The True Tale of the Monster Billy Dean (27 page)

“We simply wish to ofer you protecshun,” says Joe. “Send us away if you beleev you hav no need of us.”

“Weve spoken to the butcher too,” says Jack.

Joe smiles.

“He is another that we remember from the old days. Such a good and desent man. How forchunat you are to hav the love of a man like that.”

“But both he and Missus Malone are becomin overwelmd themselvs by events surrownding you,” says Jack. “And it wil be such a joy for us to take on sum of the burden.”

I kick the dust. I dont no what to say nor what to ask.

“We beleev in you Master,” says Joe. “We hav seen the miracls that you perform. You hav brout us comfort from the afterlife. It is only corect that we shud ofer sumthing in return.”

“Its very good of you” I say.

Jack turns his eye away.

“O do not see us as a pare of aynjels Master. We ar simply imperferct men who wish to dwel in yor lite for a time. Men who simply wish to help in eny way we can.”

“Think of us as helpers,” says Joe.

“Or disypls,” says Jack. “Yes. Simply as disypls.”

He waves to an elderly cupl waytin close by.

“You may now visit the master,” he calls.

“We will not impose,” says Joe. “We will keep out of yor way.”

The cuple wark slowly across the rubbl towards us.

“You will hardly notis us,” says Jack.

“Hardly at arl,” says Joe.

Its true. They are qwiet and discreet & polite to all. They keep sum order. They stop pepl from cumin throu the garden gatye. They make sure that pepl kew in order. And pepl like them. They make the old folks smile and the yung kids giggl. Sumtyms I think ther not ther at arl but if I look around ther they are just keepin an eye on things.

I see them getting muny from Missus Malone or meat from Mr McCaufrey.

Mam remembers them of cors. She says how wunderful it is that they like me survivd. Sumtyms I cum bak home to find her standing at the dore with them tarking of the old days.

“They wer always desent boys” she says. “They take some of the burden from you. And ther very good at what they do.”

Aye they are. Very good at what they do and at what ther soon about to do.

Sumtyms life itself is a poseshun and a call for healing. I dont need to be at Missus Malones. I dont need to be at the watery tabl or sayin a prare to nothingness or holdin a hand or tuchin a joynt. I wil just be warkin or sittin still at home or droppin off to sleep & I am engulfed by what feels like the hole world by what feels like the hole wide bluddy yoonivers.

Its like I turn into the world and the world turns into me.

And when its a world of beests and dust & water & fish then its so fine. Its like I am dansing. Its like my fingertips are tuchin the tiniest scambling insect and reeching to the furthest frinjes of the darkness and the lite. Its like I spin between the dust and the stars and my body & my mind & sole are filld with the byuty & the majic of all space and all time and all things that have ever been created.

But at other times it is a world of pane & death & war. The bomin of Blinkbonny takes plays within me. I see it clearly. I see things I hav never seen at all so cudnt possibly see agen but yes I see them clear as day.

I see the bom trucks & the bomers with the boms strappd to ther baks. I see the blasts of fire and smoke & the bildings thudding to the erth & the statews scattering & I hear the screeemin of the peepl and see them farlin runnin howlin dyin.

I dont want to see thees things nor to feel the flames to smel the smoke. I dont want these things taykin plays inside me time & time & time agen. But ther is no way to close my eres & eyes no way to block it all out.

Mebbe this is how things became for God. Mebbe once there really was a God who loved his world when it was lovabl and new but he did not want his world to be insyd him when it turnd to war & agony & death.

He came to hate & fear the world that he had made but ther was no way for him to stop it just as ther is no way for me. But mebbe as time went on he did find a way to cast the world out from himself.

He spat it owt.

He vomitted it up.

He carvd it out like carvin out a canser.

He abandond it.

He warkd away to another place a place of carm & peese.

And thats why ther is no God for us to see nor hear nor feel.

God has gon bak to being God & nothing but God.

He has gon back to how he was at the very start.

He is back in his wundrous isolayshon in a plase of emtiness and peese.

And he is releevd.

He is happy agen.

And mebbe hes at work rite now making a brandnew world a simpler world.

A world with non of us in it.

So he wons was here in this world but now hes not.

And without a God the worlds just left to its own devises.

And it gets wors & wors & wors & bluddy wors.

O how I wish to do what God did wen the awful poseshuns come. This is the wish of Billy Dean — to take the world owt from himself & cast it owt & wark away or flote down the river over the bluw horyzon to the iland wer he will be himself & nothing but himself.

Ha! This does not occur. The poseshons go on and on. They get wors and wors.

It isnt just the bomin of Blinkbonny that I no. I no all Blinkbonnys evrywer. It is like I move across the world with the enjins of destrucshon & rayn down death with them. I see playses I havnt nown & havnt seen so cudnt possibly no nor see. But I do no & I do see & they are in me & I am in them. And evrywer is fyr & smoke & topplin bildings & qwaykin erth & peple runnin screamin dyin & overhead the byutiful blak enjins of destrucshon blast throu the sky like things of thunder things of Hell. And all the erth is crackd & crushd & brout to ruwinayshon & ther are bodys & bits of bodys scattered acros the stones & hid within the stones & the sounds of weeping mingl with the wind & blood mixes with the dust & the gosts of the dead wander evrywer across the erth.

And Billy Dean is forsd to look upon it all.

Billy Dean, the boy that can speak with the voyses of the dead.

Billy Dean, the boy that can heal the bodys of the livin.

But ther is nothin Billy Dean can say nor do with this.

And nower dos he find a God who crys owt,

O my peepl what ar you doin to yourselvs!

Look how the wilderness has grown with the growing Billy Dean. Ther are trees growin throu the shattad roofs & dilapidayted walls. Green turf spreds across the fallen stones. Dark green ivy creeps & creeps. Ther is hether in the rubbl & byutiful wild flowers flurish in the dust. Rabits liv & hop here. Ther intricate deep tunels are carvd throu fowndayshons and roots. Ther ar hedjhogs and rats and weesels and bee hives and wasps nests. Sumtimes foxes ar seen prowling. Ther barks and yowls ar herd at niyt. Skylarks nest on the erth among the ruins. Owls make ther homes in aynshent chimneys. Tits and rens inhabit tiny gaps and openings. Hawks weel hiy abuv and scan the erth for scampering prey.

Yes it is byutiful this plase as new life gros across the jagged scorchd and blasted plases of destrucshon.

Keep on. Keep looking as we wark — as we follo the riting pensil of Billy Dean. We pass a groop of the bereaved. We pass a littl encampment of those who have cum to seek healin. Ther showing each other ther woonds & blemishes. Ther tarking of ther panes and ther joys and ther praysin Billy Dean. Ther rosting meat on a fire. Ther turning ther eyes to the sky to God.

We leev Blinkbonny and hed for the river. Feel how the erth softens beneeth our feet. Look at the distant mowntans and moors that shimmer in the lite. Look at the distant flat horizon of the sea.

But turn yor eyes away when the puffs of smoke rise over the sity.

Turn yor eyes away when the enjins of destrucshon fly.

We come to a place of trees and shrubs. Jack & Joe are beneeth a hawthorn tree. Ther smoking sigarets. They must hav crackd sum joke becos ther both laffin. Jacks spinning a coyn up and down in the air. Ther here becos ther protecting Billy Dean. This is a plase where Billy gos for refuje to be alone by the running water to have a brake from all that healing & poseshun. The folowers cant folow him throu here. Sumtyms his mam comes to sit with him for a wile & to see how hes getting on. Sumtimes Mr McCaufrey comes with a pie or a plate of sausages. As the days & weeks & months pass by the trees at the entrans to the glayd have been hung with cards bering Billys name and with messajes of thanks & hope & prase.

Cum forwad throu the shade beneath the trees. Listen to the river flow. See it glint throu the stems and weeds and undergroth. Thers this narro pathway then this glayd rite on the riverbank wher the sun pors down and the water pors past.

Each time he comes here Billy looks for a glint of gold and sniffs for the smel of black sigarets. He looks for an elegent footprint. He has seen nothing smelt nothing. He has told himself that he wil only ever encounter such things in dreams. But enyway he loves this glade this plase of refuje.

Here he is look. Hes sitting on the bank with his bare feet in the water. Its 1 of those days the erth seems like a hevan. Sun shinin warter glitterin erth beneeth him warm & tender. Thers jumpin fish. Thers damsel flys & dragonflys & bees. The swans swimmin carmly by the opposit bank. Thers skylarks carlin in the sky hiy abuv and a goldfinch singing in a tree nereby.

“Billy,” I wisper.

And tho he lifts his eyes from the water and looks up he cannot of cors hear.

I go closer. A time of tryl is on its way and I want to wisper comfort to him.

“Billy.” He looks arownd. O poor lad. Poor yung man. “Billy.”

“Billy!”

Its another voys a girls voys or a womans.

“Billy!”

O its her. Its that day. Step back. Keep still. Just watch.

Only the pensil moves.

He looks up in surprys. He wunders are Jack & Joe not out ther keeping an eye on things.

“Billy.”

He makes no reply. He hears footsteps and hears branches moved aside. Gives no reply. Then he sees that its the artist Elizabeth coming throu to him.

“Its just me,” she says. “Elizabeth.”

He holds up his hand in greeting. Shes wering blu jeans with a wite shirt and wite shoes on her feet.

“Nobody tryd to stop you?” he said.

“They said they thort I lookd speshal. They said if you didnt want me youd turn me bak. They laffd as I warkd away from them.”

She cums closer and sits with him by the water. She draws a patern in the mud with her fingertip.

“I saw you today,” she says. “I saw you prayin & healin, Billy.”

“Aye?”

“Aye. You say such weard lovely words & do such weard lovely things.”

Is that all shes come to say?

“I no that,” he groans.

He looks acros the water sees fish glittering just below the surfas.

“All those pepl,” she says. “All those woonds all that pane all that death and then all that releef and all that joy.”

Hes silent.

She poynts across the river to a swan. She traces the shape of it in the air with her finger.

“How can the erth projus such a thing?” she says.

He shakes his hed. Ther can be no anser. They watch the swan.

“Ther fethers can be pens,” he says at last. “They can be made to rite words on paper or on the skin of beests. They . . .”

He stops. They watch.

“This is how I came here,” she says. “I followd the path that follows the river and I fownd myself close to Blinkbonny. I thort Id stay a littl wile and I kept on staying longer.”

He watches the river flowing away and flowing away.

“And maybe soon it will be time to move agen,” she says.

“Hav you been to the sity?” he says. “Hav you been to the iland?”

“Yes and yes.”

“Hav you seen my father Wilfred the preest?”

“O Billy. No. No.”

“No mater. Forget all that. Just look at the byuty of the swan.”

“You hav a grate gift,” she says.

He turns away from her. Is that what shes cum to bluddy tel?

A dull thud then another eckos from downriver. They look towards it and see nothing.

“Do you think that evrything is over?” she says. “Do you —”

Shes goin to say mor words but he fliks his hand into the air to stop her.