Friday, 2 August 2013

The Third - 'The Boy Who Listened in at Doors

This was due to be the third in a triptych of experiments after Interment and The Social Diary of a Ghoul but as is wont to happen life intervened and Mikko had to attend to boring things like earning money for food and stuff. It was recently featured on the lovely, fragrant and talented Susi Holliday's blog and I thought I'd put it here.

Hope you like it anyway.

The Boy Who Listened in at Doors.

There are Witches out there, with skull faces .

On windy nights they gather in the tree outside his window and huddle together on branches winter-shorn of leaves. They chatter and laugh, flap their cloaks and watch him with beady black eyes.

All witches, all watching. Laughing black leaves on the cold oak’s boughs.
'They’re just crows,”'says Mother with her half-sad mouth. 'Just crows, my boy, just crows.'

The Boy pulls his curtains together tightly.

not even the mercurial moon

can peek into his room.

Better the dark than peeking Witches,

with skull faces.

Hard, black, leather-skin carapaces

Long dead grimaces.

Grinding and eating and cawing and gnawing.

He has protectors, many and varied.

Can't, doubt the bravery of Flying Fred Ted nor Keemo the duck that Daddy brought him from the hospital.

When Daddy was still here.

Stick thin on the bed.

The bears hate the witches with Skull faces and he hugs his small army close.

He should feel safe.

Witches talk

And squawk

And screech and cackle and yatter and caw-caw the night away.

Outside those thick black curtains that Mummy, with the half-sad mouth, fitted.

'They’re just crows, My boy, just crows,' she had said as she hung the curtains, shoulders slumping, a pale hand covering tearfilled eyes.

When they first visited - black flecks falling out the dusky sky to populate the bare oak - Raggedy capes making excellent wings for those who wish to be something else.  

The same night the Terminal took Daddy went away.

Witches have guile, they know people would spot birds with skull faces straight away.

(Make a fuss.

Call animal protection.

Or the newspapers

Get the T.V. People

Or maybe write a book.)

Witches don’t want that.

So they slip their black pointy hats down over their shiny-leathered skulls.

Hard black beaks

Cover hard black faces.

 'Just crows my boy, just crows. Where do you get these things from, my son?'

Sometimes, the caw-cawing and yattering starts to swirl in his head, stops being squawks and screeches and becomes words.

Always the same.

Taunting, teasing, sneering, squealing, high pitched, rakkety-ratchet old-hag, warty-chinned voices

'Shall we eat the boy tonight? Good and plump he is. Who’d miss the lonely little scrap? Our bellies would be full and his mother not be sad.'

Again they say it. 

Again and again.

Each time more teeth-on-glass voices join the chorus until eventually, in a great taunting, teasing, sneering, squealing, high pitched, rakkety-ratchet old-hag, warty-chinned wail the whole flock of skull-faced, witch-crows takes to the sky.

Raggedy capes flap. Hat mouths croak. A dark spiral rising up and out over the city.

'They’re just crows, my boy, just crows' she says but the tears in her eyes and the tremble of his lip won’t leave.

'Daddy would scare them away.'

'I’m sure he would,' she looks at the floor to hide her tears as she tucks him in. 'There are no monsters, my son. Nothing eats people They’re just crows, my boy, just crows.' Her voice a strangled sob.

He tries to be brave but he knows she lies and pulls the covers over his head and curls up, folding in his fear and pain with ganglion arms.

Monsters are real.

'I'm sorry, Mrs Taylor,' said the doctor. 'There's nothing we can do. It's eating him away.'

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