Kit's Wilderness (12 page)

S
ilky came again that night. Just a glimpse, from the corner of my eye. A shimmer in the corner of my room. I closed my eyes, ran after him through endless tunnels, headed deep into the earth. I smiled when our eyes met, when I knew that he was waiting for me, that he was leading me. I smiled as we ran, with nothing to be seen but his flickering before me, nothing to be heard but the thundering of my heart and the gasping of my breath and the thumping of my feet. We ran an age, a million years, until his final flickering and he was gone for good.

I stretched my hands out, tiptoed forward, touched Grandpa.

“Grandpa,” I whispered.

“Kit,” he said.

We held each other tight for hours, until at last we heard the footsteps in the tunnel, saw the distant lights of the lamps, heard the voices of the men who’d come to find us.

“Here they are,” I whispered.

“Here they are,” he said. “We’re okay, son. Here they are.”

T
he baby woke him, sobbing against his chest. Light filled the entrance to the cave, the endless ice outside. Lak reached into the bearskin and touched his sister’s lips.

“Hush, my sweet,” he whispered.

He stared at his family on the cave wall, heading south. He turned his eyes away, stood up, and went out to the ice. He clawed ice into his palm, let it melt there, dribbled water into the baby’s mouth, dribbled water into his own. He squeezed the last of the berries and fed her with them. The dog crouched by him, licking ice. Lak stroked him, whispered comfort to him. He went back into the cave. He cut the bearskin into two pieces with the axe, flung one into the corner of the cave, wrapped the other around himself and the baby. He lifted the flint, gripped his grandfather’s axe, stepped out into the valley, didn’t turn back.

He headed south.

He climbed away from the ice, onto the crags, where he found bitter plants to feed them with. He gave the only sweet part of the plants, the blossom, to the baby. He cast his eyes across the wilderness, seeking a sign. A mammoth lurched across the valley. A pair of tiny deer leapt away across the rock. Tiny skylarks rose, hung over him with their brilliant song. Much higher, huge dark birds circled slowly, biding their time.

Lak called: “Ayeeee! Ayeeeee!” hoping to hear at last some call that was not just the echo of his own.

As they moved on, the baby whimpered and wept. He whispered to her, caressed her, but felt how she was becoming thin, heard how her voice was already becoming frailer. He found more bitter plants for her. He melted ice in his palms and dribbled it into her mouth. Then they came upon a hollow in the rocks, a patch of scrubby earth where two deer nibbled at the meager grass. Lak crouched, gripped Kali at his side, held Kali’s mouth tight shut. Edged closer, saw that they were- male and female. The male lifted its head, pricked its ears, sniffed the air, looked nervously around the crags. Bent its head again, nibbled again. Lak prayed to the Sun God, to the spirits of his ancestors. The baby began to whimper, the deer stirred. Lak stood and flung his axe. It struck the female. She staggered, tried to move away, but then Kali was upon her, his teeth at her throat, then Lak, who ended her life with the crack of a rock at her skull.

Lak raised his arms in triumph. He wiped his hands in the deer’s blood. He smeared it across his face. He paid homage to the spirit of the deer, thanked the Sun God and his ancestors. He took the baby out and held her to the deer’s teat. He squeezed.

“Suck, my sweet,” he whispered.

He squeezed. She sucked. He saw the milk spilling from the teat, from the edges of his sister’s mouth. He saw her swallowing. He licked his lips, tasted the blood there, grinned.

The baby drank hungrily, pressed close against the deer’s still-warm belly. The dog lapped the blood at the deer’s skull. Lak lifted the baby from the teat, laid her in her bearskin in the sunlight. He opened the deer’s flesh with the axe and cut strips of meat away. He ate the meat, chewed hungrily, the blood dribbled from his lips. Deer meat, sweeter and tenderer than that of the bear. He threw pieces for the dog. He ate until he felt that his belly would burst. He put the baby to the teat again. He squeezed and she sucked.

“Ayeee!” he called softly. “Ayeee!”

The sun shining into the hollow became stronger. He lay with the baby and tickled her. She gurgled softly and smiled. He made her drink once more, then he drank hims4f, sucking at the teat. He shoved strips of meat into his pouch, then lifted his sister and moved on again out of the hollow, back on to the crags above the ice. He moved quickly, with hope in his heart. The baby slept, contented.

Behind them, the great dark birds spiraled from the sky, flapped heavily down into the hollow.

W
e were at the kitchen table, with the story.

“Jeez, Kit,” she said. “How do you do it?”

I laughed. “Magic.”

She thumped me in the ribs. “You,” she said.

“Drive you wild, eh?”

“Drive me wild.”

“What’ll happen to them next?”

I shrugged. “Dunno.”

“Dunno? How can you not know?”

“Just how it is. Stories are living things, like Burning Bush says. Might be something terrible waiting for them at the next crag. Might be no more food. The baby might die. Lak might fall off a cliff.”

“Jeez, Kit. I thought you just made them do what you want them to do. Plan it, then write it.”

“Sometimes it’s like that. But when the people in them start to live . . . you can’t really keep them in control.”

She flicked through the pages of the story.

“I know what I want to happen,” I said. “I want to keep them safe and get them to the family again. But . . .”

“But there’s bears out there, and vultures. All kinds of dangers.”

“Yes. Yes.”

“Poor souls. Still, I suppose it’s just a story in the end.”

I shrugged. “Yes, I suppose so.” I laughed. “But Lak’s mother comes to me at night.”

“Lak’s mother what?”

“She comes to me at night. She tries to give me gifts. She tells me to bring her son and her baby home.”

“Jeez, Kit.”

“It’s really like she’s really there,” I said.

“Brilliant,” she said. “Dead scary.”

“See?” I said.

“See what?”

“Magic. Telling stories is a kind of magic.”

“You’ve not shown Burning Bush yet.”

“No. When it’s done. Anyway, it’s not just for her. It’s for John Askew.”

“Him?”

“Yes, him. I told him I’d write a story and he could do the illustrations for it.”

“If he comes back again. If the worst hasn’t happened.”

“Yes, if he comes back again and the worst hasn’t happened.”

“Let’s hope,” she said.

“That’s another part of the magic,” I said.

“What is?”

“I think if Lak and his sister’re safe, then Askew’ll be safe. And if he’s safe, they’ll be safe.”

She stared at me. “Jeez, Kit. What d’you mean?”

“I’m not sure,” I said. “But I’m sure it’s true.”

“P
oor lost soul,” said Mum.

We looked out. There she was, Askew’s mother, with the baby in her arms, walking aimlessly through the frozen wilderness.

“Poor soul,” Mum said again. “You’d not do anything like that to us?”

I shook my head. “No.”

“I know. But there’s still the fear, whatever you know. Come on, eh? Let’s go.”

It was Sunday afternoon. A visit to Grandpa again. We got into the car, headed out of Stoneygate. I carried Askew’s picture rolled up in my hand. I carried the ammonite in my pocket. I carried all the stories in my head.

We sat down in a little group around him. We drank tea. He stared at us and through us. But he sat straight, his hands didn’t tremble, there was light in his eyes.

“Dad?” said Mum.

He blinked, refocused, smiled at her, at each of us in turn.

He touched my dad’s arm. “Hello, son,” he whispered, so frail.

I saw the tears in Dad’s eyes as he held him.

Grandpa touched each of us, whispered each of our names. He lifted his tea with skinny cupped hands, sank back in his chair.

“All wore out,” he whispered.

He laughed, a little weak noise in the back of his throat. He winked, slowly, unsteadily, laughed again.

“Been off with the fairies again, eh?” he said.

“A long way off,” said Mum.

“Ah, well.” He drank again.

“I brought this for you, Grandpa,” I said.

I unrolled the drawing, held it before him.

“Well, I never.”

His eyes searched the drawing’s darkness. “Little Silky,” he whispered. “Just as he was.”

“It’s for you, Grandpa. They can hang it by your bed for you.”

“Nice. Nice.” He smiled, lost in the drawing. “Little mischief,” he whispered.

Then leaned forward, put his fingers to his lips.

“Comes to me at night, you know,” he said. “Comes and sees me in me dreams. Comes to keep me safe.” He winked, raised his finger. “Don’t tell this lot here, mind. They’ll think I’m crackers.”

We laughed, with tears in our eyes.

He fell asleep. We watched his eyes shifting and flickering beneath their lids. I imagined Silky in there with him, keeping him safe. Dad talked to one of the doctors. Yes, it might be possible for him to come home for Christmas. We sat and watched him as the darkness deepened outside. I put the rolled-up picture in his lap.

When we left, he was singing in his sleep.

“When I was young and in me pri-ime . . .”

At home, Askew’s mother passed us, coming off the wilderness.

Mum touched her shoulder, held her arm. “He’ll be all right,” she said. “I’m sure John’ll be all right.”

Mrs. Askew lowered her head. The baby’s face shone from within the thick warm coverings that held her.

“Come in and have some tea,” said Mum. She shook her head.

“Not now,” she said. “Get this one home into her bed.” She looked at our faces. She reached out and gripped my hand.

“Bring him home,” she whispered. “Bring my boy home.” Her fingernails and her rings dug into my skin. “Bring him home.”

Then she hurried homeward through the dark.