Skellig

Chapter 22

I WAS WITH THE BABY. WE WERE tucked up together in the blackbird’s nest. Her body was covered in feathers and she was soft and warm. The blackbird was on the house roof, flapping its wings, squawking. Dr. MacNabola and Dr. Death were beneath us in the garden. They had a table filled with knives and scissors and saws. Dr. Death had a great syringe in his fist.

“Bring her down!” he yelled. “We’ll make her good as new!”

The baby squeaked and squealed in fright. She stood at the edge of the nest, flapping her wings, trying for the first time to fly. I saw the great bare patches on her skin: She didn’t have enough feathers yet, her wings weren’t strong enough yet. I tried to reach for her but my arms were hard and stiff as stone.

“Go on!” the doctors yelled. They laughed. “Go on, baby! Fly!”

Dr. MacNabola lifted a shining saw.

She teetered on the brink.

Then I heard the hooting of an owl. I opened my eyes. Pale light was glowing at my window. I looked down, saw Mina in the yard with her hands against her face.

Hoot. Hoot hoot hoot.

“I didn’t sleep all night,” I said, once I’d tiptoed out to her. “Then at the very last minute when the night was ending I did.”

“But you’re awake now?” she said.

“Yes.”

“We’re not dreaming this?”

“We’re not dreaming it.”

“We’re not dreaming it together?”

“Even if we were we wouldn’t know.”

The blackbird flew to the garage roof, began its morning song.

“No time to waste,” I said.

We went to the door, stepped inside. We moved swiftly through the furniture. I shined the flashlight on his face.

“You have to come with us,” said Mina.

He sighed, groaned.

“I’m ill,” he said.

He didn’t look at us.

“I’m sick to death,” he said.

We squeezed through the gap between the tea chests and crouched before him.

“You have to come,” she said again.

“I’m weak as a baby,” he said.

“Babies aren’t weak,” she whispered. “Have you seen a baby screaming for its food or struggling to crawl? Have you seen a blackbird chick daring its first flight?”

She put her hand beneath his armpit. She tugged at him.

“Please,” she whispered.

I held him too. I tugged. We felt him beginning to relax, to give himself up to us.

“I’m frightened,” he squeaked.

Mina bent close to him. She kissed his pale cheek.

“Don’t be frightened. We’re taking you to safety.”

His joints creaked as he struggled to rise from the floor. He whimpered in pain. He leaned against us. He tottered and wobbled as he rose. He was taller than us, tall as Dad. We felt how thin he was, how extraordinarily light he was. We had our arms around him. Our fingers touched behind his back. We explored the growths on his shoulder blades. We felt them folded up like arms. We felt their soft coverings. We stared into each other’s eyes and didn’t dare to tell each other what we thought we felt.

“Extraordinary, extraordinary being,” whispered Mina.

“Can you walk?” I said.

He whimpered, squeaked.

“Move slowly,” I said. “Hold on to us.”

I moved backward, between the tea chests. Mina supported him from behind. His feet dragged across the ruined floor. Things scuttled across us. The garage creaked. Dust fell. His breathing was hoarse, uneven. His body shuddered. He whimpered with pain. At the door he closed his eyes, turned his head away from the intensifying light. Then he turned again and faced the daylight. Through narrowed veiny eyes he looked out through the door. Mina and I gazed at his face, so pale and plaster dry. His skin was cracked and crazed. His black hair was a tangle of knots. Dust, cobwebs, bluebottles, spiders, beetles clung to him and fell from him. We saw for the first time that he wasn’t old. He seemed like a young man. Mina whispered it:

“You’re beautiful!”

I peeped out across the backyard toward the house, saw nobody at the window.

“Keep moving.”

I opened the gate, drew him by the hand. He leaned on Mina, shuffled out after me into the lane.

I closed the gate.

Already traffic could be heard in the city, on nearby Crimdon Road. The birds in the gardens and on the rooftops yelled their songs. Whisper appeared at our side.

“We’ll carry him,” I said.

“Yes,” said Mina.

I stood behind him and he leaned back into my arms. Mina took his feet.

We caught our breath at our ability to do this thing, at the extraordinary lightness of our load. I closed my eyes for a moment. I imagined that this was a dream. I told myself that anything was possible in a dream. I felt the great bulges at his back bundled up against my arms. We started to move.

We walked through the back lane, turned into another back lane, hurried to the green gate of the boarded house. Mina opened it with her key. We went through. We hurried to the door with the red sign: DANGER. Mina opened it with her key. We moved through into the darkness, then into the first room, and we laid him on the floor.

We trembled and gasped. He whimpered with pain. We touched him gently.

“You’re safe,” said Mina.

She took off her cardigan. She folded it and laid it beneath his head.

“We’ll bring you more things to make you comfortable,” she said.

“We’ll make you well. Is there anything you would like?”

I smiled.

“27 and 53,” I said.

“27 and 53,” he whimpered.

“I’ll have to go back,” I said. “My dad’ll wake up soon.”

“Me too,” said Mina.

We smiled at each other. We looked at him, lying beside us.

“We won’t be long,” I said.

Mina kissed his pale cracked cheek. She stretched her arms once more around his back. Her eyes burned with astonishment and joy.

“Who are you?” she whispered.

He winced with pain.

“My name is Skellig,” he said.