The True Tale of the Monster Billy Dean (23 page)

“Yes! It was him! Yes it was!”

He opens his eyes. All blaknes is gon. His body is put together agen. He lies crumpld on the flore. Deep silens is in him. No payn no fury no fere. His spirit is stil.

Ther ar fayses abuv him.

Cristina & Maria & Missus Malone & others are clusterin arownd.

“It happened” says Missus Malone. “You wer possessd at last. You brout a messaj from the relms of darknes, William. You brout a messaj from the dead.”

“You wer my father, Aynjel” says Maria. “Ther was no mistaykin his voys. He spoke throu you, Aynjel. You wer truly him.”

And so Billy Dean becoms The Aynjel Childe at last. The 1 whos life is stoppd and who is rippd apart and flung into the relms of darknes. After that first time ther is poseshun & poseshun & poseshun.

He gros to dred it for it brings such pane. He gros to love it for it leevs such peese in its wake. The voyses of the dead posess his throte & tongue & lips. They gossip & natter & wisper & grone. They are as deep as the voys of an old man & sweet & hiy as a childes. They tell tales that seem so real. Tales of Blinkbonny wen the streets wer payvd & the houses wer all in orda & the shops like the shop of Mr McCaufrey wer shynin brite & filld with goods for sale & with cues of natterin customas.

The voyses come like memries from insyd himself of bein a childe in a family with bruthas & sistas & a dad that bownsd him on his nee & a mam that laffd with the joy of her happy life.

The voyses let him liv the lyvs of othas & let him be in ther bodys & feel ther feelins & remember ther memrys & feel ther heart & breeth ther breth.

Sumtyms the voyses sing from him & he finds himself singing songs abowt love & dremes & yernin & loss. He sings abowt the sea & the wind & the moon. The songs pore out from him like things that hav been hidden in him always & that have been yerning to be set free.

He is told that the voyses are things of byuty. He is told that they are voyses from the the deepest of arl memrys. He is told that they rise from the aynshent past of evrywon sittin at the taybl watchin and lissenin in astonishment and wunder. He is told that they rise from the deepest & most aynshent parts of arl of us.

And all the time the pepl gasp and wisper and cry out.

“It was just as he was! O it was just as she was! Yes! Thats how things wer then! O yes thats him. It cudnt be enywon els but her!”

Sumtyms thers no voys ther is just the dead person ther in the darknes presentin themselves to Billy Dean & at such times he speaks of how they look & how they stand or how they limp or what they wear or how ther hair is & if they hav a scar or a blemish or a speshal twinkl in ther eye.

“Yes! Yes that must be him! Yes thats her!”

Sumtyms the voyses cum to him as words for the paje. He waits with a pensil in his hand until the poseshun takes him and his hand starts scribblin & curlin & jaggerin arownd the paje. And he mutters & sqweals as he rites & as the poseshun pushes the pensil arownd & arownd & bak & forth.

And afterwards Missus Malone trys to extract a meanin from the mess & to disern the words & tel the tales they tel & the cry goes up.

“Yes its from him! Yes from her! Yes thats exactly how it was!”

Sumtyms at the best of times the most intens of times it is evrything all at wons. It is the body & the voys & the memry & the sole. And Billy Dean is completely overtook. Ther body is in his body & ther brain is in his & ther voys is in his & Billy Dean is gon. Ther is no Billy Dean at all. He warks like the dead 1 arownd the watery tayble. He speaks to the bereaved as the 1 inside him wud hav dun in life. He sings like them & even danses like them. Who nos how it happens or how he dus it but it happens and he dus it & yes he becums the Aynjel Childe.

It is then that he begins to be nown to the world beyond Blinkbonny. Mor and mor peple come to Missus Malones dore & to the watery tayble & to the planshet & to the miraculous Aynjel Childe.

Perhaps you remember it, my reader. Perhaps you yorself wer won of those who came to the dore. Perhaps you came in serch of yor lost love. Perhaps you came in curiosity like meny did. Perhaps you came to laff like meny did & went bak home agen in tremblin and wunder. Yes perhaps you wer won of those that sat at the tayble wile the aynjel was sylent til he was flung to the flore & rippd apart & sent into the relms of darknes to bring bak tayls & memries & payns & joys from arl the lejons of the dead. And now here you are agen lissening agen reading agen wile Billy Dean is possessd agen & his pensil jaggers across the payper from word to word & brings the story of himself owt from the darknes of himself.

2 that cum in serch of me are the bruthers Jack & Joe. They say they cum from a faroff sity but they also cum from Blinkbonnys past.

Missus Malone stairs at them as they take ther plases at the taybl.

“Dont I no you?” she says.

Turns owt shes rite. Turns owt they wer in Saynt Patriks itself on the day of doom. They wer the altar boys ringing bells & chantin prares when the roof fell & the walls crumbld & the splendid windos cascaded down. They carry the marks of that day on themselvs. Jacks left eye is burnd away. Joes rite cheek has melted & reformd. They ar tarl. They hav clene clowths & nete blond hair & soft voyses.

Missus Malone peers close at them.

“The Elyot boys,” she wispers.

“Yes” says Joe.

“And you survivd?”

“Yes” says Jack. “We wer taken away by famly. Becos our parents . . .”

He looks down & he wyps a tere from his singl eye. Joe puts an arm arownd him.

“It is why we cum today” says Joe. “We hav herd of this speshal boy.”

Missus Malone siys.

“They livd just down the street from me Aynjel.”

“Thats rite,” says Jack. “And we remember you so wel.”

“And my dorter?” she softly says.

“O yes. We used to see her in the park. We used to swing her bak & forward. Hiyer hiyer! she wud call.”

“Good boys,” wispers Missus Malone. “Hiyer hiyer! Hiyer hiyer Mammy!”

“Daisy isn’t it?” says Jack.

“Wasnt it” says Missus Malone. “Daisy. Yes. Enuf. Let us begin.”

That day I find ther parents in the darknes. A shadowy man & woman with pale fayses & glitering crusifixes arownd ther throtes & blak prare books in ther hands.

“Tel our boys we ar fine,” they carl as if from an aje away. “Tel them to be good. Tel them that we wate for them.”

I cum bak to the lite bering my messaj.

“That was them?” I ask.

“O yes” says Jack.

“That looks & sownds like them,” says Joe.

Ther eyes qwikly fill with wonder & gratichood & prayse.

I turn to others at the tabl. I set off agen serching in the dark.

As I wark home that dusk I fynd Jack & Joe a few footsteps behynd me.

They halt & clasp ther hands & lower ther eyes.

“Forgiv us,” says Jack. “Send us packing if you hav no nede of us.”

“But we wish to ofer orselvs,” says Joe.

“Ofer yorselvs?” I say.

“If ever you hav need of us,” says Jack.

“In eny way,” says Joe

I am confyusd & I turn away & wark on.

Jacks voys continus.

“We are redy for yor carl, Master.”

I shud now say that I hav a sens of dred but I dont. Im the 1 supposd to hav the speshal senses but I dont even have the sens to hav a sens of dred.

I wark on.

Jack & Joe set up home in an abandond cottaj. Sumtyms I see ther distint silowets leening on warls or sitting on heeps of stoans. Sumtyms they rase ther hands & wayv acros the distanses between us. Or they simply watch in silens wayting for my carl.

Daisy. Yes. Soon afterwards I find Daisy for Missus Malone. It is in a time of peese and qwiyet. The bereaved hav gon & the locks hav been lockd & I sit in the curtand room with Missus Malone.

She sips a glass of wisky. She tels me it is time agen to try.

She givs me a smarl red shoe to hold in my hand, the kind of thing that the bereaved so often do to help me in my jurneys to ther loved wons. Littl objects help so much. Littl things like this red shoe or a scarf or broach or a seashel or a pen or a pyp or a dol.

It is a marvel to me how the tales and memries and spirits & bodys seem to be raysd by such littl things.

These things hav never livd themselvs but they seem filld with life. How can that be so? It is the same with the things of my own that I tuch & hold — like an aynshent scarf or the tip of a blak sigaret or a peese of drydowt mows skin — & which when tuchd begin to gliter with memrys tales & dreams.

For the bereaved these objects hav the power to draw the dead wons back. Is that because the spirits of the dead have enterd those things? Becos the sole at death goes not to Hevan or to Hell but into the ordnary littl objects of the world? Who can no? As always who can ever bluddy no?

Anyway I hold the smarl red shoe & I collaps am torn apart & here is Daisy waytin in the dark as if she has been waytin for all tym. And wen she rises in me I see Missus Malone throu her eyes & Missus Malone is pretty & yung with soft brown hair & jently shynin eyes & the words of Daisy begin to spill off my tongue & call out “Mammy Mammy.”

And Missus Malone takes me & raps me in her arms & gasps out “Daisy Daisy Daisy!”

We do this many times.

And Missus Malone says she wil hav her dorter ever mor now that she has the aynjel William Dean.

Now that she has the boy who can recreate the world.

The river gliters glos & flashes owt beyond Blinkbonnys edj. It flows away downhill throu the sity to the distant sea. Mam nos I look towards it but shes told me keep away. It is a plays of byuty but grayt peril too.

“Like all the world,” I say.

“Yes” she says. “Like all the world.”

And so I keep away. And I am wary of stepping away from the rubbl wary of stepping away from the things I no. But days pass by & keep on passing & I get older & I gro. And I begin to mock myself. Billy Dean — the boy thats brave enuf to enter the afterlife but not brave enuf to go into the world.

Erly 1 morning I step from the crunch of Blinkbonnys rubbl. I wark across a field onto soft turf & the mud & pebbls of the riverbank.

I dip my hands into the warter & wotch the way it swirls & eddys rownd my fingas.

I drop a stik in & watch it spin & twist & disapear. I drop a stone in & watch how thers nothin of it left after its splash.