Authors: Patrick Ness
But then his mum’s “little talk” had happened, and what came next was simple, really, and sudden.
No one knew.
Then Lily’s mum knew, of course.
Then Lily knew.
And then everyone knew. Everyone. Which changed the whole world in a single day.
And he was never going to forgive her for that.
Another street and another street more and there was his house, small but detached. It had been the one thing his mum had insisted on in the divorce, that it was theirs free and clear and they wouldn’t have to move after his dad had left for America with Stephanie, the new wife. That had been six years ago, so long now that Conor sometimes couldn’t remember what it was like having a dad in the house.
Didn’t mean he still didn’t think about it, though.
He looked up past his house to the hill beyond, the church steeple poking up into the cloudy sky.
And the yew tree hovering over the graveyard like a sleeping giant.
Conor forced himself to keep looking at it, making himself see that it was just a tree, a tree like any other, like any one of those that lined the railway track.
A tree. That’s all it was. That’s all it
ever
was. A tree.
A tree that, as he watched, reared up a giant face to look at him in the sunlight, its arms reaching out, its voice saying,
Conor
–
He stepped back so fast, he nearly fell into the street, catching himself on the bonnet of a parked car.
When he looked back up, it was just a tree again.
He lay in his bed that night, wide awake, watching the clock on his bedside table.
It had been the slowest evening imaginable. Cooking frozen lasagne had tired his mum out so badly she fell asleep five minutes into
EastEnders
. Conor hated the programme but he made sure it recorded for her, then he spread a duvet over her and went and did the dishes.
His mum’s mobile had gone off once, not waking her. Conor saw it was Lily’s mum calling and let it go to voicemail. He did his schoolwork at the kitchen table, stopping before he got to Mrs Marl’s Life Writing homework, then he played around on the internet for a while in his room before brushing his teeth and seeing himself to bed. He’d barely turned out the light when his mum had very apologetically – and very groggily – come in to kiss him good night.
A few minutes later, he’d heard her in the bathroom, throwing up.
“Do you need any help?” he’d called from his bed.
“No, sweetheart,” his mum called back, weakly. “I’m kind of used to it by now.”
That was the thing. Conor was used to it, too. It was always the second and third days after the treatments that were the worst, always the days when she was the most tired, when she threw up the most. It had almost become normal.
After a while, the throwing up had stopped. He’d heard the bathroom light click off and her bedroom door shut.
That was two hours ago. He’d lain awake since then, waiting.
But for what?
His bedside clock read 12.05. Then it read 12.06. He looked over to his bedroom window, shut tight even though the night was still warm. His clock ticked over to 12.07.
He got up, went over to the window and looked out.
The monster stood in his garden, looking right back at him.
Open up
, the monster said, its voice as clear as if the window wasn’t between them.
I want to talk to you.
“Yeah, sure,” Conor said, keeping his voice low. “Because that’s what monsters always want. To
talk
.”
The monster smiled. It was a ghastly sight.
If I must force my way in
, it said,
I will do so happily.
It raised a gnarled woody fist to punch through the wall of Conor’s bedroom.
“No!” Conor said. “I don’t want you to wake my mum.”
Then come outside
, the monster said, and even in his room, Conor’s nose filled with the moist smell of earth and wood and sap.
“What do you want from me?” Conor said.
The monster pressed its face close to the window.
It is not what I want from you, Conor O’Malley
, it said.
It is what
you
want from
me
.
“I don’t want anything from you,” Conor said.
Not yet
, said the monster.
But you will.
“It’s only a dream,” Conor said to himself in the back garden, looking up at the monster silhouetted against the moon in the night sky. He folded his arms tightly against his body, not because it was cold, but because he couldn’t actually believe he’d tiptoed down the stairs, unlocked the back door and come outside.
He still felt calm. Which was weird. This nightmare – because it was surely a nightmare, of course it was – was so different from the other nightmare.
No terror, no panic, no darkness, for one thing.
And yet here was a monster, clear as the clearest night, towering ten or fifteen metres above him, breathing heavily in the night air.
“It’s only a dream,” he said again.
But what is
a dream, Conor O’Malley?
the monster said, bending down so its face was close to Conor’s.
Who is to say that it is not everything
else
that
is the dream?
Every time the monster moved, Conor could hear the creak of wood, groaning and yawning in the monster’s huge body. He could see, too, the power in the monster’s arms, great wiry ropes of branches constantly twisting and shifting together in what must have been tree muscle, connected to a massive trunk of a chest, topped by a head and teeth that could chomp him down in one bite.
“What are you?” Conor asked, pulling his arms closer around himself.
I am not a “what”
, frowned the monster.
I am a “who”
.
“
Who
are you, then?” Conor said.
The monster’s eyes widened.
Who am I?
it said, its voice getting louder.
Who am I?
The monster seemed to grow before Conor’s eyes, getting taller and broader. A sudden, hard wind swirled up around them, and the monster spread its arms out wide, so wide they seemed to reach to opposite horizons, so wide they seemed big enough to encompass the world.
I have had as many names as there are years to time itself!
roared the monster.
I am Herne the Hunter! I am Cernunnos! I am the eternal Green Man!
A great arm swung down and snatched Conor up in it, lifting him high in the air, the wind whirling around them, making the monster’s leafy skin wave angrily.
Who am I?
the monster repeated, still roaring.
I am the spine that the mountains hang upon! I am the tears that the rivers cry! I am the lungs that breathe the wind! I am the wolf that kills the stag, the hawk that kills the mouse, the spider that kills the fly! I am the stag, the mouse and the fly that are eaten! I am the snake of the world devouring its tail! I am everything untamed and untameable!
It brought Conor up close to its eye.
I am this wild earth, come for you, Conor O’Malley.
“You look like a tree,” Conor said.
The monster squeezed him until he cried out.
I do not often come walking, boy
, the monster said,
only for matters of life and death. I expect to be listened to.
The monster loosened its grip and Conor could breathe again. “So what do you want with
me
?” Conor asked.
The monster gave an evil grin. The wind died down and a quiet fell.
At last
, said the monster.
To the matter at hand. The reason I have come walking.
Conor tensed, suddenly dreading what was coming.
Here is what will happen, Conor O’Malley
, the monster continued,
I will come to you again on further nights.
Conor felt his stomach clench, like he was preparing for a blow.
And I will tell you three stories. Three tales from when I walked before.
Conor blinked. Then blinked again. “You’re going to tell me
stories
?”
Indeed
, the monster said.
“Well–” Conor looked around in disbelief. “How is
that
a nightmare?”
Stories are the wildest things of all,
the monster rumbled.
Stories chase and bite and hunt.
“That’s what
teachers
always say,” Conor said. “No one believes them either.”
And when I have finished my three stories
, the monster said, as if Conor hadn’t spoken,
you will tell me a fourth.
Conor squirmed in the monster’s hand. “I’m no good at stories.”
You will tell me a fourth
, the monster repeated,
and it will be the truth.
“The truth?”
Not just any truth.
Your
truth.
“O-
kay
,” Conor said, “but you said I’d be scared before the end of all this, and that doesn’t sound scary at all.”
You know that is not true,
the monster said.
You know that your truth, the one that you hide, Conor O’Malley, is the thing you are most afraid of.
Conor stopped squirming.
It couldn’t mean–
There was no
way
it could mean–
There was no way it could know
that
.
No.
No
. He was
never
going to say what happened in the real nightmare. Never in a million years.
You will tell it
, the monster said.
For this is why you called me.
Conor grew even more confused. “
Called
you? I didn’t
call
you–”
You will tell me the fourth tale. You will tell me the truth.
“And what if I don’t?” Conor said.
The monster gave the evil grin again.
Then I will eat you alive.
And its mouth opened impossibly wide, wide enough to eat the whole world, wide enough to make Conor disappear forever–
He sat up in bed with a shout.
His bed. He was back in his bed.
Of course it was a dream. Of
course
it was.
Again.
He sighed angrily and rubbed his eyes with the heels of his hands. How was he ever going to get any rest if his dreams were going to be this tiring?
He’d get himself a drink of water, he thought as he threw back the covers. He’d get up and he’d start this night over again, forgetting all this stupid dream business that made no sense whatso–
Something squished under his foot.
He switched on his lamp. His floor was covered in poisonous red yew tree berries.
Which had all somehow come in through a closed and locked window.
“Are you being a good boy for your mum?”
Conor’s grandma pinched Conor’s cheeks so hard he swore she was going to draw blood.
“He’s been
very
good, Ma,” Conor’s mother said, winking at him from behind his grandma, her favourite blue scarf tied around her head. “So there’s no need to inflict quite so much pain.”
“Oh, nonsense,” his grandma said, giving him two playful slaps on each cheek that actually hurt quite a lot. “Why don’t you go and put the kettle on for me and your mum?” she said, making it sound not like a question at all.
As Conor gratefully left the room, his grandma placed her hands on her hips and looked at his mother. “Now then, my dear,” he heard her say as he went into the kitchen. “What
are
we going to do with you?”
Conor’s grandma wasn’t like other grandmas. He’d met Lily’s grandma loads of times, and
she
was how grandmas were supposed to be: crinkly and smiley, with white hair and the whole lot. She cooked meals where she made three separate eternally-boiled vegetable portions for everybody and would giggle in the corner at Christmas with a small glass of sherry and a paper crown on her head.
Conor’s
grandma wore tailored trouser suits, dyed her hair to keep out the grey, and said things that made no sense at all, like “Sixty is the new fifty” or “Classic cars need the most expensive polish.” What did that even
mean
? She emailed birthday cards, would argue with waiters over wine, and still had a
job
. Her house was even worse, filled with expensive old things you could never touch, like a clock she wouldn’t even let the cleaning lady dust. Which was another thing. What kind of grandma had a cleaning lady?
“Two sugars, no milk,” she called from the sitting room as Conor made the tea. As if he didn’t know that from the last three thousand times she’d visited.
“Thank you, my boy,” his grandma said, when he brought in the tea.
“Thank you, sweetheart,” his mum said, smiling at him out of view of his grandma, still inviting him to join with her against her mother. He couldn’t help himself. He smiled back a little.
“And how was school today, young man?” his grandma asked.
“Fine,” Conor said.
It hadn’t really been fine. Lily was still fuming, Harry had put a marker pen with its cap off deep in his rucksack, and Miss Kwan had pulled him aside to ask, with a serious look on her face, How He Was Holding Up.
“You know,” his grandma said, setting down her cup of tea, “there’s a tremendous independent boys’ school not half a mile from my house. I’ve been looking into it, and the academic standards are quite high, much higher than he’s getting at the comprehensive, I’m sure.”
Conor stared at her. Because this was the other reason he didn’t like his grandma visiting. What she’d just said could have been her being a snob about his local school.
Or it could have been more. It could have been a hint about a possible future.
A possible
after
.
Conor felt the anger rising in the pit of his stomach–
“He’s happy where he is, Ma,” his mum said, quickly, giving him another look. “Aren’t you, Conor?”
Conor gritted his teeth and answered, “I’m fine right where I am.”