Kit's Wilderness by David Almond Read Free Book Online Page A

be in the dark before it was found again?
    Then English, and Burning Bush wanting to make a fuss about the story again. Maybe we should get some illustrations, she said. Maybe we should make a colored cover for it. She smiled at me. What did I think?
    “Aye,” I muttered. “Anything.”
    She looked at me. “Good,” she said. “Maybe we could talk about it when the lesson’s over.”
    “Yes. Anything,” I said.
    And she talked about Shakespeare and Chaucer while the rain came to an end at last and the clouds began to break and weak beams of sunlight shone on to the sodden wilderness.
    “So,” she said, when the others had gone. “Illustrations. Any idea who we could get to do them for us?”
    I shrugged.
    “John Askew, maybe,” I said.
    She raised her eyes.
    “He’s a talented artist,” she said.
    I nodded.
    “And a friend of yours?”
    I nodded.
    She looked at me.
    “Is everything all right, Kit?”
    “Yes, thanks.”
    I looked out, saw the others gathering at the gate. Allie there, scowling.
    Burning Bush started on about the cover, how it would be great if we scanned an illustration into the computer, put the title above it, my name beneath it, just like a proper book.
    I stood there, let her go on. Outside, Askew and Jax disappeared over the edge of the wilderness.
    “I’ve got to go,” I said.
    “Sorry?”
    “Got to go.”
    “I thought this might be interesting for you.”
    “It is. But . . .”
    She caught my arm as I tried to leave.
    “Christopher. What’s going on with you? What is it, Kit?”
    “Nowt,” I spat. “Bloody nowt.”
    And I shook my head, pulled away, lifted my bag, just left her there, hurried out. Why didn’t I hurry home to Grandpa? Why did I rush to play the game called Death instead? The questions stormed inside me as I stood there at the gate with the others. I saw Burning Bush watching from a window. What you looking at? I wanted to yell at her. What’s it got to do with you? I told myself,
Go home. Go home.
But I stood there sullen and silent with my eyes downcast, held back by the terror of what I might find if I did go home, and driven to the darkness that my grandpa knew, driven to the darkness that I knew I’d find again in the den that day.
    Allie didn’t look at me. We set off across the soaked ground. Great pools of water in the grass. Water vapor rising and drifting white beneath the weak rays of the sun. Cold breeze coming from the river. Clouds low and gray, scudding slowly over the wilderness. Feet splashing, trousers soaked, not a word spoken. The long wet grass. Standing there in silence. Jax’s bark. Askew’s hand. The door drawn back. We go down, into the drenched den. Crouch with feet in the shallow pool that covers the floor. Look across at Allie’s eyes. You, they say. You drive me wild. You’re on your own. Look at my name, Christopher Watson, carved into the wall, into the long list of the dead. Sip the water, smoke the cigarette, watch the spinning knife. Me, not me, me, not me, me, not me . . . I know that it will be me again. The knife stops, pointing at my feet. I take Askew’s hand, kneel in the pool, crouch in the pool, hear Askew’s whispered words, stare into his eyes, feel his touch. This is not a game. You will truly die. This is death. Collapse into the pool. Darkness. Nothing.

 

    T hen the end of it all.
    I’m deep in darkness; then I hear my name, time and again.
    “Kit! Kit! Kit! Kit!”
    Light shines in on me. Hands grip my shoulders, shake me. Water splashes across my face.
    “Kit! Kit! Kit!” I open my eyes.
    Burning Bush crouches at my side. She’s kneeling in the pool, her red hair’s burning in the light that pours down into the den.
    “Kit,” she says, more softly. “Kit.” She strokes my face, puts her hands beneath my shoulders, begins to pull me from the floor.
    Beyond her, all the faces stare down from the edge of the den.
    “What
is
this?” whispers Burning Bush.
    I can’t speak. I see