Skellig Read Free Page B

opened her book.
    “Look at this,” she said.
    It was full of birds. Pencil drawings, lots of them colored in blues and greens and reds.
    “This is the blackbird,” she said. “They’re common, but nevertheless very beautiful. A sparrow. These are tits. And lovely chaffinches. And look, this is the goldfinch that visited last Thursday.”
    She showed me the goldfinch, the greens and reds and bright yellows in it.
    “My favorite,” she said.
    She slapped the book shut.
    “Do you like birds?” she said, and she looked at me like something I’d done had made her cross.
    “I don’t know,” I said.
    “Typical. Do you like drawing?”
    “Sometimes.”
    “Drawing makes you look at the world more closely. It helps you to see what you’re looking at more clearly. Did you know that?”
    I said nothing.
    “What color’s a blackbird?” she said.
    “Black.”
    “Typical!”
    She swung round into the garden.
    “I’m going in,” she said. “I look forward to seeing you again. I’d also like to see your baby sister if that can be arranged.”

I TRIED TO STAY AWAKE THAT night, but it was hopeless. I was dreaming straight away. I dreamed that the baby was in the blackbird’s nest in Mina’s garden. The blackbird fed her on flies and spiders and she got stronger and stronger until she flew out of the tree and over the rooftops and onto the garage roof. Mina sat on the back wall drawing her. When I went closer, Mina whispered, “Stay away. You’re danger!”
    Then the baby was bawling in the room next door and I woke up.
    I lay listening to Mum cooing and comforting and the baby squeaking and hissing. The birds were singing outside. When the feeding was over and I was sure everyone was asleep, I crept out of bed, got my flashlight, pulled some clothes on, and tiptoed past their room. I took a jar of aspirin from the bathroom. I went downstairs, opened the back door, and tiptoed into the yard.
    The take-out trays were down under newspapers and a heap of weeds. They’d tilted over and lots of the sauce had run out. When I looked inside, the char sui was all gluey and red and cold. I dropped the soggy spring rolls into the same tray and went down toward the garage.
    “You must be stupid,” I told myself. “You must be going round the stupid bend.”
    I looked up at the blackbird on the garage roof and saw how it opened its yellow beak so wide as it sang. I saw the sheens of gold and blue where the early light shined on its black.
    I switched on the flashlight, took a deep breath, and stepped inside.
    The scuttling and scratching started. Something skittered across my foot and I nearly dropped the food. I came to the tea chests and shined the light behind.
    “You again?” he squeaked. “Thought you’d gone away.”
    “I’ve brought something,” I said.
    He opened his eyes and looked at me.
    “Aspirin,” I said. “And number 27 and 53. Spring rolls and pork char sui.”
    He laughed but he didn’t smile.
    “Not as stupid as you look,” he squeaked.
    I held the take-out tray across the tea chests toward him. He took it in his hand but he started to wobble and I had to take it back again.
    “No strength,” he squeaked.
    I squeezed between the tea chests. I squatted down beside him. I held the tray up and shined the light onto the food. He dipped his finger in. He licked his finger and groaned. He stuck his finger in again and hooked a long slimy string of bean sprouts and sauce. He stuck his tongue out and licked. He slurped out pieces of pork and mushrooms. He shoved the spring rolls into his mouth. The red sauce trickled down from his lips, down over his chin onto his black jacket.
    “Aaaah,” he said. “Ooooooh.”
    He sounded like he was loving it, or he was in pain, or both those things together. I held the tray closer to his chin. He dipped and licked and groaned.
    His fingers were twisted and stunted. His knuckles were swollen.
    “Put the aspirin in,” he said.
    I put two aspirin in the