 53,” I said. “Sweetest of nectars!”

“Sweetest of nectars! I like that. Sweetest of blinking nectars!”

IT WAS LONG AFTER DUSK WHEN
Mina and I went out with the remnants of 27 and 53 and a bottle of brown ale in a paper bag. The lights were on in the streets, the air was cold, and the sky was glittering with stars. Our breath curled in long white plumes around us. I told Mina about Mum’s dream as we walked.

“Extraordinary,” she whispered.

She smiled and said it showed that he’d always be there, whenever we might need him. But we knew we wanted to see him and touch him again.

In the lane, we found Whisper at our heels.

“Bad boy,” she said, leaning down to stroke him.

She laughed.

“All day long the fledglings got stronger and braver. They fluttered up into the middle of the hedge where they couldn’t be caught. All day long they were getting worms, worms, worms, and when
we let him out, this one just sat grumpy and frustrated on the step beside us.”

She stroked him again.

“Horrible little savage,” she said, and he purred and pressed against her.

We went through the
DANGER
door expecting nothing. The house was still and silent. The attic was empty. No owls. No Skellig. On the windowsill we found a dead mouse, a bit of bacon rind, a little mound of dead black beetles.

We sat on the floor against the wall and stared out toward the endless stars.

“I really think she’ll be all right now,” I said.

Mina smiled and Whisper purred.

“Feel my heart,” I said.

She put her hand on my chest.

“Can you feel it?” I said. “Her heart beating right in there beside my own?”

She concentrated.

“I’m not sure, Michael,” she said.

“Try again. Concentrate. It’s like touching and listening and imagining all at the same time. It’s something far off and tiny, like blackbird chicks cheeping in a nest.”

She closed her eyes and felt again.

She smiled.

“Yes,” she whispered. “Yes, there it is. There and there and there.”

“The baby’s heart,” I said. “It won’t stop now.”

“It won’t stop now.”

She started singing her William Blake song.

I joined in with her.

“See?” she said. “I said we’d get you singing.”

The night deepened and we knew we’d have to go home soon.

“I could sleep here,” she said. “Just like this. And be happy forever.”

I sighed.

“But we have to go.”

We didn’t move.

And then there was a sudden rustling in the air outside, the stars were blocked out, the window creaked, and there he was, climbing in through the arched frame. He didn’t see us. He crouched on the floor, gasping for breath. His wings slowly settled on his back.

“Skellig,” I hissed.

He turned his moon-pale face toward us.

“Michael. Mina,” he said. His voice was shallow, thin, strained, but a smile was forming on his face.

I held out the paper bag.

“We brought you this, Skellig. 27 and 53.”

“Ha!”

I opened the bag and we took it to him. We knelt at his side. He hooked his long curved finger into the food, lifted out a string of sauce and pork and bean sprouts. He licked it from his finger with his long pale tongue.

“Sweetest of nectars,” he whispered. “Food of the blinking gods.”

“And this,” I said.

I snapped the top off the bottle and he let me trickle the beer into his open mouth.

“Thought it was cold mice for supper and I come home to a banquet.”