Skellig

Chapter 19

HER BLANKET AND BOOKS WERE still on the lawn, but she wasn’t there. I looked up into the tree and she wasn’t there. I stepped over the wall, went to her front door, rang the doorbell. Her mother came.

“Is Mina in?” I asked.

She had jet-black hair like Mina’s. She wore an apron covered in daubs of paint and clay.

“She is,” she said. She put her hand out. “You must be Michael. I’m Mrs. McKee.”

I shook her hand.

“Mina!” she shouted.

“How’s the baby?” she asked.

“Very well. Well, we think she’ll be very well.”

“Babies are stubborn things. Strugglers and fighters. Tell your parents I’m thinking of them.”

“I will.”

Mina came to the door. She had a paint-splashed apron on too.

“We’re modeling,” she said. “Come and see.”

She led us through to the kitchen. There were big balls of clay in plastic bags on the table. The table was covered in a plastic sheet. There were knives and wooden tools. Mina’s book of bird drawings was open at the blackbird. She showed me the clay she was working with. It was just a lump, but I could see the outline of a bird: a broad body, a pointed bill, a flattened tail. She added more clay and pinched the body and began to draw out its wings.

“Mina’s fixated on birds just now,” said Mrs. McKee. “Sometimes it’s things that swim, sometimes it’s things that slink through the night, sometimes it’s things that creep and crawl, but just now it’s things that fly.”

I looked around. There was a shelf full of clay models: foxes, fish, lizards, hedgehogs, little mice. Then an owl, with its great round head, its pointed beak, its fierce claws.

“Did you make those?” I asked.

Mina laughed.

“They’re brilliant,” I said.

She showed me how the clay would be shaped if the bird was in flight, how she could mark the feathers in with a pointed knife.

“Once it’s fired and glazed I’ll hang it from the ceiling.”

I picked up a piece of clay, rubbed it between my fingers, rolled it between my palms. It was cold and grainy. Mina licked her finger, rubbed the clay, showed how it could be made shiny smooth. I watched her, copied her. I worked the clay again, drew it into the shape of a snake, pushed it all together again and made the shape of a human head.

I thought of the baby. I started to shape her, her thin delicate form, her arms and legs, her head.

“Like magic, eh?” said Mina.

“Like magic, yes.”

“Sometimes I dream I make them so real they walk away or fly out of my hands. You use clay at school?”

“We do sometimes. We did in one class I was in.”

“Michael could come and work with us sometimes,” said Mina.

Mrs. McKee looked at me. Her eyes were as piercing as Mina’s, but more gentle.

“He could,” she said.

“I’ve told him what we think of schools,” said Mina.

Mrs. McKee laughed.

“And I’ve told him about William Blake.”

I went on making the baby. I tried to form the features of her face. The clay started to dry out in the heat of my fingers. It started to crumble. I caught Mina’s eye. I tried to tell her with my eyes that we had to go.

“Can I go for a walk with Michael?” she said immediately.

“Yes. Wrap your clay in plastic and you can get on with it when you come back.”