Raven Summer by David Almond Read Free Book Online Page A
Authors: David Almond
will say it’s beautiful. But he just shakes his head again.
She smiles, goes back inside.
“It
is
weird,” he says. “Stripping off so somebody can take pictures of you that won’t even look like you.”
“Course it’s not,” I say.
“It
is
,” he tells me.
“Just like
I’m
weird?” I ask him.
He shrugs.
“And what’s the
point
of it?” he says.
“Dunno. Mebbe it shows how weird we all are if you look closely enough.”
“I’m not,” he says.
We look at each other and look away.
“It’s easy for
you
,” he says. “You can do what you like. You’ll always be the son of Patrick Lynch.”
“All of us can do what we like.”
“No we can’t. You’re stupid if you think so.”
I run my fingers through my ragged hair. I pick at a scab on my arm till the blood starts running. I use my fingernail to write with the blood. I write on my chest: STUPID . Max watches, shakes his head.
“Sometimes,” he says, “I think you’ll end up
doing
something really stupid.”
I just laugh.
“That’ll be your dad talking, is it?” I say. “I bet he’s saying, ‘Watch that Lynch lad. He’ll go off the rails.’”
Max doesn’t deny it. He stands up and heads off home.
I go into the house, into the kitchen with STUPID still scrawled on me. Dad’s there with a coffee in his hand. He’s staring out into the fields.
He jumps like I’ve woken him up.
“Imprinting!” he says.
“What?”
“There’s this thing called imprinting. You can do it with lots of birds. But the raven’s best of all. You get an egg just before it hatches. You make sure you’re right there when it hatches. You make sure you’re the first living creature the young bird sees. You stay with it. You give it its first food. And it attaches itself to you. It falls in love with you. It thinks you’re its mother, its father. And it’ll be yours forever. It’ll follow you anywhere.”
His eyes are wide and shining.
“So …?” I say.
“So don’t you see? Maybe the raven that took you to the baby had been imprinted. Maybe it was following someone, not leading you at all.”
“Someone? The walker with the red hat, you mean.”
“That’s it! Maybe it was the walker with the red hat that was really leading you.”
I stare at him. Could it be true?
“And yes!” he says. “Yes! Maybe the walker with the red hat was the mother! You said it was maybe a woman. She didn’t want to show you herself where the baby was. She wanted her raven to lead you there and then she ran off!”
Could it be true?
“So where is she now?” I say.
“Dunno.”
“And who’s the father?”
“Dunno. Some barmy Northumbrian farmer. Something like that.”
He stares into space, then at me.
“What’s that?” he suddenly says.
He’s pointing at my chest. I look down at the word in blood.
“Blood,” I say.
“Your blood?”
“Yes.”
“Whole books have been written about it, Liam,” he says. “In the past, lots of old country folk had imprinted ravens of their own.”
I think back to the walk through the village. I see the raven, I see the walker with the red hat. Could it be true?
“It seems like magic, but it’s absolutely natural. It’s like what we’re doing with Alison. We feed her, we look after her. She behaves as if we’re her parents and we behave as if we’re her parents, but we’re not.”
He stares again, like he’s trying to work it all out.
“So are you writing about it?” I say.
He laughs, then he purses his lips.
“Maybe,” he says. “You know I can’t talk about a story I’m in the middle of.”
He punches the air.
“Imprinting!” he says. “It’s so obvious. The woman with the red hat was the mother. The father’s a daft old farmer.” He grins. “What a story!”
Mum comes in as we’re standing there. She has the baby in her arms.
Dad goes up close. He widens his eyes and leans right down over the baby’s face.
“Hello, little lovely,” he says. “I am
She smiles, goes back inside.
“It
is
weird,” he says. “Stripping off so somebody can take pictures of you that won’t even look like you.”
“Course it’s not,” I say.
“It
is
,” he tells me.
“Just like
I’m
weird?” I ask him.
He shrugs.
“And what’s the
point
of it?” he says.
“Dunno. Mebbe it shows how weird we all are if you look closely enough.”
“I’m not,” he says.
We look at each other and look away.
“It’s easy for
you
,” he says. “You can do what you like. You’ll always be the son of Patrick Lynch.”
“All of us can do what we like.”
“No we can’t. You’re stupid if you think so.”
I run my fingers through my ragged hair. I pick at a scab on my arm till the blood starts running. I use my fingernail to write with the blood. I write on my chest: STUPID . Max watches, shakes his head.
“Sometimes,” he says, “I think you’ll end up
doing
something really stupid.”
I just laugh.
“That’ll be your dad talking, is it?” I say. “I bet he’s saying, ‘Watch that Lynch lad. He’ll go off the rails.’”
Max doesn’t deny it. He stands up and heads off home.
I go into the house, into the kitchen with STUPID still scrawled on me. Dad’s there with a coffee in his hand. He’s staring out into the fields.
He jumps like I’ve woken him up.
“Imprinting!” he says.
“What?”
“There’s this thing called imprinting. You can do it with lots of birds. But the raven’s best of all. You get an egg just before it hatches. You make sure you’re right there when it hatches. You make sure you’re the first living creature the young bird sees. You stay with it. You give it its first food. And it attaches itself to you. It falls in love with you. It thinks you’re its mother, its father. And it’ll be yours forever. It’ll follow you anywhere.”
His eyes are wide and shining.
“So …?” I say.
“So don’t you see? Maybe the raven that took you to the baby had been imprinted. Maybe it was following someone, not leading you at all.”
“Someone? The walker with the red hat, you mean.”
“That’s it! Maybe it was the walker with the red hat that was really leading you.”
I stare at him. Could it be true?
“And yes!” he says. “Yes! Maybe the walker with the red hat was the mother! You said it was maybe a woman. She didn’t want to show you herself where the baby was. She wanted her raven to lead you there and then she ran off!”
Could it be true?
“So where is she now?” I say.
“Dunno.”
“And who’s the father?”
“Dunno. Some barmy Northumbrian farmer. Something like that.”
He stares into space, then at me.
“What’s that?” he suddenly says.
He’s pointing at my chest. I look down at the word in blood.
“Blood,” I say.
“Your blood?”
“Yes.”
“Whole books have been written about it, Liam,” he says. “In the past, lots of old country folk had imprinted ravens of their own.”
I think back to the walk through the village. I see the raven, I see the walker with the red hat. Could it be true?
“It seems like magic, but it’s absolutely natural. It’s like what we’re doing with Alison. We feed her, we look after her. She behaves as if we’re her parents and we behave as if we’re her parents, but we’re not.”
He stares again, like he’s trying to work it all out.
“So are you writing about it?” I say.
He laughs, then he purses his lips.
“Maybe,” he says. “You know I can’t talk about a story I’m in the middle of.”
He punches the air.
“Imprinting!” he says. “It’s so obvious. The woman with the red hat was the mother. The father’s a daft old farmer.” He grins. “What a story!”
Mum comes in as we’re standing there. She has the baby in her arms.
Dad goes up close. He widens his eyes and leans right down over the baby’s face.
“Hello, little lovely,” he says. “I am