The True Tale of the Monster Billy Dean (7 page)

So in a cuple of hours I had 2 good mows skins.

I put them under my bed to dry with books on them to kepe them flat. I washd the nife & fork & sissors & playt. I cleend the tabel. I polishd the sissors with a blankit so they wer brite as ever. I put evrythin bak in its propa plays. Ther was no sine enywer of wot Id bene up to.

I switchd the lite off & got into bed.

I was very happy as I drifted off to slepe.

I herd another clack but I dint go to it.

Mam wud fynd the dead mows in the morning and wud get rid of it.

In this way I collected several mows skins. I kept them under my bed. I cudnt shayv the hare off but that dint mater much. Even way bak then I new that nothing cud be perfect in this imperfect world.

I didnt tel Mam abowt the skins of cors tho I did think therd come a tym to show her the wonders of them. And I didnt tayk all the mise just sum of those that came at nite wen the stars or moon wer shinin throu the windo to the sky.

When I look bak that tym seems like it lasted a long tym like a munth or a yer or mor but mebbe it was just a handful of days or a week or two. I canot be sertan. All of tym is such a blur.

However long it was the mise just kept on cumin. Mam said shurly they wud stop. Shurly we must hav them all. Yes they slowd. But they kept on cumin & they kept on dyin. She said they must be cumin from all the sellars & tunels of Blinkbonny.

Why dont they lern? she said. Why dont they stop?

Ther only mise I said. They dont no eny beter Mam.

She cryd for them & for what she had dun.

Its absoloot slorter Billy she said.

You said it was for the best.

I thort it was. But this is rong. Who ar we to do this to the poor mise?

And so we put the traps away and let the mise have ther freedom & ther life. It ment ther was mor mess for mam to clear up but the slorter had ended & the mise wer happy & we were too.

She notisd nothing exept the sissors. She wos cutting my hare & she started to tut & siy.

Wot on erth is rong with these things? she said.

I dont no Mam.

Sissors these days! she said.

The skins eech took a few days to dry.

Wons they wer dry I got the sissors agen and cut eech skin into a sqare. Sum crumbld to fragments. Sum wer all curld up & wud not stay flat. But I kept on tryin & I had 10 good 1s in the end.

10 skins all the saym siyz.

10 dead mise all the saym siyz.

10 dead mise that mite be made to do Gods work & liv forever.

I made the first mark on the first skin with a bluw felt tip. It was just the usuwal scrawl but I told myself that I was riting proper words & that the words said

This is wer it arl begins.

But wot a mess. So horribl. The felt tip marks wer far too thik & far too ugly. I tryd to wosh the felt tip off but it wudnt wosh away. Alredy I had waysted a preshus skin.

I apolojysd to the spirit of the mows.

I didnt thro the skin away. Even tho the words on it wer such a mess the skin was far too preshus to be sent away down the toylet.

It wos a lesson & a warnin.

I kept it as a remembrans & another memento.

I new I needed to rite with sumthin else.

Felt tips pens & pensils wer not the things to use.

I lade the untuchd skins within the pajes of a book & I put them bak under the bed.

I told myself that I was hapy to wate.

I told myself that the riters of the iland masterpees had taken meny yers. They kept ther mind on hiyer things. They showd disiplin & payshens & wer not deflected from ther task.

I wayted.

Days passd. Days of winter turnd to spring.

I kept on waytin.

Sumhow I new my bird would come.

It was spring the sky was bluw the sun wos brite. It was a tym wen I was growin fast. In the aftanoon I hurd voyses in the warls. A voice that was not my dads voys carlin out my Mams naym Veronica! O my Veronica!

All aftanoon burds kept comin to the windo lookin down then flyin off agen. They sang.

Veronica! the depe voys carld. & then the voys rose hiyer & sweter & almost turnd into a song as lovely as the burds. O my byutiful Veronica!

Then just silens in the warls & the only song was the song of the burds that sang so swete above.

Soon mam caym in carryin a sandwich of meet & letus & buter & a glas of milk wich wos arl so delishus on my tung.

I hurd a voys I said to her.

She seemd so soft so stil so warm. She smyld.

Yor always hearin voyses Billy Dean.

She strokd my hare. She ran her fingers throu it.

It was the voys of Mr McCaufrey the butcha she said. He came to visit me.

She smyld agen & harf closd her eyes.

He was singin to me Billy she murmurd.

I tryd to think of Mr McCaufrey.

Wil I see him 1 day Mam? I said.

Aye Billy.

She shiverd. She put her arms arownd herself and lookd up at the windo.

Its so warm today she said. The spring is sprung. A day for lettin in the air I think.

She got the windo pole & pulld the windo open & let it hang. The cool & sweetnes of the owtside air cum in. And the noyses of the air the drummins beatins dronins that was always ther. The clashin & the bangin & the stranj & distant voyses that was always ther.

We lissend close together for a few long sylent moments. I chewd my sandwich sippd my milk & lickd my lips.

Wot do you suppows it is? said Mam.

Suppows wot is?

Evrythin Billy. All that ther is.

I remember lissenin to her words and wonderin. All ther is. What is all ther is?

How can I no? I askd her.

Never mynd said Mam. Just lissen to thoas birds.

We lissend agen & I lissend to how the birds wer such a tiny & powerful thing in the middl of the massiv endlessness of all ther is.

I herd them singin owtsyd in the world & insyd depe insyd myself.

Yes said Mam. Yes mebbe you will see Mr McCaufrey. Hes a good strong kind man Billy. He wil help us. Kiss me now.

She put her fase befor me & I kissd her lips.

I got to go she said. Youl be alrite?

Of cors Ill be alrite. Like always, Mam.

Aye like always Billy.

And off she went. And she left the windo hangin down. And didnt come bak. So the windo went on hangin as the afternoon wore on & soon darknes wasnt far away.

She never did this never left the window hangin down until the nite. Mebbe she forgot mebbe it wos delibrit. Or mebbe she had a kynd of premonishun. Owtside the air began to change & stilness soon gave way to breez & wind & ajitayshun. I saw clowds passin fast acros the sky & hurd the rushin of the air across the windo. For the first tym in my life I felt rane farl down on me. I turnd my fase to it. I felt the sharp swete isy ping of drops of warter on my skin. I lickd it wer it fel upon my lips and cheeks. It fel a bit faster a bit harder I saw it splashin down onto the carpet & the sofa & I saw the wetness of it spredin. Then ther came a fast flutterin in the air. I look up and to my astonishment thers a spuggy flyin in the room. Its so frantic its so terrifyd. It must of cum throu the windo mebbe to escayp the littl storm & dusnt no how to fynd its way bak owt agen. Flys bak & forth throu the room bangin into walls. Bangs into the pitcher of the iland like it thinks it can go into it. Bangs into the dore like it thinks it can go rite throu it.

Up I jump & hold my hands owt to it.

Dont be friytend little spuggy I say.

Carm down I say.

Let me gide you bak towards the sky I say.

But nothin helps. Bak and forwad goes the frantic bird flutterin & bangin & skweekin & terrifyd of bein wer its fownd itself terrifyd of Billy Dean with no idea wer the windo is no idea that the windo is the only plays of possibl escayp.

Bang crash flutter wallop skweek skweek skweek!

O poor littl desprit bird I see you now.

Carm down I want to call agen. Carm down and let me gide you to the sky.

Soon it starts fallin to the flor then flutterin up agen then fallin agen then tryin to flutter agen.

It falls to the flore a finil time. All its flyin finishd. It has abandond itself to its fayt.

It crepes under the sofa.

And as it crepes the rane stops fallin & the air owtsyd grows stil agen & the sky gose pinky bluw.

I crowch down ther agenst the flore.

Littl bird I softly call.

I peep into the darknes & ther it is so frayl & timid bundld up in its wings.

Poor spuggy I wisper. Billy Dean wont harm you.

I get the playt that the sandwich was on. I dip my finger in the crums of bred & stretch my hand into the dark beneeth the sofa.

Woud you like sum bred?

It dusnt respond.

I wotch. The darknes is deepenin now darknes with a shaft of pink in it comin from the sky. Soon the bird is just a shado just a ball of black in ther. I reech rite under the sofa & fele the softnes of the burd & take it into my hand & draw it owt.

Such a little lite thing its almost like its hardly ther at arl. It dose not breeth. No beatin hart. I tuch its beek its little claws its tenda fethers. Its wings are shut its hed rests on my parm.

Thank you for yor sacrifiys I wisper.

I dont wate.

I switch on the lite. I inspect the feathers. I spred the wings & tayl. The fethers on the wings & tayl are bigest & strongest wich is obvyos I supose. I try to pul a wing fether owt but its stuk ded tite. Obvyos agen I supose. I get the sissors & try to lever the point of the fether owt of the flesh & here it cums at last with just a drop of blud at its point. I scrayp the blud away. I hold the fether in my fingas lyk my Daddy holds a pen. I move it back and forth across the paypa to get the nack & fele of it.

I get sum felt tips open them up and sqeez the ink owt of them onto the samwich playt. I dip the point of the fether in & I start ritin on the payper. I try to moov slo & careful more slo & careful than Ive ever yet movd wen Iv rit. I tel myself it is the tym to gro in intellijens and skil. I mayk little curvs & little jagged marks that look lyk words & letters. I no they are not true words & leters becos I do not yet no how to make such things. But I tel myself that even things that are meaningless can stil be things of byuty. I try to copy the shayps of the words in the mastapees which are byutiful but sumtyms meaninless even to my Dad. I work for hours til the marks start lookin a littl bit rite. But the inks no good just runny and payl. So I get the sissors and open up the bird and cut and jently cut until I get to the hart wer the bluds still wet. I mix the blud with the ink & I rite agen. Its beter. I try cutting the point of the fether into different shayps. I tug out another fether wen that one starts crakin up. I kepe on ritin. Soon the blud of the bird drys up. So I cut my arm just insyd the elbo with the point of the sissors & I sqeez the cut & let the blud drip down into the ink & I rite with that.

I am so exited. A hole nite passes.

I no nothing but the pashon of the ritin.

Then mornins on its way agen.

I look at my paje. The shayps of the marks are gettin beter the lyns of shayps are getting strayter.

I put the bird & the fether & the pajes unda the bed. I wosh the playt & the sissors & nife.

I get into bed as the lite in the sky is back agen.

I dreme that ther is the tiny red hart of a bird in me. I dreme that ther are fethers and wings on me. I dreme of flyin down into the room throu the open windo & not fyndin my way owt agen. I dreme of Dad liftin me up. Poor little bird he wispers. He sits by me & opens me up with sissors. He cuts threw my fethers & my bones & keeps on cutting til hes rite at the hart of me. He dips his pen in the hart of Billy Dean & rites the story of Billy Dean with the blud of Billy Dean.

I see the words and the pitchas taykin shayp and they are so byutiful.

I try to rede it & Dad smyls.

The ritin is aynshent & stranj he says. Even I that rote it all carnt rede & understand it all.

He wotches me.

What abowt you? he says.

What abowt me?

Do you understand it Billy?

No Dad I wisper.

So you are like your Daddy.

Thats good I say.