Chapter 21
WE STOOD IN THE BACKYARD. WHISPER sat beneath us. We picked the bluebottles and webs out of each other’s clothes and hair. Her eyes were burning bright.
“He’s an extraordinary being,” she said.
The breeze blew and the garage creaked.
“We’ll take him out tonight,” she said.
“At dawn,” I said.
“We’ll call each other. We’ll hoot like owls. We’ll make sure we wake.”
We stared into each other.
“An extraordinary being,” she whispered.
She opened her hand and showed me the dark ball of congealed skin and bone she had brought out with her.
“What is it?” I said.
She bit her lip.
“It can’t be what I think it is,” she said. “It can’t be.”
Dad came to the back window. He stood there watching us.
“I’ll go back now,” I said. “I’ll carry on doing the garden.”
“I’ll go back to making the blackbird.”
“I’ll see you at dawn.”
“At dawn. I won’t sleep.”
She squeezed my hand, slipped out through the gate with Whisper at her heels.
I turned back into the yard. I waved at Dad. My heart was thundering. I knelt in the soil, wrenched at the weeds, sent black beetles scattering.
“He won’t die,” I whispered. “He won’t just die.”
Later, Dad came out. We drank orange juice together and sat against the house wall.
He grinned.
“You like Mina, then,” he said.
I shrugged.
“You do,” he said.
“She’s extraordinary,” I said.
Chapter 22
I WAS WITH THE BABY. WE WERE tucked up together in the blackbird’s nest. Her body was covered in feathers and she was soft and warm. The blackbird was on the house roof, flapping its wings, squawking. Dr. MacNabola and Dr. Death were beneath us in the garden. They had a table filled with knives and scissors and saws. Dr. Death had a great syringe in his fist.
“Bring her down!” he yelled. “We’ll make her good as new!”
The baby squeaked and squealed in fright. She stood at the edge of the nest, flapping her wings, trying for the first time to fly. I saw the great bare patches on her skin: She didn’t have enough feathers yet, her wings weren’t strong enough yet. I tried to reach for her but my arms were hard and stiff as stone.
“Go on!” the doctors yelled. They laughed. “Go on, baby! Fly!”
Dr. MacNabola lifted a shining saw.
She teetered on the brink.
Then I heard the hooting of an owl. I opened my eyes. Pale light was glowing at my window. I looked down, saw Mina in the yard with her hands against her face.
Hoot. Hoot hoot hoot.
“I didn’t sleep all night,” I said, once I’d tiptoed out to her. “Then at the very last minute when the night was ending I did.”
“But you’re awake now?” she said.
“Yes.”
“We’re not dreaming this?”
“We’re not dreaming it.”
“We’re not dreaming it together?”
“Even if we were we wouldn’t know.”
The blackbird flew to the garage roof, began its morning song.
“No time to waste,” I said.
We went to the door, stepped inside. We moved swiftly through the furniture. I shined the flashlight on his face.
“You have to come with us,” said Mina.
He sighed, groaned.
“I’m ill,” he said.
He didn’t look at us.
“I’m sick to death,” he said.
We squeezed through the gap between the tea chests and crouched before him.
“You have to come,” she said again.
“I’m weak as a baby,” he said.
“Babies aren’t weak,” she whispered. “Have you seen a baby screaming for its food or struggling to crawl? Have you seen a blackbird chick daring its first flight?”
She put her hand beneath his armpit. She tugged at him.
“Please,” she whispered.
I held him too. I tugged. We felt him beginning to relax, to give himself up to us.
“I’m frightened,” he squeaked.
Mina bent close to him. She kissed his pale cheek.
“Don’t be frightened. We’re taking you to safety.”
His joints creaked as he struggled to rise from the floor. He whimpered in pain. He leaned against us. He tottered and wobbled as he rose. He was taller than us, tall as Dad. We felt how thin he was, how extraordinarily light he was. We had our arms around him. Our fingers touched behind his back. We explored the growths on his shoulder blades. We felt them folded up like arms. We felt their soft coverings. We stared into each other’s eyes and didn’t dare to tell each other what we thought we felt.
“Extraordinary, extraordinary being,” whispered Mina.
“Can you walk?” I said.
He whimpered, squeaked.
“Move slowly,” I said. “Hold on to us.”
I moved backward, between the tea chests. Mina supported him from behind. His feet dragged across the ruined floor. Things scuttled across us. The garage creaked. Dust fell. His breathing was hoarse, uneven. His body shuddered. He whimpered with pain. At the door he closed his eyes, turned his head away from the intensifying light. Then he turned again and faced the daylight. Through narrowed veiny eyes he looked out through the door. Mina and I gazed at his face, so pale and plaster dry. His skin was cracked and crazed. His black hair was a tangle of knots. Dust, cobwebs, bluebottles, spiders, beetles clung to him and fell from him. We saw for the first time that he wasn’t old. He seemed like a young man. Mina whispered it:
“You’re beautiful!”
I peeped out across the backyard toward the house, saw nobody at the window.
“Keep moving.”
