The True Tale of the Monster Billy Dean (24 page)

I imajin what cud happen to a body that was tayken by it.

I imajin myself spinnin away upon it. I imajin my body sinkin lyk a stone into its depe wet swirlin dark. I imajin it carryin me as far as the sea as far as the iland.

After that first tym I go to the river meny tyms. Sumtyms at the brake of mornins befor Mam wakes. Sumtyms on returnin from my tyms of posseshun at Missus Malones.

I take off my clowths & leve them on the bank & walk into the river to stand in it & feel it flowing wet & cold across my skin & tuggin at the hairs that grow ther. I lov the sound of it the sent of it the way it splashes & sprays & the way tiny ranebows cum & go upon it. And I love the fish the glitter of them in the depths the way they leap from the warter to the air and curv bak down agen.

As tym goes on I wade deeper deeper — deep as my nees deep as my wayste. Wons on a ded stil day wen mist is lyin in the feelds arownd I stand with the river gushing across my chest & I feel how I cud just lean back & it would rapidly cary me away. That is the day I feel the fishes for the first time movin tenderly across my skin. I look down & see the silvery flashes of them twisting & turning about me withowt eny fear of me. I slide my hands in & the fish cum to nudj & nibbl me & they rise up to the surfas like they are lookin up at me.

“Lovely fish” I wisper & ther mowths open & close in straynj reply.

“O O” they say in silens. “O O. O O.”

Ther ar other beests that cum to me as wel. A pare of beests I cum to no ar otters. They riggl from the water when I stand ther on the bank to gambol & curl abowt my feet. And birds of cors — meny birds that gather in the bushes nearby & sing ther songs arownd me. And beests lyk rabbits hares & mise & rats are never trubbld by my presens ther.

In the mud at the warters edj meny creechers leav ther traks & marks — footprints & pawprints and clawprints that show wer birds and beests hav bene. They ar like weard langwaj ritten on the surfas of the world. I make my marks as well — the impreshuns of my fete and hands. I make marks and letters with my fingas and name myself ther in the mud. BILLY DEAN, I write. AYNJEL CHILDE. I fill the marks with warter and watch them fayd and turn bak to blank mud agen. I rite bits of my tale in 1 or 2 short weard sentences that mingl with the weard sentenses of the beests & birds.

Billys dad went away, I rite. He is stil away.

Billy cum owt into the world, I rite. The world is a plase of wunder.

Billy has a nife. Billy has a butchers tuch.

Trees and shrubs hang over the water. I love to sit beneath them harf hiden in the shadows. I make my marks here too carving my name into ther bark with my nife & carvin the names of mam & Mr McCaufrey & Missus Malone.

I carv the naym of my father ther and I draw pitchers of him to keep the memry of him alive in my mind and in the world.

1 day he will return, I carv. 1 day I will look upon him fase to fase agen. I will. I will.

I aso rite my names & storys with my fingers on the water as I stand in it. The words turn to nothing as I rite. Nothing but invisibl meanins remayn to be carryd away towards the distant sea.

Bein at the river becoms another kind of poseshun for me. I forget myself. I am entransd. I am enchanted by the byuty of the world. I wark throu the lejons of the lovely living things. I wander in the relms of lite.

On this day Im deep in the river naked. The sun is shining throu the trees. Water surjes over me & fish swim rownd me. I open my mouth & cry owt & it seems the birds sing throu me. I riggl my feet in the rivers mud. I rayse my eyes to the sky & bak to the warter agen & I see it cuming towards me.

A tiny glint of gold.

A glint of gold carryd on the surfas of the water.

It curvs away with the curving of the water. I stretch and reech for it.

I lunj for it and almost fall.

I lunj agen but on it flows qwikening at the rivers powerful senter & is carryd fast away.

It was.

I am sertan of it.

It was the golden tip of a blak sigaret.

I stare all around. I fall and stumbl as I hurry from the water as I stand nayked on the bank as I rush bak & forth beneeth the trees as I try to catch a glimps of him.

But thers nothing.

I see a mark in the mud that I tel myself is the print of an elegant shoe but even as I tel myself that I tel myself that that too must be ilushon. It is where a stone has fallen or where the water has made a rapid swirl and an elegant meaningless mark.

I return to the bank.

I carl out his name.

Thers nothing of cors.

Missus Malone has told me that if ther is a God I mite catch a glimps of him in the relms of darkness. She has told me that if my father is dead I mite catch a glimps of him ther too. Now I seek a glimps of my father in the relms of lite.

I see nothing.

No glimpses.

All is trickery & ilushon.

I put my clothes bak on & the otters dans arownd my feet.

It was an ilushon.

It must hav been.

Words flo & turn & spin lyk warter. They hurry onward. They carry glimpses & ilushons. They moov throu Blinkbonny & throu the frinjes of Blinkbonny. Just as Billy Dean dus now.

Here he is warkin as my pensil warks. Hes on his own. Hes cumin bak from a time of poseshun at Missus Malones.

Its late afternoon.

Hes warkin throu the ruins beneeth the pink & blue & reddenin gorjus sky. Like always thers shiftin figurs & thers footsteps & like always he keeps turning lookin seein nothing but shadows nereby & sumtyms pepl further away. He moovs throu Blinkbonnys frinjes to the river to the plays hes coming to love the best of all. He dus not forget the glint of gold. He looks & looks for glints of gold or shifting shadows or moving figurs or watching eyes. He sniffs and sniffs.

The waters low today. Below the drydowt mud and the weeds at this part of the bank thers blak mud thats smooth & wet as water — mud that shines like the watery taybl of Missus Malone. Its mud thats blak but like most blak things it glissens with mor colors that slip across its surfas as the sun sinks down. Thers streeks of blue & red & pink & yello just like in the sky abuv.

Thers the weard traks of birds that look lyk riting that you cud understand if only you new how to read it rite. And the birds ar singin the sounds of the words that they hav rit.

The river eddys flows & wirls. Thers stiks & weeds carryd upon it. Its smooth in some playses & in other places it twists and twists in torment. Far downriver the lites of the sity ar starting to burn. He thinks of the pepl that liv down ther. He think of those from the sity that no of him from ther trips to Missus Malones. He nos that mebbe hes like a person in a dream to them — a fragment of some weard tale — a person they cannot truly beleev in til they tuch and see. And ther like dreams to him as wel. He looks down throu the dark and sees faroff movin misteryos liyts shinin and moovin in the sity. He hears the clankin and roar of enjins and masheens. He thinks he heres voyses carryd on the niyt.

The sky above him darkens darkens.

Cloas by low down he sees the sparkle of little eyes from little beests.

“Hello” he says dead soft. “Its only me.”

He smiles into the dark towards the creechers that he nos are ther the creechers that are friends to him the creechers that are weardly made of the saym stuff as him. Blood & skin & bones & flesh & heart. And he smiles at the shades & shados moovin throu the dark — the shades and shados that he nos mite be the spirits of the dead and that he yerns to be the body of his father watching.

He hears his name.

“Billy! Billy!”

His Mams voys. Its not a yell. Its a kind of intens wisper the wisper shes lernd to make that travels throu Blinkbonny at dusk wen the air is still & carm — the wisper that drifts across the rubbl to seek him owt.

“Billy! Billy Dean!”

He turns his head he lissens. Its so lovely that sweet voys of hers.

“Billy! Billy!”

He shud leev this plays go bak to her and carm her fears.

“Where ar you Billy?”

“Im alrite, Mam,” he ansers in his own strong wisper.

“Its getting dark son. Cum bak home.”

He imajins her standin in the dilapidayted garden with the last layt sunlyt farlin down on her. He sees her clear in his mynd. He thinks of what he sees. If he can imajin that thing so intens that it seems reel, then what dos that meen for all the things arownd him that seem reel?

He turns from the unanserabl wundering and he wispers,

“Im cumin Mam!”

He dusnt move. He wotches the river darken til its dark as the mud at its edj. He lissens to the lovely lappin of the water agenst the bank. He wotches how nite starts taking over evrything & he sees that this chaynj is as byutiful as dawn & he nos that the end of things can be as gorjus as ther starts.

His Mam wispers agen & then agen.

He wispers back that hes OK.

He feels in himself the wish to step into the water to go in very deep as deep as his chest his sholders his hed. He feels in himself the wish to be tayken by its darknes to be carryd away to be ended as the day is ended to discover what is to be found in the darknes of drownin and death. But he nos the pain that it wud bring to the wons that love him.

“Billy Billy!”

“Yes Mam!”

Hes about to turn bak to her when a bird apears a grate wite bird that flotes upon the water. A bird with a long and lovely curvin neck & grate wite wings that ar folded down upon its bak. It moves slowly upon the water befor his eyes. It shines brite in the darkening day. He reaches owt to it but its just beyond his reech.

“Billy! Billy!”

“Swan!” he wispers. “O swan!”

He is lost in its byuty for a moment.

“Billy! Billy!”

Hes agen about to turn when he sees the fase thats lying in the deepe dark mud and looking up at him. He crouches. He reaches down to it. He slides his fingers into the mud. He reaches beneath the fase and clowses his hands arownd it. Then he lifts and a hole head comes up from the mud into the air with a suckin sound like its gaspin for preshus breth. Most of the hed is pitch blak like his hands but a sircl of the fase is pale and the eyes ar brite. He holds it in the flowing water and washes sum of the blak away.

The bird flotes nearby & watches & is sylent & it dips its hed.

“Billy! Billy!”

“Yes Mam!”

He gazes at the swan another moment. Then he turns and hurrys homeward. Does he see a body standing in the trees? Does he see the distant glo of a sigaret burning? Dose he smell the smoak of that black sigaret?

He hesitates he looks he smells he lissens he says its all just triks hes playing on himself.

Then hurrys homeward carrying the hed of Jesus in his hands.

He runs bak home towards her voys into the ruwind garden. Shes standin at the dore. He puts the hed of Jesus in her hands.

“O Billy,” she goes. “O my littl Jesus!”

She carrys the hed to the kitchin & holds it to the liyt.

Hardly a crak in it hardly a chip and the eyes ar jentl and the lips turnd up in the tenderist of smyls.

“See what I ment, Billy! See how speshal & sweet he is! O tell me where you found him.”

He tells her that he found it at the river at that plase of peril.