Copyright©2013NeilGaiman

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1988.

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FirstpublishedasanEbookbyHEADLINEPUBLISHINGGROUPin2013

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TableofContents

TitlePageCopyrightPageAbouttheAuthorPraiseforNeilGaimanAlsobyNeilGaimanAbouttheBookDedicationEpigraphPrologue

ChapterIChapterIIChapterIIIChapterIVChapterVChapterVIChapterVIIChapterVIIIChapterIXChapterXChapterXIChapterXIIChapterXIIIChapterXIVChapterXV

EpilogueAcknowledgements

AbouttheAuthor

NeilGaimanistheauthorofoverthirtyacclaimedbooksandgraphicnovels.Hehasreceivedmanyliteraryhonours.

BornandraisedinEngland,hepresentlylivesinNewEnglandanddreamsofendlesslibraries.

PraiseforNeilGaiman:

‘Averyfineandimaginativewriter’TheSundayTimes

‘Exhilaratingandterrifying’Independent

‘Urbaneandsophisticated’TimeOut

‘Ajaw-droppinglygood,scaryepicpositivelydrenchedinmetaphorsandsymbols…AsGaimanistoliterature,soAntoniGaudiwastoarchitecture’

Midweek

‘NeilGaimanisaverygoodwriterindeed’DailyTelegraph

‘Exuberantlyinventive…apostmodernistpunkFaerieQueen’KirkusReviews

‘Excellent…[Gaimancreates]analternatecitybeneathLondonthatisengaging,detailedandfuntoexplore’WashingtonPost

‘Gaimanis,simplyput,atreasure-houseofstory,andweareluckytohavehim’StephenKing

‘NeilGaiman,awriterofrareperceptionandendlessimagination,haslongbeenanEnglishtreasure;andisnowanAmericantreasureaswell’William

Gibson

‘There’snoonequitelikeNeilGaiman.AmericanGodsisGaimanatthetopofhisgame,original,engrossing,andendlesslyinventive,apicaresquejourneyacrossAmericawherethetravellersareevenstrangerthanthe

roadsideattractions’GeorgeRRMartin

‘Herewehavepoignancy,terror,nobility,magic,sacrifice,wisdom,mystery,heartbreak,andahard-earnedsenseofresolution…arealemotionalrichness

andgrandeurthatemergefrommasterfulstorytelling’PeterStraub

‘AmericanGodsmanagestoreinvent,andtoreassert,theenduringimportanceoffantasticliteratureitselfinthislateageoftheworld.Darkfun,

andnourishingtothesoul’MichaelChabon

‘Immenselyentertaining…combinestheanarchyofDouglasAdamswithaWodehousiangenerosityofspirit’SusannaClarke

AlsobyNeilGaimanandavailablefromHeadline

AmericanGodsStardust

NeverwhereSmokeandMirrors

AnansiBoysFragileThings

AbouttheBook

Itbeganforournarratorfortyyearsagowhenthefamilylodgerstoletheircarandcommittedsuicideinit,stirringupancientpowersbestleftundisturbed.Dark creatures from beyond this world are on the loose, and it will takeeverythingournarratorhasjusttostayalive:thereisprimalhorrorhere,andmenaceunleashed–withinhisfamilyandfromtheforcesthathavegatheredtodestroyit.

His only defence is three women, on a farm at the end of the lane. Theyoungest of them claims that her duckpond is an ocean. The oldest canremembertheBigBang.

TheOceanat theEndof theLane is a fable that reshapesmodern fantasy:moving,terrifyingandelegiac–aspureasadream,asdelicateasabutterfly’swing, as dangerous as a knife in the dark – from storytelling genius NeilGaiman.

ForAmanda,whowantedtoknow

OceanofPDF.com

‘I remembermy own childhood vividly… I knew terrible things. But I knew Imustn’t letadultsknowIknew.Itwouldscarethem.’

MauriceSendak,inconversationwithArtSpiegelman,TheNewYorker,27September

1993

Itwasonlyaduckpond,outatthebackofthefarm.Itwasn’tverybig.LettieHempstocksaiditwasanocean,butIknewthatwassilly.Shesaid

they’dcomehereacrosstheoceanfromtheoldcountry.Hermother said that Lettie didn’t remember properly, and it was a long

timeago,andanyway,theoldcountryhadsunk.OldMrsHempstock,Lettie’sgrandmother,saidtheywerebothwrong,and

thattheplacethathadsunkwasn’tthereallyoldcountry.Shesaidshecouldrememberthereallyoldcountry.Shesaidthereallyoldcountryhadblownup.

Iworeablacksuitandawhiteshirt,ablacktieandblackshoes,allpolishedandshiny:clothes thatnormallywouldmakemefeeluncomfortable,as if Iwere inastolenuniform,orpretending tobeanadult.Today theygavemecomfort,ofakind.Iwaswearingtherightclothesforahardday.Ihaddonemydutyinthemorning,spokenthewordsIwasmeanttospeak,

andImeantthemasIspokethem,andthen,whentheservicewasdone,Igotinmycar and Idrove, randomly,without aplan,with anhouror so tokillbeforeImetmorepeopleIhadnotseenforyearsandshookmorehandsanddranktoomanycupsofteafromthebestchina.IdrovealongwindingSussexcountry roads Ionlyhalf remembered,until I foundmyselfheaded towardsthe town centre, so I turned, randomly, down another road, and took a left,anda right. Itwasonly then that I realisedwhereIwasgoing,whereIhadbeengoingallalong,andIgrimacedatmyownfoolishness.Ihadbeendrivingtowardsahousethathadnotexistedfordecades.I thoughtof turningaround, then,as Idrovedownawide street thathad

oncebeena flint lanebesideabarley field,of turningbackand leaving thepastundisturbed.ButIwascurious.Theoldhouse,theoneIhadlivedinforsevenyears,fromwhenIwasfive

untilIwastwelve,thathousehadbeenknockeddownandwaslostforgood.The new house, the onemy parents had built at the bottom of the garden,betweentheazaleabushesandthegreencircleinthegrasswecalledthefairyring,thathadbeensoldthirtyyearsago.IslowedthecarasIsawthenewhouse.Itwouldalwaysbethenewhouse

inmyhead.Ipulledupinto thedriveway,observingthewaytheyhadbuiltout on themid-seventies architecture. I had forgotten that the bricks of thehouse were chocolate brown. The new people hadmademymother’s tinybalcony into a two-storey sunroom. I staredat thehouse, remembering lessthanIhadexpectedaboutmyteenageyears:nogoodtimes,nobadtimes.I’dlivedinthatplace,forawhile,asateenager.Itdidn’tseemtobeanypartofwhoIwasnow.Ibackedthecaroutoftheirdriveway.It was time, I knew, to drive to my sister’s bustling, cheerful house, all

tidied and stiff for the day. I would talk to people whose existence I had

forgotten years before and theywould askme aboutmymarriage (failed adecade ago, a relationship that had slowly frayed until eventually, as theyalwaysseemto, itbroke)andwhetherIwasseeinganyone(Iwasn’t; IwasnotevensurethatIcould,notyet),andtheywouldaskaboutmychildren(allgrownup,theyhavetheirownlives,theywishtheycouldbeheretoday),andwork(doing fine, thankyou, Iwouldsay,neverknowinghowto talkaboutwhat I do. If I could talk about it, I would not have to do it. I make art,sometimesImaketrueart,andsometimesitfillstheemptyplacesinmylife.Some of them. Not all). We would talk about the departed; we wouldrememberthedead.The little country laneofmychildhoodhadbecomeablack tarmac road

thatservedasabufferbetweentwosprawlinghousingestates.Idrovefurtherdown it, away from the town, which was not the way I should have beentravelling,anditfeltgood.The slick black road became narrower, windier, became the single-lane

track I remembered frommychildhood, becamepacked earth andknobbly,bone-likeflints.SoonIwasdrivingslowly,bumpily,downanarrowlanewithbramblesand

briarrosesoneachside,wherevertheedgewasnotastandofhazelsorawildhedgerow. It felt like I had driven back in time. That lane was how Irememberedit,whennothingelsewas.IdrovepastCarawayFarm.I rememberedbeing justsixteen,andkissing

red-cheeked, fair-haired Callie Anders, who lived there, and whose familywould soonmove to the Shetlands, and I would never kiss her or see heragain.Thennothingbutfieldsoneithersideoftheroad,foralmostamile:atangleofmeadows.Slowlythelanebecameatrack.Itwasreachingitsend.IremembereditbeforeIturnedthecornerandsawit,inallitsdilapidated

red-brickglory:theHempstocks’farmhouse.Ittookmebysurprise,althoughthatwaswherethelanehadalwaysended.

Icouldhavegonenofurther.Iparkedthecaratthesideofthefarmyard.Ihadno plan. I wondered whether, after all these years, there was anyone stillliving there, or,moreprecisely, if theHempstockswere still living there. Itseemed unlikely, but then, from what little I remembered, they had beenunlikelypeople.The stenchof cowmuck struckmeas I got out of the car, and Iwalked

gingerly across the small yard to the front door. I looked for a doorbell, invain, and then I knocked. The door had not been latched properly, and itswunggentlyopenasIrappeditwithmyknuckles.I had been here, hadn’t I, a long time ago? Iwas sure I had.Childhood

memoriesaresometimescoveredandobscuredbeneaththethingsthatcome

later, likechildhood toysforgottenat thebottomofacrammedadultcloset,buttheyareneverlostforgood.Istoodinthehallwayandcalled,‘Hello?Isthereanybodyhere?’Iheardnothing. I smelledbreadbakingandwax furniturepolishandold

wood.My eyes were slow to adjust to the darkness: I peered into it, wasgettingreadytoturnandleavewhenanelderlywomancameoutofthedimhallwayholdingawhiteduster.Sheworehergreyhairlong.Isaid,‘MrsHempstock?’Shetippedherheadtooneside,lookedatme.‘Yes.Idoknowyou,young

man,’shesaid.Iamnotayoungman.Notanylonger.‘Iknowyou,butthingsgetmessywhenyougettomyage.Whoareyou,exactly?’‘I think Imust have been about seven,maybe eight, the last time Iwas

here.’Shesmiledthen.‘YouwereLettie’sfriend?Fromthetopofthelane?’‘Yougavememilk.Itwaswarm,fromthecows.’AndthenIrealisedhow

manyyearshadgoneby,andIsaid,‘No,youdidn’tdothat, thatmusthavebeenyourmotherwhogavemethemilk.I’msorry.’Asweage,webecomeourparents;livelongenoughandweseefacesrepeatintime.IrememberedMrsHempstock,Lettie’smother, asa stoutwoman.Thiswomanwasstick-thin,andshe lookeddelicate.She looked likehermother, like thewomanIhadknownasOldMrsHempstock.SometimeswhenIlookinthemirrorIseemyfather’sface,notmyown,

andIrememberthewayhewouldsmileathimself,inmirrors,beforehewentout.‘Lookinggood,’he’dsaytohisreflection,approvingly.‘Lookinggood.’‘AreyouheretoseeLettie?’MrsHempstockasked.‘Isshehere?’Theideasurprisedme.Shehadgonesomewhere,hadn’tshe?

America?Theoldwomanshookherhead.‘Iwasjustabouttoputthekettleon.Do

youfancyaspotoftea?’Ihesitated.ThenIsaidthat,ifshedidn’tmind,I’dlikeitifshecouldpoint

metowardstheduckpondfirst.‘Duckpond?’IknewLettiehadhadafunnynameforit.Irememberedthat.‘Shecalledit

thesea.Somethinglikethat.’Theoldwomanput theclothdownon thedresser. ‘Can’tdrink thewater

from the sea, can you? Too salty. Like drinking life’s blood. Do youremembertheway?Youcangettoitaroundthesideofthehouse.Justfollowthepath.’Ifyou’daskedmeanhourbefore,Iwouldhavesaidno,Ididnotremember

theway. I donot even think Iwouldhave rememberedLettieHempstock’s

name.Butstandinginthathallway,itwasallcomingbacktome.Memorieswerewaitingattheedgesofthings,beckoningtome.HadyoutoldmethatIwassevenagain,Imighthavehalfbelievedyou,foramoment.‘Thankyou.’Iwalkedintothefarmyard.Iwentpastthechickencoop,pasttheoldbarn

and along the edge of the field, remembering where I was, and what wascoming next, and exulting in the knowledge. Hazels lined the side of themeadow.Ipickedahandfulofthegreennuts,puttheminmypocket.Thepondisnext,Ithought.Ijusthavetogoaroundthisshed,andI’llsee

it.Isawitandfeltoddlyproudofmyself,as if thatoneactofmemoryhad

blownawaysomeofthecobwebsoftheday.ThepondwassmallerthanIremembered.Therewasalittlewoodenshed

on the far side, and, by the path, an ancient, heavywood-and-metal bench.Thepeelingwoodenslatshadbeenpaintedgreenafewyearsago.Isatonthebench, and stared at the reflection of the sky in the water, at the scum ofduckweedat theedges,andthehalf-dozenlilypads.EverynowandagainItossedahazelnutintothemiddleofthepond,thepondthatLettieHempstockhadcalled…Itwasn’tthesea,wasit?She would be older than I am now, Lettie Hempstock. She was only a

handfulofyearsolder thanIwasback then, forallher funny talk.Shewaseleven.Iwas…whatwasI?Itwasafterthebadbirthdayparty.Iknewthat.SoIwouldhavebeenseven.Iwondered ifwehadever fallen in thewater.Had I pushedher into the

duckpond, that strangegirlwho lived in the farmat theverybottomof thelane?Irememberedherbeinginthewater.Perhapsshehadpushedmeintoo.Wheredidshego?America?No,Australia.Thatwasit.Somewherealong

wayaway.Anditwasn’tthesea.Itwastheocean.LettieHempstock’socean.Irememberedthat,and,rememberingthat,Irememberedeverything.

Nobodycametomyseventhbirthdayparty.Therewasatablelaidwithjelliesandtrifles,withapartyhatbesideeach

placeandabirthdaycakewithsevencandlesonitinthecentreofthetable.Thecakehadabookdrawnonit,inicing.Mymother,whohadorganisedtheparty,toldmethattheladyatthebakerysaidthattheyhadneverputabookon a birthday cake before, and that mostly for boys it was footballs orspaceships.Iwastheirfirstbook.Whenitbecameobviousthatnobodywascoming,mymotherlittheseven

candlesonthecake,andIblewthemout.Iateasliceofthecake,asdidmylittle sister and one of her friends (both of them attending the party asobservers,notparticipants),beforetheyfled,giggling,tothegarden.Party games had been prepared bymymother, but because nobodywas

there, not even my sister, none of the party games were played, and Iunwrappedthenewspaperaroundthepass-the-parcelgiftmyself,revealingablueplasticBatmanfigure.Iwassadthatnobodyhadcometomyparty,buthappythatIhadaBatmanfigure,andtherewasabirthdaypresentwaitingtoberead,aboxedsetoftheNarniabooks,whichItookupstairs.Ilayonthebedandlostmyselfinthestories.Ilikedthat.Booksweresaferthanotherpeopleanyway.MyparentshadalsogivenmeaBestofGilbertandSullivanLP,toaddto

thetwothatIalreadyhad.IhadlovedGilbertandSullivansinceIwasthree,whenmy father’s youngest sister,myaunt, tookme to see Iolanthe, a playfilledwith lords and fairies. I found the existence and nature of the fairieseasier to understand than that of the lords.Myaunt haddied soon after, ofpneumonia,inthehospital.That evening, when my father arrived home from work, he brought a

cardboardboxwithhim.Inthecardboardboxwasasoft-hairedblackkittenof uncertain gender,which I immediately named Fluffy, andwhich I lovedutterlyandwholeheartedly.Fluffy sleptonmybedatnight. I talked to it, sometimes,whenmy little

sisterwasnotaround,halfexpectingittoanswerinahumantongue.Itneverdid. I did notmind. The kittenwas affectionate and interested and a goodcompanionforsomeonewhoseseventhbirthdaypartyhadconsistedofatable

with iced biscuits and a blancmange and cake and fifteen empty foldingchairs.I do not remember ever asking any of the other children inmy class at

schoolwhytheyhadnotcometomyparty.Ididnotneedtoaskthem.Theywere notmy friends, after all. Theywere just the people I went to schoolwith.Imadefriendsslowly,whenImadethem.Ihadbooks,andnowIhadmykitten.WewouldbelikeDickWhittington

andhiscat,Iknew,or,ifFluffyprovedparticularlyintelligent,wewouldbethemiller’ssonandPussinBoots.Thekittensleptonmypillow,anditevenwaitedformetocomehomefromschool,sittingonthedrivewayinfrontofmyhouse,bythefence,until,amonthlater, itwasrunoverbythetaxithatbroughttheopalminertostay.Iwasnottherewhenithappened.Igothomefromschoolthatday,andmykittenwasnotwaitingtomeetme.

Inthekitchenwasatall,rangymanwithtannedskinandacheckedshirt.Hewas drinking coffee at the kitchen table, I could smell it. In those days allcoffeewasinstantcoffee,abitterdarkbrownpowderthatcameoutofajar.‘I’mafraidIhadalittleaccidentarrivinghere,’hetoldme,cheerfully.‘But

not to worry.’ His accent was clipped, unfamiliar: it was the first SouthAfricanaccentIhadheard.He,too,hadacardboardboxonthetableinfrontofhim.‘Theblackkitten,washeyours?’heasked.‘It’scalledFluffy,’Isaid.‘Yeah.Like I said.Accident cominghere.Not toworry.Disposedof the

corpse.Don’thavetotroubleyourself.Dealtwiththematter.Openthebox.’‘What?’Hepointedtothebox.‘Openit,’hesaid.The opalminerwas a tallman.Hewore jeans and checked shirts every

timeIsawhim,exceptthelast.Hehadathickchainofpalegoldaroundhisneck.ThatwasgonethelasttimeIsawhim,too.Ididnotwanttoopenhisbox.Iwantedtogooffonmyown.Iwantedto

cry for my kitten, but I could not do that if anyone else was there andwatchingme.Iwantedtomourn.Iwantedtoburymyfriendatthebottomofthegarden,pastthegreen-grassfairyring,intotherhododendronbushcave,backpasttheheapofgrasscuttings,wherenobodyeverwentbutme.Theboxmoved.‘Boughtitforyou,’saidtheman.‘Alwayspaymydebts.’Ireachedout,liftedthetopflapofthebox,wonderingifthiswasajoke,if

mykittenwouldbeinthere.Insteadagingerfacestaredupatmetruculently.

Theopalminertookthecatoutofthebox.Hewasahuge,ginger-stripedtomcat,missinghalfanear.Heglaredatme

angrily.Thiscathadnotlikedbeingputinabox.Hewasnotusedtoboxes.Ireachedouttostrokehishead,feelingunfaithfultothememoryofmykitten,buthepulledback,soIcouldnottouchhim,andhehissedatmethenstalkedofftoafarcorneroftheroom,wherehesatandlookedandhated.‘Thereyougo.Cat foracat,’said theopalminer,andheruffledmyhair

with his leathery hand. Then he went out into the hall, leaving me in thekitchenwiththecatthatwasnotmykitten.Themanputhisheadbackthroughthedoor.‘It’scalledMonster,’hesaid.Itfeltlikeabadjoke.Iproppedopenthekitchendoor,sothecatcouldgetout.ThenIwentupto

mybedroom,andlayonmybedandcriedfordeadFluffy.Whenmyparentsgothomethatevening,Idonotthinkmykittenwasevenmentioned.Monster livedwithus foraweekormore. Iputcat food in thebowl for

himinthemorningandagainatnightasIhadformykitten.HewouldsitbythebackdooruntilI,orsomeoneelse,lethimout.Wesawhiminthegarden,slippingfrombushtobush,orintrees,orintheundergrowth.Wecouldtracehismovementsbythedeadbluetitsandthrusheswewouldfindinthegarden,butwesawhimrarely.ImissedFluffy.Iknewyoucouldnotsimplyreplacesomethingalive,butI

darednotgrumble tomyparentsabout it.Theywouldhavebeenbaffledatmyupset:afterall,ifmykittenhadbeenkilled,ithadalsobeenreplaced.Thedamagehadbeenmadeup.Itallcameback,andevenasitcamebackIknewitwouldnotbeforlong:

allthethingsIremembered,sittingonthegreenbenchbesidethelittlepondthatLettieHempstockhadonceconvincedmewasanocean.

Iwasnothappyasachild,althoughfromtimetotimeIwascontent.IlivedinbooksmorethanIlivedanywhereelse.Ourhousewaslargeandmany-roomed,whichwasgoodwhentheybought

itandmyfatherhadmoney,notgoodlater.My parents calledme into their bedroomone afternoon, very formally. I

thoughtImusthavedonesomethingwrongandwasthereforatelling-off,butno: they toldme only that theywere no longer affluent, thatwewould allneed to make sacrifices, and that what I would be sacrificing was mybedroom,thelittleroomatthetopofthestairs.Iwassad:mybedroomhadatinylittleyellowwashbasintheyhadputinforme,justmysize;theroomwasabovethekitchen,andimmediatelyupthestairsfromthetelevisionroom,soatnightIcouldhearthecomfortingbuzzofadultconversationupthestairs,throughmyhalf-opendoor, and Ididnot feel alone.Also, inmybedroom,nobodymindedifIkeptthehalldoorhalfopen,allowinginenoughlightthatI was not scared of the dark, and, just as important, allowing me to readsecretly,aftermybedtime, inthedimhallwaylight, ifIneededto.Ialwaysneededto.Exiled to my little sister’s huge bedroom, I was not heartbroken. There

werealready threebeds in there,andI took thebedby thewindow.I lovedthatIcouldclimboutofthatbedroomwindowontothelongbrickbalcony,thatIcouldsleepwiththewindowopenandfeelthewindandtherainonmyface.Butweargued,mysisterand I, arguedabouteverything.She liked tosleepwith the door to the hall closed, and the immediate arguments aboutwhether thebedroomdoorshouldbeopenorshutweresummarily resolvedbymymotherwritingachartthathungonthebackofthedoor,showingthatalternatenightsweremineormysister’s.EachnightIwascontentorIwasterrified,dependingonwhetherthedoorwasopenorclosed.My former bedroomat the top of the stairswas let out, and a variety of

peoplepassedthroughit.Iviewedthemallwithsuspicion:theyweresleepinginmybedroom,usingmy littleyellowbasin thatwas just the right size forme.TherehadbeenafatAustrianladywhotoldusshecouldleaveherheadandwalkaround theceiling;anarchitecturalstudent fromNewZealand;an

American couple whom my mother, scandalised, made leave when shediscoveredtheywerenotactuallymarried;andnowtherewastheopalminer.HewasaSouthAfrican,althoughhehadmadehismoneyminingforopals

inAustralia.Hegavemysisterandmeanopaleach,aroughblackrockwithgreen-blue-redfire in it.Mysister likedhimfor this,andtreasuredheropalstone.Icouldnotforgivehimforthedeathofmykitten.Itwasthefirstdayofthespringholidays:threeweeksofnoschool.Iwoke

early, thrilled by the prospect of endless days to fill however I wished. Iwouldread.Iwouldexplore.I pulled onmy shorts, my T-shirt, my sandals. I went downstairs to the

kitchen.Myfatherwascooking,whilemymotherslept in.Hewaswearinghis dressing gown over his pyjamas. He always cooked breakfast onSaturdays.Isaid,‘Dad!Where’smycomic?’HenormallyboughtmeacopyofSMASH!beforehedrovehomefromworkonFridays,andIwouldreaditonSaturdaymornings.‘Inthebackofthecar.Doyouwanttoast?’‘Yes,’Isaid.‘Butnotburnt.’My father did not like toasters. He toasted bread under the grill, and

usually,heburntit.Iwentoutsideintothedrive.Ilookedaround.Iwentbackintothehouse,

pushedthekitchendoor,wentin.Ilikedthekitchendoor.Itswungbothways,inandout,soservantssixtyyearsagowouldbeabletowalkinoroutwiththeirarmsladenwithdishesemptyorfull.‘Dad?Where’sthecar?’‘Inthedrive.’‘Noitisn’t.’‘What?’Thetelephonerang,andmyfatherwentoutintothehall,wherethephone

was,toanswerit.Iheardhimtalkingtosomeone.Thetoastbegantosmokeunderthegrill.Igotuponachairandturnedthegrilloff.‘Thatwas thepolice,’myfathersaid. ‘Someone’sreportedseeingourcar

abandonedatthebottomofthelane.IsaidIhadn’tevenreporteditstolenyet.Right.Wecanheaddownnow,meetthemthere.Toast!’Hepulled thepanout frombeneath thegrill.The toastwassmokingand

blackenedononeside.‘Ismycomicthere?Ordidtheystealit?’‘Idon’tknow.Thepolicedidn’tmentionyourcomic.’My father put peanut butter on the burnt side of each piece of toast,

replacedhisdressinggownwithacoatwornoverhispyjamas,putonapair

ofshoes,andwewalkeddownthelanetogether.Hemunchedhistoastaswewalked.Iheldmytoast,anddidnoteatit.Wehadwalkedforperhapsfiveminutesdownthenarrowlane,whichran

throughfieldsoneachside,whenapolicecarcameupbehindus.Itslowed,andthedrivergreetedmyfatherbyname.Ihidmypieceofburnttoastbehindmybackwhilemyfathertalkedtothe

policeman.Iwishedmyfamilywouldbuynormalslicedwhitebread,thekindthatwentintotoasters,likeeveryotherfamilyIknew.Myfatherhadfoundalocalbaker’sshopwheretheymadethickloavesofheavybrownbread,andhe insisted on buying them. He said they tasted better, which was, to mymind, nonsense. Proper bread was white, and pre-sliced, and tasted likealmostnothing:thatwasthepoint.Thedriverofthepolicecargotout,openedthepassengerdoor,toldmeto

getin.Myfatherrodeupfrontbesidethedriver.The police carwent slowly down the lane.Thewhole lanewas unpaved

back then, just wide enough for one car at a time, a puddly, precipitous,bumpyway,with flints sticking up from it, thewhole thing rutted by farmequipmentandrainandtime.‘Thesekids,’saidthepoliceman.‘Theythinkit’sfunny.Stealacar,driveit

around,abandonit.They’llbelocals.’‘I’mjustgladitwasfoundsofast,’saidmyfather.PastCarawayFarm,where a small girlwith hair so blond itwas almost

white, and red, redcheeks staredatusaswewentpast. Iheldmypieceofburnttoastonmylap.‘Funny themleaving itdownhere, though,’ said thepoliceman. ‘Because

it’salongwalkbacktoanywherefromhere.’WepassedabendinthelaneandsawthewhiteMinioverontheside,in

front of a gate leading into a field, tyres sunk deep in the brownmud.Wedrovepast it,parkedon thegrassverge.Thepoliceman letmeout, and thethreeofuswalkedovertotheMini,whilethepolicemantoldmydadaboutcrimeinthisarea,andwhyitwasobviouslythelocalkidswhohaddoneit,thenmydadwasopeningthepassenger-sidedoorwithhissparekey.Hesaid,‘Someone’sleftsomethingonthebackseat.’Hereachedbackand

pulledawaytheblueblanketthatcoveredthethinginthebackseat,evenasthepolicemanwastellinghimthatheshouldn’tdothat,andIwasstaringatthebackseatbecausethatwaswheremycomicwas,soIsawit.Itwasanit,thethingIwaslookingat,notahim.AlthoughIwasanimaginativechild,pronetonightmares,Ihadpersuaded

myparentstotakemetoMadameTussaudswaxworksinLondon,whenIwassix, because I had wanted to visit the Chamber of Horrors, expecting the

movie-monster Chambers of Horrors I’d read about in my comics. I hadwantedtothrilltowaxworksofDraculaandFrankenstein’sMonsterandtheWolf-man. Instead I was walked through a seemingly endless sequence ofdioramasofunremarkable,glum-lookingmenandwomenwhohadmurderedpeople–usuallylodgers,andmembersoftheirownfamilies–andwhowerethenmurderedintheirturn:byhanging,bytheelectricchair,ingaschambers.Mostofthemweredepictedwiththeirvictimsinawkwardsocialsituations–seated around a dinner table, perhaps, as their poisoned family membersexpired. The plaques that explained who they were also told me that themajorityofthemhadmurderedtheirfamiliesandsoldthebodiestoanatomy.Itwasthenthatthewordanatomygarnereditsownedgeofhorrorforme.Ididnotknowwhatanatomywas.Iknewonlythatanatomymadepeoplekilltheirchildren.Theonly thing thathadkeptmerunningscreamingfromtheChamberof

HorrorsasIwasledarounditwasthatnoneofthewaxworkshadlookedfullyconvincing.Theycouldnot truly lookdead,because theydidnotever lookalive.The thing in the back seat that had been covered by the blue blanket (I

knew that blanket. Itwas theone thathadbeen inmyoldbedroom,on theshelf,forwhenitgotcold)wasnotconvincingeither.Itlookedalittleliketheopalminer,butitwasdressedinablacksuit,withawhiteruffledshirtandablackbow tie. Itshairwas slickedbackandartificially shiny. Its eyeswerestaring.Itslipswerebluish,butitsskinwasveryred.Itlookedlikeaparodyofhealth.Therewasnogoldchainarounditsneck.Icouldsee,underneath it,crumpledandbent,mycopyofSMASH!,with

Batman,lookingjustashedidonthetelevision,onthecover.Idon’trememberwhosaidwhatthen,justthattheymademestandaway

from theMini. I crossed the road, and I stood there onmy ownwhile thepolicemantalkedtomyfatherandwrotethingsdowninanotebook.I stared at theMini.A lengthofgreengardenhose ran from the exhaust

pipe up to the driver’s window. There was thick brown mud all over theexhaust,holdingthehosepipeinplace.Nobodywaswatchingme.Itookabiteofmytoast.Itwasburntandcold.Athome,myfatherateallthemostburntpiecesoftoast.‘Yum!’he’dsay,

and‘Charcoal!Goodforyou!’and‘Burnttoast!Myfavourite!’andhe’deatitallup.WhenIwasmucholder,heconfessed tome thathehadnever likedburnt toast, had only eaten it to prevent it from going to waste, and for afractionofamoment,myentirechildhoodfeltlikealie:itwasasifoneofthepillars of belief that myworld had been built upon had crumbled into drysand.

Thepolicemanspokeintoaradiointhefrontofhiscar.Thenhecrossedtheroadandcameovertome.‘Sorryaboutthis,sonny,’he

said.‘There’sgoingtobeafewmorecarscomingdownthisroadinaminute.Weshouldfindyousomewheretowaitthatyouwon’tbeintheway.Wouldyouliketositinthebackofmycaragain?’Ishookmyhead.Ididn’twanttositthereagain.Somebody,agirl,said,‘Hecancomebackwithmetothefarmhouse.It’s

notrouble.’Shewasmucholderthanme,atleasteleven.Herhairwaswornrelatively

short,foragirl,andhernosewassnub.Shewasfreckled.Sheworearedskirt–girlsdidn’twear jeansmuchback then,not in thoseparts.ShehadasoftSussexaccentandsharpgrey-blueeyes.The girl went, with the policeman, over to my father, and she got

permissiontotakemeaway,andthenIwaswalkingdownthelanewithher.Isaid,‘Thereisadeadmaninourcar.’‘That’s why he came down here,’ she told me. ‘The end of the road.

Nobody’sgoing to findhimandstophimaroundhere, threeo’clock in themorning.Andthemudthereiswetandeasytomould.’‘Doyouthinkhekilledhimself?’‘Yes.Doyoulikemilk?Gran’smilkingBessienow.’I said, ‘Youmean, realmilk from a cow?’ and then felt foolish, but she

nodded,reassuringly.I thoughtabout this.I’dneverhadmilkthatdidn’tcomefromabottle.‘I

thinkI’dlikethat.’We stopped at a small barn where an old woman, much older than my

parents, with long grey hair, like cobwebs, and a thin face, was standingbesideacow.Longblacktubeswereattachedtoeachofthecow’steats.‘Weusedtomilkthembyhand,’shetoldme.‘Butthisiseasier.’Sheshowedmehowthemilkwentfromthecowdowntheblacktubesand

into themachine, through a cooler and into hugemetal churns.The churnswereleftonaheavywoodenplatformoutsidethebarn,wheretheywouldbecollectedeachdaybyalorry.TheoldladygavemeacupofcreamymilkfromBessiethecow,thefresh

milk before it had gone through the cooler. Nothing I had drunk had evertasted like that before: rich andwarm and perfectly happy inmymouth. IrememberedthatmilkafterIhadforgotteneverythingelse.‘There’s more of them up the lane,’ said the old woman, suddenly. ‘All

sorts comingdownwith lights flashing andall.Suchapalaver.You shouldget the boy into the kitchen. He’s hungry, and a cup of milk won’t do agrowingboy.’

Thegirlsaid,‘Haveyoueaten?’‘Justapieceoftoast.Itwasburned.’Shesaid,‘Myname’sLettie.LettieHempstock.ThisisHempstockFarm.

Come on.’ She tookme in through the front door, and into their enormouskitchen,satmedownatahugewoodentable,sostainedandpatternedthatitlookedasiffaceswerestaringupatmefromtheoldwood.‘Wehavebreakfasthereearly,’ shesaid. ‘Milkingstartsat first light.But

there’sporridgeinthesaucepan,andjamtoputinit.’Shegavemeachinabowl filledwithwarmporridge from the stove top,

withalumpofhome-madeblackberryjam,myfavourite,inthemiddleoftheporridge, then she poured cream on it. I swished it aroundwithmy spoonbeforeIateit,swirlingitintoapurplemess,andwasashappyasIhaveeverbeenaboutanything.Ittastedperfect.Astockywomancamein.Herred-brownhairwasstreakedwithgrey,and

cutshort.Shehadapplecheeks,adarkgreenskirtthatwenttoherknees,andwellingtonboots.She said, ‘Thismustbe theboy from the topof the lane.Suchabusinessgoingonwiththatcar.There’llbefiveofthemneedingteasoon.’Lettie filled a huge copper kettle from the tap. She lit a gas hobwith a

matchandputthekettleontheflame.Thenshetookdownfivechippedmugsfrom a cupboard, and hesitated, looking at the woman. The woman said,‘You’reright.Six.Thedoctorwillbeheretoo.’Then the woman pursed her lips and made a tchutch! noise. ‘They’ve

missedthenote,’shesaid.‘Hewroteitsocarefullytoo,foldeditandputitinhisbreastpocket,andtheyhaven’tlookedthereyet.’‘Whatdoesitsay?’askedLettie.‘Readityourself,’saidthewoman.IthoughtshewasLettie’smother.She

seemedlikeshewassomebody’smother.Thenshesaid,‘ItsaysthathetookallthemoneythathisfriendshadgivenhimtosmuggleoutofSouthAfricaandbankfortheminEngland,alongwithallthemoneyhe’dmadeovertheyearsminingforopals,andhewenttothecasinoinBrighton,togamble,butheonlymeanttogamblewithhisownmoney.Andthenheonlymeanttodipintothemoneyhisfriendshadgivenhimuntilhehadmadebackthemoneyhehadlost.‘Andthenhedidn’thaveanything,’saidthewoman,‘andallwasdark.’‘That’snotwhathewrote, though,’saidLettie,squintinghereyes. ‘What

hewrotewas,

“Toallmyfriends,AmsosorryitwasnotlikeImeanttoandhopeyoucanfinditinyourheartstoforgiveme

forIcannotforgivemyself.”’

‘Samething,’saidtheolderwoman.Sheturnedtome.‘I’mLettie’sma,’shesaid. ‘You’ll have met my mother already, in the milking shed. I’m MrsHempstock, but she was Mrs Hempstock before me, so she’s Old MrsHempstock.This isHempstockFarm.It’s theoldestfarmhereabouts.It’s intheDomesdayBook.’Iwonderedwhy theywereall calledHempstock, thosewomen,but Idid

notask,anymorethanIdaredtoaskhowtheyknewaboutthesuicidenoteorwhat theopalminerhad thoughtashedied.Theywereperfectlymatter-of-factaboutit.Lettie said, ‘I nudged him to look in the breast pocket. He’ll think he

thoughtofithimself.’‘There’s a goodgirl,’ saidMrsHempstock. ‘They’ll be in herewhen the

kettleboils to ask if I’ve seenanythingunusual and tohave their tea.Whydon’tyoutaketheboydowntothepond?’‘It’s not apond,’ saidLettie. ‘It’smyocean.’She turned tomeand said,

‘Comeon.’Sheledmeoutofthehousethewaywehadcome.Thedaywasstillgrey.Wewalkedaroundthehouse,downthecowpath.‘Isitarealocean?’Iasked.‘Ohyes,’shesaid.Wecameonitsuddenly:awoodenshed,anoldbench,andbetweenthem,

a duckpond, darkwater spottedwith duckweed and lily pads. Therewas adeadfish,silverasacoin,floatingonitssideonthesurface.‘That’snotgood,’saidLettie.‘Ithoughtyousaiditwasanocean,’Itoldher.‘It’sjustapond,really.’‘Itisanocean,’shesaid.‘WecameacrossitwhenIwasjustababy,from

theoldcountry.’Lettiewentintotheshedandcameoutwithalongbamboopole,withwhat

lookedlikeashrimpingnetontheend.Sheleanedover,carefullypushedthenetbeneaththedeadfish.Shepulleditout.‘ButHempstockFarmis in theDomesdayBook,’ Isaid. ‘Yourmumsaid

so.AndthatwasWilliamtheConqueror.’‘Yes,’saidLettieHempstock.Shetookthedeadfishoutofthenetandexaminedit.Itwasstillsoft,not

stiff, and it flopped in her hand. I had never seen somany colours: itwassilver, yes, but beneath the silverwas blue and green and purple and eachscalewastippedwithblack.‘Whatkindoffishisit?’Iasked.‘This is very odd,’ she said. ‘Imean,mostly fish in this ocean don’t die

anyway.’ She produced a horn-handled pocket knife, although I could not

havetoldyoufromwhere,andshepusheditintothestomachofthefish,andslicedalong,towardsthetail.‘Thisiswhatkilledher,’saidLettie.Shetooksomethingfrominsidethefish.Thensheputit,stillgreasyfrom

thefishguts,intomyhand.Ibentdown,dippeditintothewater,rubbedmyfingersacrossittocleanitoff.Istaredatit.QueenVictoria’sfacestaredbackatme.‘Sixpence?’Isaid.‘Thefishateasixpence?’‘It’s not good, is it?’ said LettieHempstock. Therewas a little sunshine

now: it showed the freckles that clustered across her cheeks and nose, andwherethesunlighttouchedherhair,itwasacopperyred.Andthenshesaid,‘Yourfather’swonderingwhereyouare.Timetobegettingback.’I tried togiveher the little silver sixpence,but sheshookherhead. ‘You

keepit,’shesaid.‘Youcanbuychocolates,orsherbetlemons.’‘Idon’tthinkIcan,’Isaid.‘It’stoosmall.Idon’tknowifshopswilltake

sixpenceslikethesenowadays.’‘Thenput it inyourpiggybank,’ shesaid. ‘Itmightbringyou luck.’She

saidthisdoubtfully,asifshewereuncertainwhatkindofluckitwouldbring.The policemen andmy father and twomen in brown suits and tieswere

standing in the farmhouse kitchen. One of the men told me he was apoliceman, but he wasn’t wearing a uniform, which I thought wasdisappointing: if Iwere a policeman Iwouldwearmy uniformwhenever Icould. The othermanwith a suit and tie I recognised asDr Smithson, ourfamilydoctor.Theywerefinishingtheirtea.My father thankedMrsHempstock andLettie for taking careofme, and

theysaidIwasnotroubleatall,andthatIcouldcomeagain.Thepolicemanwhohaddrivenus down to theMini nowdroveus back to our house, anddroppedusoffattheendofthedrive.‘Probablybestifyoudon’ttalkaboutthistoyoursister,’saidmyfather.Ididn’twant totalkabout it toanybody.Ihadfoundaspecialplace,and

madeanew friend, and lostmycomic, and Iwasholdinganold-fashionedsilversixpencetightlyinmyhand.Isaid,‘Whatmakestheoceandifferenttothesea?’‘Bigger,’saidmyfather.‘Anoceanismuchbiggerthanthesea.Why?’‘Just thinking,’ I said. ‘Could you have an ocean thatwas as small as a

pond?’‘No,’saidmyfather.‘Pondsarepond-sized,lakesarelake-sized.Seasare

seasandoceansareoceans.Atlantic,Pacific,Indian,Arctic.Ithinkthat’salloftheoceansthereare.’

My fatherwent up to his bedroom, to talk tomymumand to be on thephoneupthere.Idroppedthesilversixpenceintomypiggybank.Itwasthekind of china piggy bank fromwhich nothing could be removed.One day,whenitcouldholdnomorecoins,Iwouldbeallowedtobreakit,butitwasfarfromfull.

IneversawthewhiteMiniagain.Twodayslater,onMonday,myfathertookdeliveryofablackRover,withcrackedredleatherseats.Itwasabiggercarthan the Mini had been, but not as comfortable. The smell of old cigarspermeated the leather upholstery, and long drives in the back of theRoveralwaysleftusfeelingcar-sick.TheblackRoverwasnot theonly thing to arriveonMondaymorning. I

alsoreceivedaletter.Iwassevenyearsold,andInevergotletters.Igotcards,onmybirthday,

frommygrandparents,andfromEllenHenderson,mymother’sfriendwhomI did not know.Onmy birthday EllenHenderson,who lived in a caravan,wouldsendmeahandkerchief.Ididnotgetletters.Evenso,Iwouldchecktheposteverydaytoseeiftherewasanythingforme.Andthatmorning,therewas.I opened it, did not understandwhat Iwas looking at, and took it tomy

mother.‘You’vewonthePremiumBonds,’shesaid.‘Whatdoesthatmean?’‘Whenyouwere born–when all of her grandchildrenwere born– your

grandma bought you a PremiumBond.Andwhen the number gets chosen,youcanwinthousandsofpounds.’‘DidIwinthousandsofpounds?’‘No.’Shelookedattheslipofpaper.‘You’vewontwenty-fivepounds.’I was sad not to havewon thousands of pounds (I already knewwhat I

wouldbuywith it. Iwouldbuyaplace togoandbealone, likeaBatcave,withahiddenentrance),butIwasdelightedtobeinpossessionofafortunebeyondmypreviousimaginings.Twenty-fivepounds.Icouldbuyfourlittleblackjack or fruit salad sweets for a penny: they were a farthing each,althoughtherewerenomorefarthings.Twenty-fivepounds,at240penniestothe pound and four sweets to the penny,was…more sweets than I couldeasilyimagine.‘I’ll put it in your Post Office account,’ said my mother, crushing my

dreams.

IdidnothaveanymoresweetsthanIhadhadthatmorning.Evenso,Iwasrich.ThirteenpoundselevenshillingsricherthanIhadbeenmomentsbefore.Ihadneverwonanything,ever.Imadehershowmethepieceofpaperwithmynameonitagain,before

sheputitintoherhandbag.ThatwasMondaymorning.Intheafternoon,theancientMrWollery,who

came in on Monday and Thursday afternoons to do some gardening (MrsWollery,hisequallyancientwife,whoworegaloshes,hugesemi-transparentovershoes,wouldcomeinonWednesdayafternoonsandclean),wasdiggingin the vegetable garden and dug up a bottle filled with pennies andhalfpennies and threepenny bits and even farthings.None of the coinswasdated later than1937, and I spent the afternoonpolishing themwithbrownsauceandvinegar,tomakethemshine.Mymother put the bottle of old coins on the mantelpiece of the dining

room, and said that she expected that a coin collector might pay severalpoundsforthem.Iwenttobedthatnighthappyandexcited.Iwasrich.Buriedtreasurehad

beendiscovered.Theworldwasagoodplace.I don’t remember how the dreams started.But that’s theway of dreams,

isn’t it? Iknowthat Iwas inschool,andhavingabadday,hidingfromthekindsofkidswhohitmeandcalledmenames,but theyfoundmeanyway,deepintherhododendronthicketbehindtheschool,andIknewitmustbeadream(butinthedreamIdidn’tknow;itwasrealanditwastrue)becausemygrandfather was with them, and his friends, old men with grey skin andhackingcoughs.Theyheldsharppencils,thekindthatdrewbloodwhenyouwerejabbedwiththem.Iranfromthem,buttheywerefasterthanIwas,theoldmen,and thebigboys,and in theboys’ toilets,whereIhadhidden inacubicle,theycaughtupwithme.Theyheldmedown,forcedmymouthwideopen.Mygrandfather(butitwasnotmygrandfather;itwasreallyawaxworkof

mygrandfather, intenton sellingme toanatomy)held something sharpandglittering,andhebeganpushingitintomymouthwithhisstubbyfingers.Itwashardandsharpandfamiliar,anditmademegagandchoke.Mymouthfilledwithametallictaste.Theywerelookingatmewithmean,triumphanteyes,allthepeopleinthe

boys’toilets,andItriednottochokeonthethinginmythroat,determinednottogivethemthatsatisfaction.IwokeandIwaschoking.Icouldnotbreathe.Therewassomethinginmythroat,hardandsharpand

stoppingmefrombreathingorfromcryingout.IbegantocoughasIwoke,

tearsstreamingdownmycheeks,noserunning.I pushedmy fingers as deeply as I could intomymouth, desperate and

panickedanddetermined.Ifelttheedgeofsomethinghardwiththetipofmyforefinger, put the middle finger on the other side of it, choking myself,clamping the thing between them, and I pulledwhatever it was out ofmythroat.Igaspedforbreath,andthenIhalfvomitedontomybedsheets,threwupa

cleardrool fleckedwithblood, fromwhere the thinghadcutmy throatas Ihadpulleditout.Ididnot lookat the thing. Itwas tight inmyhand,slimywithmysaliva

andmyphlegm. I did notwant to look at it. I did notwant it to exist, thebridgebetweenmydreamandthewakingworld.I ran down the hallway to the bathroom, at the far end of the house. I

washed my mouth out, drank directly from the cold tap, spat red into thewhitesink.OnlywhenI’ddonethatdidIsitonthesideofthewhitebathtubandopenmyhand.Iwasscared.Butwhatwasinmyhand–whathadbeeninmythroat–wasn’tscary.It

wasacoin:asilvershilling.Iwentbacktothebedroom.Idressedmyself,cleanedthevomitfrommy

sheetsasbestIcouldwithadampfaceflannel.IhopedthatthesheetswoulddrybeforeIhadtosleepinthebedthatnight.ThenIwentdownstairs.Iwantedtotellsomeoneabouttheshilling,butIdidnotknowwhototell.I

knewenoughaboutadultstoknowthatifIdidtellthemwhathadhappened,Iwouldnotbebelieved.Adults rarely seemed tobelievemewhen I told thetruthanyway.Whywouldtheybelievemeaboutsomethingsounlikely?Mysisterwasplayinginthebackgardenwithsomeofherfriends.Sheran

over to me angrily when she saw me. She said, ‘I hate you. I’m tellingMummyandDaddywhentheycomehome.’‘What?’‘Youknow,’shesaid.‘Iknowitwasyou.’‘Whatwasme?’‘Throwingcoinsatme.Atallofus.Fromthebushes.Thatwasjustnasty.’‘ButIdidn’t.’‘Ithurt.’She went back to her friends, and they all glared at me.My throat felt

painfulandragged.Iwalkeddownthedrive.Idon’tknowwhereIwasthinkingofgoing–I

justdidn’twanttobethereanylonger.Lettie Hempstock was standing at the bottom of the drive, beneath the

chestnuttrees.Shelookedasifshehadbeenwaitingforahundredyearsand

couldwaitforanotherhundred.Sheworeawhitedress,butthelightcomingthroughthechestnut’syoungspringleavesstaineditgreen.Isaid,‘Hello.’Shesaid,‘Youwerehavingbaddreams,weren’tyou?’Itooktheshillingoutofmypocketandshowedittoher.‘Iwaschokingon

it,’Itoldher.‘WhenIwokeup.ButIdon’tknowhowitgotintomymouth.Ifsomeone had put it intomymouth, Iwould havewoken up. Itwas just inthere,whenIwoke.’‘Yes,’shesaid.‘MysistersaysIthrewcoinsatthemfromthebushes,butIdidn’t.’‘No,’sheagreed.‘Youdidn’t.’Isaid,‘Lettie?What’shappening?’‘Oh,’shesaid,asif itwasobvious.‘Someone’sjust tryingtogivepeople

money,that’sall.Butit’sdoingitverybadly,andit’sstirringthingsuparoundherethatshouldbeasleep.Andthat’snotgood.’‘Isitsomethingtodowiththemanwhodied?’‘Somethingtodowithhim.Yes.’‘Ishedoingthis?’Sheshookherhead.Thenshesaid,‘Haveyouhadbreakfast?’Ishookmyhead.‘Wellthen,’shesaid.‘Comeon.’Wewalkeddownthelanetogether.Therewereafewhousesdownthelane,

hereandthere,backthen,andshepointedtothemaswewentpast.‘Inthathouse,’ saidLettieHempstock, ‘aman dreamed of being sold and of beingturnedintomoney.Nowhe’sstartedseeingthingsinmirrors.’‘Whatkindsofthings?’‘Himself. But with fingers poking out of his eye sockets. And things

comingoutofhismouth.Likecrabclaws.’I thought about people with crab legs coming out of their mouths, in

mirrors.‘WhydidIfindashillinginmythroat?’‘Hewantedpeopletohavemoney.’‘Theopalminer?Whodiedinthecar?’‘Yes.Sortof.Notexactly.Hestarted thisalloff, like someone lightinga

fuseon a firework.His death lit the touchpaper.The thing that’s explodingrightnow,thatisn’thim.That’ssomebodyelse.Somethingelse.’Sherubbedherfrecklednosewithagrubbyhand.‘A lady’s gone mad in that house,’ she told me, and it would not have

occurredtometodoubther.‘Shehasmoneyinthemattress.Nowshewon’tgetoutofbed,incasesomeonetakesitfromher.’‘Howdoyouknow?’

Sheshrugged.‘Onceyou’vebeenaroundforabit,yougettoknowstuff.’Ikickedastone.‘By“abit”,doyoumean“areallylongtime”?’Shenodded.‘Howoldareyou,really?’Iasked.‘Eleven.’Ithoughtforawhile.ThenIasked,‘Howlonghaveyoubeenelevenfor?’Shesmiledatme.WewalkedpastCarawayFarm.Thefarmers,whomonedayIwouldcome

toknowasCallieAnders’parents,werestandingintheirfarmyard,shoutingateachother.Theystoppedwhentheysawus.Whenwe rounded a bend in the lane, andwere out of sight,Lettie said,

‘Thosepoorpeople.’‘Whyaretheypoorpeople?’‘Becausethey’vebeenhavingmoneyproblems.Andthismorninghehada

dreamwhereshe…shewasdoingbadthings.Toearnmoney.Sohelookedinher handbag and found lots of folded-up ten-shillingnotes.She says shedoesn’tknowwheretheycamefrom,andhedoesn’tbelieveher.Hedoesn’tknowwhattobelieve.’‘Allthefightingandthedreams.It’saboutmoney,isn’tit?’‘I’m not sure,’ said Lettie, and she seemed so grown-up then that I was

almostscaredofher.‘Whatever’shappening,’shesaid,eventually,‘itcanallbesortedout.’She

saw the expression on my face then, worried. Scared even. And she said,‘Afterpancakes.’Lettie cooked us pancakes on a bigmetal griddle, on the kitchen stove.

Theywerepaper thin,andaseachpancakewasdone,Lettiewouldsqueezelemonontoit,andplopablobofplumjamintothecentre,androllittightly,likeacigar.Whentherewereenough,wesatatthekitchentableandwolfedthemdown.Therewasahearthinthatkitchen,andtherewereashesstillsmouldering

in the hearth, from the night before. That kitchen was a friendly place, Ithought.IsaidtoLettie,‘I’mscared.’Shesmiledatme.‘I’llmakesureyou’resafe.Ipromise.I’mnotscared.’Iwasstillscared,butnotasmuch.‘It’sjustscary.’‘IsaidIpromise,’saidLettieHempstock.‘Iwon’tletyoubehurt.’‘Hurt?’ said a high, crackedvoice. ‘Who’s hurt?What’s beenhurt?Why

wouldanybodybehurt?’ItwasoldMrsHempstock,herapronheldbetweenherhands,and in the

hollowof theapronsomanydaffodils that the light reflectedup fromthem

transformedherfacetogold,andthekitchenseemedbathedinyellowlight.Lettiesaid,‘Something’scausingtrouble.It’sgivingpeoplemoney.Intheir

dreams and in real life.’ She showed the old ladymy shilling. ‘My friendfoundhimselfchokingonthisshillingwhenhewokeupthismorning.’OldMrsHempstockputheraprononthekitchentable,rapidlymovedthe

daffodils off the cloth andon to thewood.Then she took the shilling fromLettie.Shesquintedatit,sniffedit,rubbedatit,listenedtoit(orputittoherear,atanyrate),thentoucheditwiththetipofherpurpletongue.‘It’snew,’shesaid,atlast.‘Itsays1912onit,butitdidn’texistyesterday.’Lettiesaid,‘Iknewtherewassomethingfunnyaboutit.’IlookedupatoldMrsHempstock.‘Howdoyouknow?’‘Good question, luvvie. It’s electron decay, mostly. You have to look at

thingscloselytoseetheelectrons.They’rethelittledinkyonesthatlookliketiny smiles. The neutrons are the grey ones that look like frowns. Theelectronswereallabittoosmileyfor1912,sothenIcheckedthesidesofthelettersandtheoldKing’shead,andeverythingwasatadtoocrispandsharp.Evenwheretheywereworn,itwasasifthey’dbeenmadetobeworn.’‘Youmusthaveverygoodeyesight,’Itoldher.Iwasimpressed.Shegave

mebackthecoin.‘Not as good as it oncewas, but then,whenyouget to bemyage, your

eyesightwon’tbeassharpasitoncewas,neither.’Andsheletoutaguffawasifshehadsaidsomethingveryfunny.‘Howoldisthat?’Lettie looked at me, and I was worried that I’d said something rude.

Sometimesadultsdidn’tliketobeaskedtheirages,andsometimestheydid.Inmyexperience,oldpeopledid.Theywereproudoftheirages.MrsWollerywasseventy-seven,andMrWollerywaseighty-nine,andtheylikedtellingushowoldtheywere.Old Mrs Hempstock went over to a cupboard, and took out several

colourful vases. ‘Old enough,’ she said. ‘I remember when the moon wasmade.’‘Hasn’ttherealwaysbeenamoon?’‘Blessyou.Not in the slightest. I remember theday themooncame.We

lookedup in the sky– itwasalldirtybrownandsootygreyhere then,notgreenandblue…’Shehalffilledeachofthevasesatthesink.Thenshetookapairofblackenedkitchenscissors,andsnippedoffthebottomhalf-inchofstemfromeachofthedaffodils.Isaid,‘Areyousureit’snotthatman’sghostdoingthis?Areyousurewe

aren’tbeinghaunted?’

They both laughed then, the girl and the oldwoman, and I felt stupid. Isaid,‘Sorry.’‘Ghostscan’tmakethings,’saidLettie.‘Theyaren’tevengoodatmoving

things.’OldMrsHempstocksaid,‘Goandgetyourmother.She’sdoinglaundry.’

Then,tome,‘Youshallhelpmewiththedaffs.’Ihelpedherput the flowers into thevases,andsheaskedmyopinionon

wheretoputthevasesinthekitchen.WeplacedthemwhereIsuggested,andIfeltwonderfullyimportant.Thedaffodilssatlikepatchesofsunlight,makingthatdarkwoodenkitchen

even more cheerful. The floor was red flagstone. The walls werewhitewashed.Theoldwomangavemealumpofhoneycomb,fromtheHempstocks’own

beehive,onachippedsaucer,andpouredalittlecreamover itfromajug.Iateitwithaspoon,chewingthewaxlikegum,lettingthehoneyflowintomymouth,sweetandstickywithanaftertasteofwildflowers.IwasscrapingthelastofthecreamandhoneyfromthesaucerwhenLettie

andhermothercameintothekitchen.MrsHempstockstillhadbigwellingtonbootson,andshestrodeinasifshewereinanenormoushurry.‘Mother!’shesaid.‘Givingtheboyhoney.You’llrothisteeth.’OldMrsHempstock shrugged. ‘I’ll haveawordwith thewigglers inhis

mouth,’shesaid.‘Getthemtoleavehisteethalone.’‘You can’t just boss bacteria around like that,’ said the younger Mrs

Hempstock.‘Theydon’tlikeit.’‘Stuffandsilliness,’saidtheoldlady.‘Youleavewigglersaloneandthey’ll

becarryingonlikeanything.Showthemwho’sbossandtheycan’tdoenoughforyou.You’vetastedmycheese.’Sheturnedtome.‘I’vewonmedalsformycheese.Medals.BackintheoldKing’sdaytherewerethosewho’drideforaweektobuyaroundofmycheese.TheysaidthattheKinghimselfhaditwithhis bread, and his boys, PrinceDickon and PrinceGeoffrey and even littlePrinceJohn,theysworeitwasthefinestcheesetheyhadevertasted…’‘Gran,’saidLettie,andtheoldladystopped,midflow.Lettie’smother said, ‘You’ll be needing a hazel wand. And,’ she added,

somewhatdoubtfully,‘Isupposeyoucouldtakethelad.It’shiscoin,andit’llbeeasiertocarryifhe’swithyou.Somethingshemade.’‘She?’ said Lettie. She was holding her horn-handled penknife, with the

bladeclosed.‘Tasteslikeashe,’saidLettie’smother.‘Imightbewrong,mind.’‘Don’ttaketheboy,’saidOldMrsHempstock.‘Askingfortrouble,thatis.’Iwasdisappointed.

‘We’llbefine,’saidLettie.‘I’ll takecareofhim.Himandme.It’llbeanadventure.Andhe’llbecompany.Please,Gran?’IlookedupatOldMrsHempstockwithhopeonmyface,andwaited.‘Don’t say I didn’t warn you, if it all goes wobbly,’ said Old Mrs

Hempstock.‘Thankyou,Gran.Iwon’t.AndI’llbecareful.’OldMrsHempstocksniffed.‘Now,don’tdoanythingstupid.Approachit

withcare.Bindit,closeitsways,senditbacktosleep.’‘Iknow,’saidLettie.‘Iknowallthat.Honestly.We’llbefine.’That’swhatshesaid.Butweweren’t.

Lettie ledme toahazel thicketbeside theold road (thehazelcatkinswerehangingheavyinthespring)andbrokeoffabranch.Then,withherknife,asifshehaddoneittenthousandtimesbefore,shestrippeditofbarkandcutitagain so that now it resembled aY. She put the knife away (I did not seewhereitwent)andheldthetwoendsoftheYinherhands.‘I’mnotdowsing,’shetoldme.‘Justusingitasaguide.We’relookingfor

ablue…abluebottle, I think tostartwith.Orsomethingpurply-blue,andshiny.’Ilookedaroundwithher.‘Ican’tseeone.’‘It’llbehere,’sheassuredme.Igazedaround,takinginthegrass,areddish-brownchickenpeckingatthe

side of the driveway, some rusty farmmachinery, the wooden trestle tablebesidetheroadandthesixemptymetalmilkchurnsthatsatuponit.IsawtheHempstocks’ red-brick farmhouse, crouchedandcomfortable likeananimalatrest.Isawthespringflowers;theomnipresentwhiteandyellowdaisies,thegoldendandelionsanddo-you-like-butterbuttercups,and,lateintheseason,alonebluebellintheshadowsbeneaththemilk-churntable,stillglisteningwithdew…‘That?’Iasked.‘You’vegotsharpeyes,’shesaid,approvingly.Wewalkedtogethertothebluebell.Lettieclosedhereyeswhenwereached

it. Shemoved her body back and forth, the hazelwand extended, as if shewerethecentralpointonaclockoracompass,herwandthehands,orientingtowards a midnight or an East that I could not perceive. ‘Black,’ she saidsuddenly,asifsheweredescribingsomethingfromadream.‘Andsoft.’We walked away from the bluebell, along the lane that I imagined,

sometimes,musthavebeenaRomanroad.Wewereahundredyardsupthelane, nearwhere theMinihadbeenparked,when she spotted it: a scrapofblackclothcaughtonthebarbedwireofthefence.Lettie approached it. Again the outstretched hazel stick, again the slow

turningandturning.‘Red,’shesaid,withcertainty.‘Veryred.Thatway.’Wewalked together in thedirection she indicated.Acrossameadowand

intoaclumpof trees.‘There,’Isaid,fascinated.Thecorpseofaverysmall

animal–avole,bythelookofit–layonaclumpofgreenmoss.Ithadnohead,andbrightbloodstaineditsfurandbeadedonthemoss.Itwasveryred.‘Now,fromhereon,’saidLettie,‘holdontomyarm.Don’tletgo.’Iputoutmy righthandand tookher left arm, justbelow theelbow.She

movedthehazelwand.‘Thisway,’shesaid.‘Whatarewelookingfornow?’‘We’re getting closer,’ she said. ‘The next thing we’re looking for is a

storm.’Wepushedourwayintoaclumpoftrees,andthroughtheclumpoftrees

into a wood, and squeezed our way through trees too close together, theirfoliageathickcanopyaboveourheads.Wefoundaclearinginthewood,andwalkedalongtheclearing,inaworldmadegreen.Fromourleftcameamumbleofdistantthunder.‘Storm,’sangLettie.Sheletherbodyswingagain,andI turnedwithher,

holding her arm. I felt, or imagined I felt, a throbbing going through me,holdingherarm,asifIweretouchingmightyengines.Shesetoffinanewdirection.Wecrossedatinystreamtogether.Thenshe

stopped,suddenly,andstumbled,butdidnotfall.‘Arewethere?’Iasked.‘Notthere,’shesaid.‘No.Itknowswe’recoming.Itfeelsus.Anditdoes

notwantustocometoit.’Thehazelwandwaswhippingaroundnowlikeamagnetbeingpushedata

repellingpole.Lettiegrinned.Agust ofwind threw leaves and dirt up into our faces. In the distance I

couldhearsomethingrumble,likeatrain.Itwasgettinghardertosee,andthesky that I couldmakeout above the canopyof leaveswasdark, as if hugestormcloudshadmovedaboveourheads,orasifithadgonefrommorningdirectlytotwilight.Lettie shouted, ‘Get down!’ and she crouched on the moss, pulling me

downwithher.Shelayprone,andI laybesideher,feelingalittlesilly.Thegroundwasdamp.‘Howlongwillwe…?’‘Shush!’Shesoundedalmostangry.Isaidnothing.Something came through thewoods, above our heads. I glanced up, saw

somethingbrownandfurry,butflat,likeahugerug,flappingandcurlingattheedges,andatthefrontoftherug,amouth,filledwithdozensoftinysharpteeth,facingdown.Itflappedandfloatedaboveus,andthenitwasgone.‘Whatwasthat?’Iasked,myheartpoundingsohardinmychestthatIdid

notknowifIwouldbeabletostandagain.

‘Manta wolf,’ said Lettie. ‘We’ve already gone a bit further out than Ithought.’Shegottoherfeetandstaredthewaythefurrythinghadgone.Sheraisedthetipofthehazelwand,andturnedaroundslowly.‘I’mnotgettinganything.’She tossedherhead, toget thehairoutofher

eyes,withoutlettinggooftheforksofthehazelwand.‘Eitherit’shidingorwe’retooclose.’Shebither lip.Thenshesaid,‘Theshilling.Theonefromyourthroat.Bringitout.’Itookitfrommypocketwithmylefthand,offeredittoher.‘No,’shesaid.‘Ican’ttouchit,notrightnow.Putitdownontheforkofthe

stick.’Ididn’taskwhy.Ijustputthesilvershillingdownattheintersectionofthe

Y.Lettiestretchedherarmsout,andturnedveryslowly,withtheendofthestickpointingstraightout. Imovedwithher,but feltnothing.No throbbingengines.Wewereoverhalfwayaroundwhenshestoppedandsaid,‘Look!’I looked in thedirectionshewas facing,but I sawnothingbut trees,and

shadowsinthewood.‘No,look.There.’Sheindicatedwithherhead.Thetipofthehazelwandhadbegunsmoking,softly.Sheturnedalittleto

theleft,alittletotheright,alittlefurthertotherightagain,andthetipofthewandbegantoglowabrightorange.‘That’ssomethingI’venotseenbefore,’saidLettie.‘I’musingthecoinas

anamplifier,butit’sasif—’There was awhoompf! and the end of the stick burst into flame. Lettie

pushed itdown into thedampmoss.Shesaid, ‘Takeyourcoinback,’and Idid,pickingitupcarefully,incaseitwashot,butitwasicycold.Sheleftthehazelwandbehindonthemoss,thecharcoaltipofitstillsmokingirritably.LettiewalkedandIwalkedbesideher.Weheldhandsnow,myrighthand

inherleft.Theairsmelledstrange,likefireworks,andtheworldgrewdarkerwitheverystepwetookintotheforest.‘IsaidI’dkeepyousafe,didn’tI?’saidLettie.‘Yes.’‘IpromisedIwouldn’tletanythinghurtyou.’‘Yes.’She said, ‘Just keep holding my hand. Don’t let go.Whatever happens,

don’tletgo.’Herhandwaswarm,butnotsweaty.Itwasreassuring.‘Holdmy hand,’ she repeated. ‘And don’t do anything unless I tell you.

You’vegotthat?’Isaid,‘Idon’tfeelverysafe.’

Shedidnotargue.Shesaid,‘We’vegonefurtherthanIimagined.FurtherthanIexpected.I’mnotreallysurewhatkindsofthingsliveouthereonthemargins.’Thetreesended,andwewalkedoutintoopencountry.Isaid,‘Arewealongwayfromyourfarm?’‘No.We’re still on the borders of the farm.HempstockFarm stretches a

verylongway.Webroughtalotofthiswithusfromtheoldcountry,whenwecamehere.Thefarmcamewithus,andbroughtthingswithitwhenitcame.Grancallsthemfleas.’Ididnotknowwherewewere,butIcouldnotbelievewewerestillonthe

Hempstocks’land,nomorethanIbelievedwewereintheworldIhadgrownupin.Theskyofthisplacewasthedullorangeofawarninglight;theplants,which were spiky, like huge, ragged aloes, were a dark silvery green, andlookedasiftheyhadbeenbeatenfromgun-metal.Thecoin,inmylefthand,whichhadwarmedtotheheatofmybody,began

tocooldownagain,until itwasascoldasan icecube.MyrighthandheldLettieHempstock’shandastightlyasitcould.Shesaid,‘We’rehere.’IthoughtIwaslookingatabuildingatfirst:thatitwassomekindoftent,

ashighasacountrychurch,madeofgreyandpinkcanvasthatflappedinthegustsofstormwind,inthatorangesky:alopsidedcanvasstructureagedbyweatherandrippedbytime.And then it turned and I saw its face, and I heard something make a

whimpering sound, like a dog that had been kicked, and I realised that thethingthatwaswhimperingwasme.Itsfacewasragged,anditseyesweredeepholesinthefabric.Therewas

nothingbehindit,justagreycanvasmask,hugerthanIcouldhaveimagined,allrippedandtorn,blowinginthegustsofstormwind.Somethingshifted,andtheraggedthinglookeddownatus.LettieHempstocksaid,‘Nameyourself.’Therewasapause.Emptyeyesstareddown.Thenavoiceasfeaturelessas

thewindsaid,‘Iamtheladyofthisplace.Ihavebeenhereforsuchalongtime. Since before the little people sacrificed each other on the rocks.Mynameismyown,child.Notyours.Nowleavemebe,beforeIblowyouallaway.’ It gestured with a limb like a broken mainsail, and I felt myselfshivering.LettieHempstock squeezedmy hand and I felt braver. She said, ‘Asked

youtonameyourself,Idid.Ien’theardmore’nemptyboastsofageandtime.Now,youtellmeyournameandIen’taskingyouathirdtime.’Shesounded

morelikeacountrygirlthansheeverhadbefore.Perhapsitwastheangerinhervoice:herwordscameoutdifferentlywhenshewasangry.‘No,’whisperedthegreything,flatly.‘Littlegirl, littlegirl…who’syour

friend?’Lettie whispered, ‘Don’t say nothing.’ I nodded, pressed my lips tightly

together.‘Iamgrowingtiredofthis,’saidthegreything,withapetulantshakeofits

ragged-clotharms.‘Somethingcametome,andpleadedforloveandhelp.IttoldmehowIcouldmakeall the things like ithappy.That theyaresimplecreatures,andallanyofthemwantismoney,justmoney,andnothingmore.Little tokensofwork. If ithadasked, Iwouldhavegiven themwisdom,orpeace,perfectpeace…’‘None of that,’ saidLettieHempstock. ‘You’ve got nothing to give them

thattheywant.Letthembe.’Thewindgustedandthegargantuanfigureflappedwithit,likehugesails

swinging, andwhen thewindwas done the creature had changed position.Nowitseemedtohavecrouchedlowertotheground,anditwasexamininguslikeanenormouscanvasscientistlookingattwowhitemice.Twoveryscaredwhitemice,holdinghands.Lettie’s hand was sweating, now. She squeezed my hand, whether to

reassuremeorherselfIdidnotknow,andIsqueezedback.The ripped face, the place where the face should have been, twisted. I

thought itwassmiling.Perhaps itwas smiling. I feltas if itwasexaminingme,takingmeapart.Asifitkneweverythingaboutme–thingsIdidnotevenknowaboutmyself.Thegirlholdingmyhandsaid,‘Ifyouen’ttellingmeyourname,I’llbind

youasanameless thing.Andyou’ll stillbebounden, tiedandsealed likeapolterorashuck.’Shewaited,butthethingsaidnothing,andLettieHempstockbegantosay

words in a language I did not know. Sometimes she was talking, andsometimesitwasmorelikesinging,inatonguethatwasnothingIhadeverheard,orwouldeverencounterlaterinlife.Iknewthetune,though.Itwasachild’s song, the tune towhichwe sang thenursery rhyme ‘Girls andBoysComeOuttoPlay’.Thatwasthetune,butherwordswereolderwords.Iwascertainofthat.Andasshesang,thingshappened,beneaththeorangesky.Theearthwrithedandchurnedwithworms,longgreywormsthatpushed

upfromthegroundbeneathourfeet.Somethingcamehurtlingatusfromthecentremassofflappingcanvas.It

wasalittlebiggerthanafootball.Atschool,duringgames,mostlyIdropped

thingsIwasmeant tocatch,orclosedmyhandonthemamomenttoolate,letting them hitme in the face or the stomach. But this thingwas comingstraightatmeandLettieHempstock,andIdidnotthink,Ionlydid.IputbothmyhandsoutandIcaughtthething,aflapping,writhingmassof

cobwebsand rottingcloth.Andas I caught it inmyhands I felt somethinghurtme:astabbingpaininthesoleofmyfoot,momentaryandthengone,asifIhadtroddenuponapin.LettieknockedthethingIwasholdingoutofmyhands,anditfell to the

ground, where it collapsed into itself. She grabbed my right hand, held itfirmlyoncemore.Andthroughallthis,shecontinuedtosing.I have dreamed of that song, of the strangewords to that simple rhyme-

song,andonseveraloccasionsIhaveunderstoodwhatshewassaying,inmydreams. In thosedreamsI spoke that language too, the first language,and Ihad dominion over the nature of all thatwas real. Inmydream, itwas thetongueofwhat is, andanything spoken in itbecomes real,becausenothingsaid in that language can be a lie. It is the most basic building brick ofeverything.InmydreamsIhaveusedthatlanguagetohealthesickandtofly;onceIdreamedIkeptaperfectlittlebedandbreakfastbytheseaside,andtoeveryonewhocametostaywithmeIwouldsay,inthattongue,‘Bewhole,’andtheywouldbecomewhole,notbebrokenpeople,notanylonger,becauseIhadspokenthelanguageofshaping.AndbecauseLettiewasspeakingthelanguageofshaping,evenifIdidnot

understandwhatshewassaying,Iunderstoodwhatwasbeingsaid.Thethingintheclearingwasbeingboundtothatplaceforalways,trapped,forbiddentoexerciseitsinfluenceonanythingbeyonditsowndomain.LettieHempstockfinishedsinging.In my mind, I thought I could hear the creature screaming, protesting,

railing,buttheplacebeneaththatorangeskywasquiet,onlytheflappingofcanvasandtherattleoftwigsinthewindbreakingthesilence.Thewinddieddown.A thousand pieces of torn grey cloth settled on the black earth like dead

things,orlikesomuchabandonedlaundry.Nothingmoved.Lettiesaid,‘Thatshouldholdit.’Shesqueezedmyhand.Ithoughtshewas

trying to sound bright, but she didn’t. She sounded grim. ‘Let’s take youhome.’Wewalked,handinhand, throughawoodofblue-tingedevergreens,and

wecrosseda lacqueredredandyellowbridgeoveranornamentalpond;wewalked along the edgeof a field inwhichyoungcornwas comingup, likegreengrass planted in rows;we climbed awooden stile, hand inhand, andreached another field, planted with what looked like small reeds or furry

snakes, black andwhite and brown and orange and grey and striped, all ofthemwavinggently,curlinganduncurlinginthesun.‘Whatarethey?’Iasked.‘Youcanpulloneupandsee,ifyoulike,’saidLettie.I looked down: the furry tendril bymy feet was perfectly black. I bent,

graspeditatthebase,firmly,withmylefthand,andIpulled.Something came up from the earth, and swung around angrily.My hand

feltlikeadozentinyneedleshadbeensunkintoit.Ibrushedtheearthfromit,andapologised,anditstaredatme,morewithsurpriseandpuzzlementthanwithanger.It jumpedfrommyhandtomyshirt,Istrokedit:akitten,blackandsleek,withapointed,inquisitiveface,awhitespotoveroneear,andeyesofapeculiarlyvividblue-green.‘Atthefarm,wegetourcatsthenormalway,’saidLettie.‘What’sthat?’‘BigOliver.Heturnedupatthefarmbackinpagantimes.Allourfarmcats

tracebacktohim.’Ilookedatthekittenhangingonmyshirtwithtinykittenclaws.‘CanItakeithome?’Iasked.‘It’snotanit.It’sashe.Notagoodidea,takinganythinghomefromthese

parts,’saidLettie.Iputthekittendownattheedgeofthefield.Shedartedoffafterabutterfly,

whichfloatedupandoutofreach,thenscamperedaway,withoutalookback.‘Mykittenwas run over,’ I toldLettie. ‘Itwas only little. Themanwho

diedtoldmeaboutit,althoughhewasn’tdriving.Hesaidtheydidn’tseeit.’‘I’m sorry,’ said Lettie. We were walking beneath a canopy of apple

blossom then, and the world smelled like honey. ‘That’s the trouble withliving things.Don’t last very long.Kittens one day, old cats the next.Andthen justmemories.And thememories fadeandblendandsmudge together…’Sheopenedafive-bargate,andwewentthroughit.Sheletgoofmyhand.

Wewereatthebottomofthelane,nearthewoodenshelfbytheroadwiththebatteredsilvermilkchurnsonit.Theworldsmellednormal.Isaid,‘We’rereallybacknow?’‘Yes,’ saidLettieHempstock. ‘Andwewon’tbe seeinganymore trouble

fromher.’Shepaused. ‘Big,wasn’t she?Andnasty? I’venot seenone likethatbefore.IfI’dknownshewasgoingtobesoold,andsobig,andsonasty,Iwould’veleftyoubehind.’Iwasgladthatshehadtakenmewithher.Thenshesaid, ‘Iwishyouhadn’t letgoofmyhand.But still,you’reall

right,aren’tyou?Nothingwentwrong.Nodamagedone.’

I said, ‘I’m fine. Not to worry. I’m a brave soldier.’ That was what mygrandfatheralwayssaid.ThenIsaid,‘Nodamagedone.’Shesmiledatme,abright,relievedsmile,andIhopedIhadsaidtheright

thing.

Thateveningmysistersatonherbed,brushingherhairoverandover.Shebrusheditahundredtimeseverynight,andcountedeachbrushstroke.Ididnotknowwhy.‘Whatareyoudoing?’sheasked.‘Lookingatmyfoot,’Itoldher.Iwasstaringatthesoleofmyrightfoot.Therewasapinklineacrossthe

centreof the sole, from theballof the foot almost to theheel,where Ihadsteppedonabrokenglassasatoddler.Irememberwakingupinmycot,themorningafterithappened,lookingattheblackstitchesthatheldtheedgesofthecuttogether.Itwasmyearliestmemory.Iwasusedtothepinkscar.Thelittleholebesideit,inthearchofmyfoot,wasnew.Itwaswherethesuddensharppainhadbeen,althoughitdidnothurt.Itwasjustahole.Iproddeditwithmyforefinger,anditseemedtomethatsomethinginside

theholeretreated.Mysisterhadstoppedbrushingherhairandwaswatchingmecuriously.I

gotup,walkedoutofthebedroom,downthecorridor,tothebathroomattheendofthehall.IdonotknowwhyIdidnotaskanadultaboutit.Idonotrememberasking

adultsaboutanything,exceptasa last resort.Thatwas theyear Idugoutawart from my knee with a penknife, discovering how deeply I could cutbeforeithurt,andwhattherootsofawartlookedlike.In thebathroomcupboard,behind themirror,wasapairofstainless-steel

tweezers,thekindwithpointed,sharptips,forpullingoutwoodensplinters,andaboxofstickingplasters.Isatonthemetalsideofthewhitebathtubandexamined the hole inmy foot. It was a simple, small round hole, smooth-edged.Icouldnotseehowdeeplyitwent,becausesomethingwasintheway.Something was blocking it. Something that seemed to retreat as the lighttouchedit.Iheldthetweezers,andIwatched.Nothinghappened.Nothingchanged.Iputtheforefingerofmylefthandoverthehole,gently,blockingthelight.

ThenIputthetipofthetweezersbesidetheholeandIwaited.Icountedtoahundred– inspired,perhaps,bymysister’shairbrushing.ThenIpulledmyfingerawayandstabbedinwiththetweezers.

Icaughttheheadoftheworm,ifthatwaswhatitwas,bythetip,betweenthemetalprongs,andIsqueezedit,andIpulled.Haveyouevertriedtopullawormfromahole?Youknowhowhardthey

can hold on?Theway they use theirwhole bodies to grip the sides of thehole? I pulledperhaps an inchof thisworm–pink andgrey, streaked, likesomethinginfected–outoftheholeinmyfoot,andthenfeltitstop.Icouldfeel it, insidemy flesh,making itself rigid, unpullable. Iwasnot scaredbythis.Itwasobviouslyjustsomethingthathappenedtopeople,likewhentheneighbour’s cat, Misty, had worms. I had a worm in my foot, and I wasremovingtheworm.Itwistedthetweezers,thinking,Isuspect,ofspaghettionafork,winding

thewormaroundthetweezers.Ittriedtopullback,butIturnedit,alittleatatime,untilIcoulddefinitelypullnofurther.Icouldfeel,insideme,thestickyplasticwaythatittriedtoholdon,likea

stripofpuremuscle.Ileanedover,asfarasIcould,reachedoutmylefthandandturnedonthebath’shottap,theonewiththereddotinthecentre,andIlet it run.Thewaterranfor three,fourminutesoutof thetapanddowntheplugholebeforeitbegantosteam.When the water was steaming, I extended my foot and my right arm,

maintainingpressureonthetweezersandontheinchofthecreaturethatIhadwoundoutofmybody.ThenIputtheplacewherethetweezerswereunderthe hot tap. The water splashed my foot, but my soles were barefoot-hardened,andIscarcelyminded.Thewaterthattouchedmyfingersscaldedthem,butIwaspreparedfor theheat.Thewormwasn’t. I felt it flex insideme,tryingtopullbackfromthescaldingwater,felt it loosenitsgripontheinsideofmy foot. I turned the tweezers, triumphantly, likepicking thebestscabintheworld,asthecreaturebegantocomeoutofme,puttinguplessandlessresistance.Ipulledatit,steadily,andasitwentunderthehotwateritslackened,until

it was almost all out of me. But I was too confident, too triumphant, andimpatient,andI tuggedtooquickly, toohard,andthewormcameoff inmyhand.Theendofitthatcameoutofmewasoozingandbroken,asifithadsnappedoff.Still,ifthecreaturehadleftanythinginmyfoot,itwastiny.Iexaminedtheworm.Itwasdarkgreyandlightgrey,streakedwithpink,

andsegmented,likeanormalearthworm.Nowitwasoutofthehotwater,itseemed to be recovering. The body that had been wrapped around thetweezersnowdangled,writhing,hangingfromthehead(wasititshead?HowcouldItell?)whereIhadpinchedit.

Ididnotwanttokillit–Ididnotkillanimals,notifIcouldhelpit–butIhadtogetridofit.Itwasdangerous.Ihadnodoubtofthat.I held the worm above the bath’s plughole, where it wriggled under the

scaldingwater.ThenIletitgo,andwatcheditvanishdownthedrain.Iletthewater run for a while, and I washed off the tweezers. Then I put a smallstickingplasterover thehole in thesoleofmyfoot,andput theplugin thebath,topreventthewormfromclimbingbackuptheopenplughole,beforeIturnedoffthetap.Ididnotknowifitwasdead,butIdidnotthinkyoucamebackfromthedrain.Iput the tweezersbackwhere Ihadgot themfrom,behind thebathroom

mirror,thenIclosedthemirrorandstaredatmyself.Iwondered,as IwonderedsooftenwhenIwas thatage,who Iwas,and

whatexactlywaslookingatthefaceinthemirror.IfthefaceIwaslookingatwasn’t me, and I knew it wasn’t, because I would still be me whateverhappenedtomyface,thenwhatwasme?Andwhatwaswatching?Iwentbacktothebedroom.Itwasmynighttohavethedoortothehallway

open,and Iwaiteduntilmysisterwasasleep,andwouldn’t tellonme,andthen,inthedimlightfromthehall,IreadaSecretSevenmysteryuntilIfellasleep.

Anadmissionaboutmyself:asaverysmallboy,perhapsthreeorfouryearsold,Icouldbeamonster.‘Youwerealittlemomzer,’severalauntstoldme,ondifferentoccasions,onceIhadsafelyreachedadulthoodandmydreadfulinfant deeds could be recalled with wry amusement. But I do not actuallyrememberbeingamonster.Ijustrememberwantingmyownway.Smallchildrenbelievethemselvestobegods,orsomeofthemdo,andthey

canonlybesatisfiedwhentherestoftheworldgoesalongwiththeirwayofseeingthings.ButIwasnolongerasmallboy.Iwasseven.Ihadbeenfearless,butnowI

wassuchafrightenedchild.Theincidentoftheworminmyfootdidnotscareme.Ididnottalkabout

it.Iwondered,though,thenextday,whetherpeopleoftengotfoot-worms,orwhetheritwassomethingthathadonlyeverhappenedtome,intheorange-skyplaceontheedgeoftheHempstocks’farm.I peeled off the plaster on the sole of my foot when I awoke, and was

relieved to see that theholehadbegun tocloseup.Therewasapinkplacewhereithadbeen,likeabloodblister,butnothingmore.Iwentdowntobreakfast.Mymotherlookedhappy.Shesaid,‘Goodnews,

darling.I’vegotajob.TheyneedanoptometristatDicksonsOpticians,andtheywantmetostartthisafternoon.I’llbeworkingfourdaysaweek.’Ididnotmind.Iwouldbefineonmyown.‘AndI’vegotmoregoodnews.Wehavesomeonecomingtolookafteryou

childrenwhileI’maway.HernameisUrsula.She’llbesleepinginyouroldbedroom,atthetopofthestairs.She’llbeasortofhousekeeper.She’llmakesureyouchildrenarefed,andshe’llcleanthehouse–MrsWolleryishavingtroublewithherhip,andshesaysitwillbeafewweeksbeforeshecancomeback.Itwillbesuchaloadoffmymindtohavesomeonehere,ifDaddyandIarebothworking.’‘Youdon’thavethemoney,’Isaid.‘Yousaidyoudidn’thaveanymoney.’‘That’s why I’m taking the optometrist job,’ she said. ‘And Ursula’s

looking after you for room and board. She needs to live locally for a fewmonths.Shephonedthismorning.Herreferencesareexcellent.’

I hoped that shewould be nice.The previous housekeeper,Gertruda, sixmonthsearlier,hadnotbeennice:shehadenjoyedplayingpracticaljokesonmy sister and me, of the apple-pie-bed variety, which left us baffled.Eventuallywehadmarchedoutsidethehousewithplacardssaying‘WehateGertruda’and‘WedonotlikeGertruda’scooking’,andputtinyfrogsinherbed,andshehadgonebacktoSweden.Itookabookandwentoutintothegarden.Itwasawarmspringday,andsunny,andIclimbeduparopeladdertothe

lowestbranchof thebigbeech tree, saton it, and readmybook. Iwasnotscaredof anythingwhen I readmybook: Iwas far away, inancientEgypt,learning about Hathor, and how she had stalked Egypt in the form of alioness, and killed somany people that the sands of Egypt turned red, andhow they had only defeated her by mixing beer and honey and sleepingdraughts,anddyingthisconcoctionred,soshethoughtitwasblood,andshedrankit,andfellasleep.Ra,thefatherofthegods,madeherthegoddessofloveafterthat,sothewoundsshehadinflictedonpeoplewouldnowonlybewoundsoftheheart.Iwonderedwhy thegodshaddone that.Why theyhadn’t justkilledher,

whentheyhadthechance.I liked myths. They weren’t adult stories and they weren’t children’s

stories.Theywerebetterthanthat.Theyjustwere.Adultstoriesnevermadesense,andtheyweresoslowtostart.Theymade

mefeel like thereweresecrets,masonic,mythicsecrets, toadulthood.Whydidn’t adultswant to readaboutNarnia, about secret islands and smugglersanddangerousfairies?Iwasgettinghungry.Iclimbeddownfrommytree,andwenttothebackof

the house, past the laundry room that smelled of laundry soap andmildew,past the little coal andwood shed, past the outside toiletwhere the spidershung andwaited,wooden doors painted garden green. In through the backdoor,alongthehallwayandintothekitchen.MymotherwasintherewithawomanIhadneverseenbefore.WhenIsaw

her, my heart hurt. I mean that literally, not metaphorically: there was amomentarytwingeinmychest,justaflash,andthenitwasgone.Mysisterwassittingatthekitchentable,eatingabowlofcereal.Thewomanwasverypretty.Shehadshortishhoney-blondhair,hugegrey-

blueeyes,andpalelipstick.Sheseemedtall,evenforanadult.‘Darling?This isUrsulaMonkton,’ saidmymother. I saidnothing. I just

staredather.Mymothernudgedme.‘Hello,’Isaid.

‘He’sshy,’saidUrsulaMonkton.‘Iamcertainthatoncehewarmsuptomewe shall be great friends.’ She reached out a hand and patted my sister’smousy-brownhair.Mysistersmiledagap-toothedsmile.‘Ilikeyousomuch,’mysistersaid.Thenshesaid,toourmotherandme,

‘WhenIgrowupIwanttobeUrsulaMonkton.’My mother and Ursula laughed. ‘You little dear,’ said Ursula Monkton.

Thensheturnedtome.‘Andwhataboutus,eh?Arewefriendsaswell?’I just lookedather,allgrown-upandblonde, inhergreyandpinkdress,

andIwasscared.Herdresswasn’tragged.Itwasjustthefashionofthething,Isuppose,the

kind of dress that it was. But when I looked at her, I imagined her dressflapping, in thatwindlesskitchen, flapping like themainsailofa ship,onalonelyocean,underanorangesky.Idon’tknowwhatIsaidinreply,orifIevensaidanything.ButIwentout

ofthatkitchen,althoughIwashungry,withoutevenanapple.I tookmybook into thebackgarden,beneath thebalcony,by the flower

bedunderthetelevision-roomwindow,andIread–forgettingmyhungerinEgyptwithanimal-headedgodswhocuteachotherupandthenrestoredoneanothertolifeagain.Mysistercameoutintothegarden.‘I like her somuch,’ she toldme. ‘She’smy friend.Do youwant to see

what she gaveme?’ She produced a small grey purse, the kindmymotherkeptinherhandbagforhercoins,thatfastenedwithametalbutterflyclip.Itlooked like it was made of leather. I wondered if it was mouse skin. Sheopened the purse, put her fingers into the opening, came out with a largesilvercoin:halfacrown.‘Look!’shesaid.‘LookwhatIgot!’Iwantedahalfacrown.No,IwantedwhatIcouldbuywithhalfacrown–

magictricksandplasticjoketoys,andbooks,and,oh,somanythings.ButIdidnotwantalittlegreypursewithahalfacrowninit.‘Idon’tlikeher,’Itoldmysister.‘That’sonlybecauseIsawherfirst,’saidmysister.‘She’smyfriend.’IdidnotthinkthatUrsulaMonktonwasanybody’sfriend.Iwantedtogo

andwarnLettieHempstockabouther–butwhatcouldIsay?That thenewhousekeeper-nannyworegreyandpink?Thatshelookedatmeoddly?IwishedIhadneverletgoofLettie’shand.UrsulaMonktonwasmyfault,

Iwascertainof it,andIwouldnotbeable togetridofherbyflushingherdownaplughole,orputtingfrogsinherbed.Ishouldhaveleftatthatmoment,shouldhaverunaway,fleddownthelane

themileorsototheHempstocks’farm,butIdidn’t,andthenataxitookmy

mother away to Dicksons Opticians, where she would show people lettersthroughlenses,anddispensethingstohelpthemseemoreclearly,andIwaslefttherewithUrsulaMonkton.Shecameoutintothegardenwithaplateofsandwiches.‘I’ve spoken to your mother,’ she said, a sweet smile beneath the pale

lipstick,‘andwhileI’mhere,youchildrenneedtolimityourtravels.Youcanbeanywhere in thehouseor in thegarden,or Iwillwalkwithyou toyourfriends’,butyoumaynotleavethepropertyandsimplygowandering.’‘Ofcourse,’saidmysister.Ididnotsayanything.Mysisterateapeanutbuttersandwich.Iwasstarving.Iwonderedwhetherthesandwichesweredangerousornot.

Ididnotknow.IwasscaredthatIwouldeatoneanditwouldturnintowormsinmystomach,andthattheywouldwrigglethroughme,colonisingmybody,untiltheyforcedtheirwayoutofmyskin.I went back into the house. I pushed the kitchen door open. Ursula

Monkton was not there. I filled my pockets with fruit, with apples andorangesandhardbrownpears. I took threebananasandstuffed themdownmyjumper,andfledtomylaboratory.Mylaboratory–thatwaswhatIcalledit–wasagreen-paintedshedasfar

awayfromthehouseasyoucouldget,builtupagainstthesideofthehouse’shuge old garage. A fig tree grew beside the shed, although we had nevertastedripefruitfromthetree,onlyseenthehugeleavesandthegreenfruits.IcalleditmylaboratorybecauseIkeptmychemistrysetinthere:thechemistryset, a perennial birthday present, had been banished from the house bymyfather,afterIhadmadesomethinginatesttube.Ihadrandomlymixedthingstogether,andthenheatedthem,untiltheyhaderuptedandturnedblack,withanammoniacstenchthatrefusedtofade.Myfatherhadsaidthathedidnotmind me doing experiments (although neither of us knew what I couldpossibly have been experimenting on. That did notmatter;mymother hadbeengivenchemistrysetsforherbirthday,andseehowwellthathadturnedout),buthedidnotwantthemwithinsmellingrangeofthehouse.Iateabananaandapear,thenhidtherestofthefruitbeneaththewooden

table.Adultsfollowpaths.Childrenexplore.Adultsarecontenttowalkthesame

way,hundredsoftimes,orthousands;perhapsitneveroccurstoadultstostepoff the paths, to creep beneath rhododendrons, to find the spaces betweenfences.Iwasachild,andIknewadozendifferentwaysofgettingoutofourproperty and into the lane,ways thatwould not involvewalking down ourdrive.IdecidedthatIwouldcreepoutofthelaboratoryshed,alongthewall

totheedgeofthelawnandthenintotheborderofazaleasandbaylaurelsthatbordered thegarden there.From the laurels, Iwould slipdown thehill andovertherustingmetalfencethatborderedthelane.Nobodywas looking. I ranand I crept andgot through the laurels, and I

wentdownthehill,pushingthroughthebramblesandthenettlepatchesthathadsprungupsincethelasttimeIwentthatway.UrsulaMonktonwaswaitingformeatthebottomofthehill,justinfront

oftherustingmetalfence.Therewasnowayshecouldhavegottherewithoutmeseeingher,butshewasthere.Shefoldedherarmsandlookedatme,andhergreyandpinkdressflappedinagustofwind.‘IbelieveIsaidthatyouwerenottoleavetheproperty.’‘I’mnot,’Itoldher,withacockinessIknewIdidnotfeel,notevenalittle.

‘I’mstillontheproperty.I’mjustexploring.’‘You’resneakingaround,’shesaid.Isaidnothing.‘Ithinkyoushouldbeinyourbedroom,whereIcankeepaneyeonyou.

It’stimeforyournap.’Iwastoooldfornaps,butIknewthatIwastooyoungtoargue,ortowin

theargumentifIdid.‘Okay,’Isaid.‘Don’tsay“okay”,’shesaid.‘Say“Yes,MissMonkton”.Or“ma’am”.Say

“Yes,ma’am”.’She lookeddownatmewithherblue-grey eyes,whichputme inmindofholes rotted in canvas, andwhichdidnot lookpretty at thatmoment.Isaid,‘Yes,ma’am,’andhatedmyselfforsayingit.Wewalkedtogetherupthehill.‘Yourparentscannolongeraffordthisplace,’saidUrsulaMonkton.‘And

theycan’taffordtokeepitup.Soonenoughthey’llseethatthewaytosolvetheir financial problems is to sell this house and its gardens to propertydevelopers. Then all of this –’ and this was the tangle of brambles, theunkemptworldbehindthelawn–‘willbecomeadozenidenticalhousesandgardens.Andifyouarelucky,you’llgettoliveinone.Andifnot,youwilljustenvythepeoplewhodo.Willyoulikethat?’Ilovedthehouse,andthegarden.Ilovedtheramblingshabbinessofit.I

lovedthatplaceasifitwasapartofme,andperhaps,insomeways,itwas.‘Whoareyou?’Iasked.‘UrsulaMonkton.I’myourhousekeeper.’Isaid,‘Whoareyoureally?Whyareyougivingpeoplemoney?’‘Everybodywantsmoney,’ she said, as if it were self-evident. ‘It makes

themhappy. Itwillmakeyouhappy, ifyou let it.’Wehadcomeoutby the

heap of grass clippings, behind the circle of green grass thatwe called thefairyring:sometimes,whentheweatherwaswet,itfilledwithvividyellowtoadstools.‘Now,’shesaid.‘Gotoyourroom.’I ranfromher– ranas fastas Icould,across thefairy ring,up the lawn,

pasttherosebushes,pastthecoalshedandintothehouse.UrsulaMonkton was standing just inside the back door of the house to

welcomemein,althoughshecouldnothavegotpastme.Iwouldhaveseen.Herhairwasperfect,andherlipstickseemedfreshlyapplied.‘I’vebeeninsideyou,’shesaid.‘Soawordtothewise.Ifyoutellanybody

anything, they won’t believe you. And because I’ve been inside you, I’llknow.AndIcanmakeitsoyouneversayanythingIdon’twantyoutosaytoanybody,noteveragain.’Iwentupstairstothebedroom,andIlayonmybed.Theplaceonthesole

ofmyfootwherethewormhadbeenthrobbedandached,andnowmychesthurt too. I went away in my head, into a book. That was where I wentwheneverreallifewastoohardortooinflexible.Ipulleddownahandfulofmy mother’s old books, from when she was a girl, and I read aboutschoolgirlshavingadventures in the1930sand1940s.Mostly theywereupagainst smugglers or spies or fifth columnists,whatever theywere, and thegirlswerealwaysbraveandtheyalwaysknewexactlywhattodo.IwasnotbraveandIhadnoideawhattodo.Ihadneverfeltsoalone.Iwondered if theHempstockswereon the telephone. It seemedunlikely,

butnot impossible–perhaps ithadbeenMrsHempstockwhohad reportedthe abandoned Mini to the police in the first place. The phone book wasdownstairs,butIknewthenumbertocallDirectoryEnquiries,andIonlyhadtoaskforanybodynamedHempstocklivingatHempstockFarm.Therewasaphoneinmyparents’bedroom.I got off the bed,went to the doorway, looked out.The upstairs hallway

wasempty.Asquickly,asquietlyasIcould,Iwalkedintothebedroomnexttomine.Thewallswerepalepink,myparents’bedcoveredwithabedspreadcoveredinitsturnwithhugeprintedroses.TherewereFrenchwindowstothebalcony that ran along that side of the house. Therewas a cream-colouredtelephone on the cream-and-gilt nightstand beside the bed. I picked it up,heardthedullwhirringnoiseofthedialtone,anddialledDirectoryEnquiries,myfingerpullingtheholesinthedialdown,aone,anine,atwo.Iwaitedfortheoperatortocomeontheline,andtellmethenumberoftheHempstocks’farm.Ihadapencilwithme,andIwasreadytowritethetelephonenumberdowninthebackofabluecloth-boundbookcalledPansySavestheSchool.

The operator did not come on. The dialling tone continued, and over it,UrsulaMonkton’s voice saying, ‘Properly brought-up young people wouldnoteventhinkaboutsneakingofftousethetelephone,wouldthey?’I did not say anything, although I have no doubt she could hear me

breathing. I put the handset down on the cradle, and went back into thebedroomIsharedwithmysister.Isatonmybed,andstaredoutofthewindow.Mybedwaspusheduphardagainstthewalljustbelowthewindow.Iloved

to sleepwith thewindow open.Rainy nightswere the best of all: Iwouldopenthewindowandputmyheadonmypillowandclosemyeyesandfeelthewindonmyfaceandlistentothetreesswayandcreak.Therewouldberaindropsblownontomyface,too,ifIwaslucky,andIwouldimaginethatIwasinmyboatontheoceanandthatitwasswayingwiththeswellofthesea.IdidnotimaginethatIwasapirate,orthatIwasgoinganywhere.Iwasjustonmyboat.Butnowitwasnotraining,anditwasnotnight.AllIcouldseethroughthe

windowweretrees,andclouds,andthedistantpurpleofthehorizon.I had emergency chocolate supplies hidden beneath the large plastic

BatmanfigurineIhadacquiredonmybirthday,andIate them,andasIatethem I thoughtof lettinggoofLettieHempstock’shand tograb theballofrottingcloth,rememberedthestabbingpaininmyfootthathadfollowed.Ibroughtherhere,Ithought,andIknewthatitwastrue.UrsulaMonktonwasn’treal.Shewasacardboardmaskforthethingthat

had travelled insidemeasaworm, thathad flappedandgusted in theopencountryunderthatorangesky.I went back to reading Pansy Saves the School. The secret plans to the

airbase next door to the school were being smuggled out to the enemy byspieswhowereteachersworkingontheschoolvegetableallotment:theplanswereconcealedinsidehollowed-outvegetablemarrows.

‘Greatheavens!’saidInspectorDavidsonofScotlandYard’srenownedSmugglersandSecretSpiesDivision(theSSSD).‘Thatisliterallythelastplacewewouldhavelooked!’‘Weoweyou an apology,Pansy,’ said the stern headmistress,with an uncharacteristically

warmsmile,anda twinkle inhereyes thatmadePansythinkperhapsshehadmisjudgedthewomanallthisterm.‘Youhavesavedthereputationoftheschool!Now,beforeyougettoofullofyourself–aren’ttheresomeFrenchverbsyououghttobeconjugatingforMadame?’

IcouldbehappywithPansy,insomepartofmyhead,evenwhiletherestofmyheadwasfilledwithfear.Iwaitedformyparentstocomehome.Iwouldtellthemwhatwashappening.Iwouldtellthem.Theywouldbelieveme.Atthattimemyfatherworkedinanofficeanhour’sdriveaway.Iwasnot

certainwhathedid.Hehadaverynice,prettysecretary,witha toypoodle,

and whenever she knew we children would be coming in to see him, shewouldbringthepoodleinfromhome,andwewouldplaywithit.Sometimeswewouldpassbuildingsandmyfatherwouldsay,‘That’soneofours.’ButIdidnotcareaboutbuildings,soIneveraskedhowitwasoneofours,orevenwhowewere.Ilayonmybed,readingbookafterbook,untilUrsulaMonktonappeared

inthedoorwayoftheroomandsaid,‘Youcancomedownnow.’Mysisterwaswatchingtelevisiondownstairs, in thetelevisionroom.She

waswatchingaprogrammecalledHOW,apopscience-and-how-things-workshow,which openedwith the hosts inNativeAmerican headdresses saying‘How?’anddoingembarrassingwarwhoops.IwantedtoturnovertotheBBC,butmysisterlookedatmetriumphantly

andsaid,‘UrsulasaysitcanstayonwhateverIwanttowatchandyouaren’tallowedtochangeit.’Isatwithherforaminute,asanoldmanwithamoustacheshowedallthe

childrenofEnglandhowtotiefishingflies.Isaid,‘She’snotnice.’‘Ilikeher.She’spretty.’Mymotherarrivedhomefiveminuteslater,calledhellofromthecorridor

thenwent into thekitchen to seeUrsulaMonkton.She reappeared. ‘DinnerwillbereadyassoonasDaddygetshome.Washyourhands.’Mysisterwentupstairsandwashedherhands.Isaidtomymother,‘Idon’tlikeher.Willyoumakehergoaway?’My mother sighed. ‘It is not going to be Gertruda all over again, dear.

Ursula’saverynicegirl,fromaverygoodfamily.Andshepositivelyadoresthetwoofyou.’Myfathercamehome,anddinnerwasserved.Athickvegetablesoup,then

roastchickenandnewpotatoeswithfrozenpeas.Ilovedallofthethingsonthetable.Ididnoteatanyofit.‘I’mnothungry,’Iexplained.‘I’m not one for telling tales out of school,’ said Ursula Monkton, ‘but

someonehadchocolateonhishandsandfacewhenhecamedownfromhisbedroom.’‘Iwishyouwouldn’teatthatrubbish,’grumbledmyfather.‘It’s justprocessed sugar.And it ruinsyourappetiteandyour teeth,’ said

mymother.I was scared they would force me to eat, but they didn’t. I sat there

hungrily,whileUrsulaMonktonlaughedatallmyfather’sjokes.Itseemedtomethathewasmakingspecialjokes,justforher.

AfterdinnerweallwatchedMission:Impossible. Iusually likedMission:Impossible,butthistimeitmademefeeluneasy,aspeoplekeptpullingtheirfacesofftorevealnewfacesbeneath.Theywerewearingrubbermasks,anditwas always our heroes underneath, but I wondered what would happen ifUrsulaMonktonpulledoffherface,whatwouldbeunderneaththat?Wewenttobed.Itwasmysister’snight,andthebedroomdoorwasclosed.

Imissedthelightinthehall.Ilayinbedwiththewindowopen,wideawake,listening to the noises an old housemakes at the end of a long day, and IwishedashardasIcould,hopingmywishescouldbecomereal.IwishedthatmyparentswouldsendUrsulaMonktonaway,andthenIwouldgodowntotheHempstocks’farm,andtellLettiewhatIhaddone,andshewouldforgiveme,andmakeeverythingallright.Icouldnotsleep.Mysisterwasalreadyasleep.Sheseemedabletogoto

sleepwhenevershewantedto,askillIenviedanddidnothave.Ileftmybedroom.I loitered at the top of the stairs, listening to the noise of the television

comingfromdownstairs.ThenIcreptbarefoot-silentdownthestairsandsaton the thirdstepfromthebottom.Thedoor to the televisionroomwashalfopen,andifIwentdownanotherstep,whoeverwaswatchingthetelevisionwouldbeabletoseeme.SoIwaitedthere.I could hear the television voices punctuated by staccato bursts of TV

laughter.Andthen,overthetelevisionvoices,adultstalking.UrsulaMonktonsaid,‘So,isyourwifeawayeveryevening?’Myfather’svoice.‘No.She’sgonethiseveningtoorganisetomorrow.But

from tomorrow it will be weekly. She’s raising money for Africa, in thevillagehall.Fordrillingwells,andIbelieveforcontraception.’‘Well,’saidUrsula,‘Ialreadyknowallaboutthat.’She laughed, ahigh, tinkling laugh,which sounded friendlyand trueand

real,andhadnoflappingragsinit.Thenshesaid,‘Littlepitchers…’andamoment later the door opened the whole way, and Ursula Monkton waslookingstraightatme.Shehadredonehermake-up,herpalelipstickandherbigeyelashes.‘Gotobed,’shesaid.‘Now.’‘I want to talk to my dad,’ I said, without hope. She said nothing, just

smiled,withnowarmthinit,andnolove,andIwentbackupthestairs,andclimbed intomy bed, and lay in the darkened bedroom until I gave up onsleeping,andthensleepenvelopedmewhenIwasnotexpectingit,andIsleptwithoutcomfort.

Thenextdaywasbad.MyparentshadbothleftthehousebeforeIwoke.It had turned cold, and the sky was a bleak and charmless grey. I went

throughmyparents’bedroomtothebalconythatranalongthelengthoftheirbedroom andmy sister’s andmine, and I stood on the long balcony and IprayedtotheskythatUrsulaMonktonwouldhavetiredofthisgame,andthatIwouldnotseeheragain.UrsulaMonktonwaswaitingformeatthebottomofthestairswhenIwent

down.‘Same rules as yesterday, little pitcher,’ she said. ‘You can’t leave the

property.Ifyoutry, Iwill lockyouinyourbedroomfor therestof theday,and when your parents come home I will tell them you did somethingdisgusting.’‘Theywon’tbelieveyou.’Shesmiledsweetly.‘Areyousure?IfItellthemyoupulledoutyourlittle

willy and widdled all over the kitchen floor, and I had to mop it up anddisinfectit?Ithinkthey’llbelieveme.I’llbeveryconvincing.’Iwentoutofthehouseanddowntomylaboratory.IateallthefruitthatI

hadhiddentherethedaybefore.IreadSandieSeesitThrough,anotherofmymother’s books. Sandie was a plucky but poor schoolgirl who wasaccidentallysenttoaposhschool,whereeverybodyhatedher.Intheendsheexposed the geography teacher as an InternationalBolshevik,who had tiedtherealgeographyteacherup.Theclimaxwasintheschoolassembly,whenSandiebravelygotupandmadeaspeechwhichbegan,‘IknowIshouldnothavebeensenthere.Itwasonlyanerrorinpaperworkthatsentmehereandsent Sandy spelled with a Y to the town grammar school. But I thankProvidencethatIcamehere.BecauseMissStreeblingisnotwhomsheclaimstobe.’IntheendSandiewasembracedbythepeoplewhohadhatedher.Myfathercamehomeearlyfromwork–earlierthanIrememberedseeing

himhomeinyears.Iwantedtotalktohim,buthewasneveralone.Iwatchedthemfromthebranchofmybeechtree.

FirstheshowedUrsulaMonktonaroundthegardens,proudlypointingoutthe rose bushes and the blackcurrant bushes and the cherry trees and theazaleasas ifhehadhadsomethingtodowiththem,as if theyhadnotbeenputinplaceandtendedbyMrWolleryforfiftyyearsbeforewehadboughtthehouse.She laughed at all his jokes. I could not hearwhat hewas saying, but I

couldseethecrookedsmilehehadwhenheknewhewassayingsomethingfunny.Shewasstanding tooclose tohim.Sometimeshewouldresthishandon

hershoulder,inafriendlysortofway.Itworriedmethathewasstandingsoclose toher.Hedidn’tknowwhat shewas.Shewasamonster, andhe justthought she was a normal person, and he was being nice to her. She waswearingdifferentclothes today:agreyskirt,of thekind theycalledamidi,andapinkblouse.On any other day, if I had seen my father walking around the garden I

wouldhaverunovertohim.Butnotthatday.Iwasscaredthathewouldbeangry,orthatUrsulaMonktonwouldsaysomethingtomakehimangrywithme.Iwas terrified of himwhen hewas angry.His face (angular and usually

affable)wouldgrowred,andhewouldshout,shoutso loudlyandfuriouslythatitwould,literally,paralyseme.Iwouldnotbeabletothink.Heneverhitme.Hedidnotbelieve inhitting.Hewould tellushowhis

fatherhadhithim,howhismotherhadchasedhimwithabroom,howhewasbetter than that. When he got angry enough to shout at me, he wouldoccasionallyremindmethathedidnothitme,asiftomakemegrateful.Inthe school stories I read, misbehaviour often resulted in a caning, or theslipper,andthenwasforgivenanddone,andIwouldsometimesenvythosefictionalchildrenthecleannessoftheirlives.IdidnotwanttoapproachUrsulaMonkton:Ididnotwanttoriskmaking

myfatherangrywithme.Iwondered if thiswouldbeagood time to tryand leave theproperty, to

headdownthelane,butIwascertainthatifIdid,Iwouldlookuptoseemyfather’sangryfacebesideUrsulaMonkton’s,allprettyandsmug.SoIsimplywatched themfromthehugebranchof thebeech tree.When

theywalkedoutofsight,behindtheazaleabushes,Iclambereddowntheropeladder,wentup into thehouse,up to thebalcony,andIwatched themfromthere. Itwas agreyday,but therewerebutter-yellowdaffodils everywhere,andnarcissi in profusion,with their pale outer petals and their dark orangetrumpets.My father picked a handful of narcissi and gave them to UrsulaMonkton,wholaughed,andsaidsomething,thenmadeacurtsey.Hebowed

in return, and said something thatmade her laugh. I thought hemust haveproclaimedhimselfherKnightinShiningArmour,orsomethinglikethat.Iwantedtoshoutdowntohim,towarnhimthathewasgivingflowerstoa

monster,butIdidnot.Ijuststoodonthebalconyandwatched,andtheydidnotlookupandtheydidnotseeme.MybookofGreekmythshadtoldmethatthenarcissiwerenamedaftera

beautifulyoungman,solovelythathehadfalleninlovewithhimself.Hesawhisreflectioninapoolofwater,andwouldnotleaveit,andeventuallydied,sothatthegodswereforcedtotransformhimintoaflower.Inmymind,whenI read this, Iknewthatanarcissusmustbe themostbeautiful flower in theworld. Iwas disappointedwhen I learned that itwas just a less impressivedaffodil.Mysistercameoutofthehouseandwentovertothem.Myfatherpicked

herup.Theyallwalkedinsidetogether,myfatherwithmysisterholdingonto his neck, and Ursula Monkton, her arms filled with yellow and whiteflowers. I watched them. I watched as my father’s free hand, the one notholding my sister, went down and rested, casually, proprietorially, on theswellofUrsulaMonkton’smidi-skirtedbottom.Iwouldreactdifferentlytothatnow.Atthetime,IdonotbelieveIthought

anythingofitatall.Iwasseven.Iclimbedupintomybedroomwindow,easytoreachfromthebalcony,and

down on to my bed, where I read a book about a girl who stayed in theChannel Islands and defied the Nazis because she would not abandon herpony.AndwhileIread,Ithought,UrsulaMonktoncannotkeepmehereforever.

Soonenough–inafewdaysatthemost–someonewilltakemeintotown,orawayfromhere,andthenIwillgotothefarmatthebottomofthelane,andIwilltellLettieHempstockwhatIdid.ThenIthought,supposeUrsulaMonktononlyneedsacoupleofdays.And

thatscaredme.UrsulaMonktonmademeatloaffordinnerthatevening,andIwouldnoteat

it.Iwasdeterminednottoeatanythingshehadmadeorcookedortouched.Myfatherwasnotamused.‘ButIdon’twantit,’Itoldhim.‘I’mnothungry.’It was Wednesday, and my mother was attending her meeting, to raise

money so that people in Africa who needed water could drill wells. Themeetingwas in the village hall of the next village down the road. She hadpostersthatsheputup,diagramsofwells,andphotographsofsmilingpeople.Atthedinnertableweremysister,myfather,UrsulaMonkton,andme.

‘It’sgood,it’sgoodforyou,andit’stasty,’saidmyfather.‘Andwedonotwastefoodinthishouse.’‘IsaidIwasn’thungry.’Ihadlied.Iwassohungryithurt.‘Then just try a little nibble,’ he said. ‘It’s your favourite.Meatloaf and

mashedpotatoesandgravy.Youlovethem.’Therewasachildren’stableinthekitchen,whereweatewhenmyparents

hadfriendsover,orwouldbeeatinglate.Butthatnightwewereattheadulttable. Ipreferred thechildren’s table. I felt invisible there.Nobodywatchedmeeat.UrsulaMonktonsatnexttomyfatherandstaredatme,withatinysmileat

thecornerofherlips.IknewIshouldshutup,besilent,besullen.ButIcouldn’thelpmyself.I

hadtotellmyfatherwhyIdidnotwanttoeat.‘Iwon’teatanythingshemade,’Itoldhim.‘Idon’tlikeher.’‘You will eat your food,’ said my father. ‘You will at least try it. And

apologisetoMissMonkton.’‘Iwon’t.’‘Hedoesn’thaveto,’saidUrsulaMonktonsympathetically,andshelooked

atme,andshesmiled.Idonotthinkthateitheroftheothertwopeopleatthetablenoticed that shewassmiling,or that therewasnothingsympathetic inherexpression,orhersmile,orherrotting-clotheyes.‘I’mafraidhedoes,’saidmyfather.Hisvoicewasjustalittlelouder,and

his facewas just a little redder. ‘Iwon’t have him cheeking you like that.’Then,tome,‘Givemeonegoodreason,justone,whyyouwon’tapologise,andwhyyouwon’teatthelovelyfoodthatUrsulahaspreparedforus.’Ididnotliewell.Itoldhim.‘Becauseshe’snothuman,’Isaid.‘She’samonster.She’sa…’Whathad

theHempstockscalledherkindofthing?‘She’saflea.’Myfather’scheekswereburningrednow,andhislipswerethin.Hesaid,

‘Outside.Intothehall.Thisminute.’Myheartsankinsideme.Iclimbeddownfrommystoolandfollowedhim

outintothecorridor.Itwasdarkinthehallway:theonlylightcamefromthekitchen,asheetofclearglassabove thedoor.He lookeddownatme. ‘Youwillgobackintothekitchen.YouwillapologisetoMissMonkton.Youwillfinish your plate of food, then, quietly and politely, you will go straightupstairstobed.’‘No,’Itoldhim.‘Iwon’t.’I bolted, ran down the hallway, round the corner, and I pounded up the

stairs.Myfather,Ihadnodoubt,wouldcomeafterme.Hewastwicemysize,

andfast,butIdidnothavetokeepgoingforlong.TherewasonlyoneroominthathousethatIcouldlock,anditwastherethatIwasheaded,leftatthetopofthestairsandalongthehalltotheend.Ireachedthebathroomaheadofmyfather.Islammedthedoor,andIpushedthelittlesilverboltclosed.He had not chased me. Perhaps he thought it was beneath his dignity,

chasingachild.ButinafewmomentsIheardhisfistslam,andthenhisvoicesaying,‘Openthisdoor.’Ididn’t sayanything. I saton theplush toilet seatcoverand Ihatedhim

almostasmuchasIhatedUrsulaMonkton.Thedoorbangedagain,harderthis time.‘Ifyoudon’topenthisdoor,’he

said,loudenoughtomakesureIhearditthroughthewood,‘I’mbreakingitdown.’Could he do that? I didn’t know. The door was locked. Locked doors

stoppedpeoplecomingin.Alockeddoormeant thatyouwere in there,andwhenpeoplewanted tocome into thebathroom theywould jiggle thedoor,anditwouldn’topen,andtheywouldsay,‘Sorry!’orshout,‘Areyougoingtobelong?’and—Thedoorexplodedinward.Thelittlesilverbolthungofftheframe,allbent

andbroken,andmyfatherstoodinthedoorway,fillingit,hiseyeshugeandwhite,hischeeksburningwithfury.Hesaid,‘Right.’Thatwasallhesaid,buthishandheldmyleftupperarminagripIcould

neverhavebroken.Iwonderedwhathewoulddonow.Wouldhe,finally,hitme,orsendmetomyroom,orshoutatmesoloudlythatIwouldwishIweredead?Hedidnoneofthosethings.Hepulledmeovertothebathtub.Heleanedover,pushedthewhiterubber

plug into the plughole. Then he turned on the cold tap.Water gushed out,splashingthewhiteenamel,then,steadilyandslowly,itfilledthebath.Thewaterrannoisily.Myfatherturnedtotheopendoor.‘Icandealwiththis,’hesaidtoUrsula

Monkton.She stood in the doorway, holding my sister’s hand, and she looked

concernedandgentle,buttherewastriumphinhereyes.‘Closethedoor,’saidmyfather.Mysisterstartedwhimpering,butUrsula

Monktonclosedthedoor,asbestshecould,foroneofthehingesdidnotfitproperly,andthebrokenboltstoppedthedoorshuttingalltheway.Itwasjustmeandmyfather.Hischeekshadgonefromredtowhite,and

hislipswerepressedtogether,andIdidnotknowwhathewasgoingtodo,orwhyhewasrunningabath,butIwasscared,soscared.

‘I’llapologise,’Itoldhim.‘I’llsaysorry.Ididn’tmeanwhatIsaid.She’snotamonster.She’s…she’spretty.’Hedidn’t sayanything in response.Thebathwas full, andhe turned the

coldtapoff.Then,swiftly,hepickedmeup.Heputhishugehandsundermyarmpits,

swungmeupwithease,soIfeltlikeIweighednothingatall.I lookedathim,at theintentexpressiononhisface.Hehadtakenoffhis

jacket before he came upstairs. He was wearing a light blue shirt and amaroonpaisleytie.Hepulledoffhiswatchonitsexpandablestrap,droppeditontothewindowledge.ThenIrealisedwhathewasgoingtodo,andIkickedout,andIflailedat

him, neither ofwhich action had any effect of any kind as he plungedmedownintothecoldwater.I was horrified, but it was initially the horror of something happening

againsttheestablishedorderofthings.Iwasfullydressed.Thatwaswrong.Ihadmysandalson.Thatwaswrong.Thebathwaterwascold,socoldandsowrong.ThatwaswhatIthought,initially,ashepushedmeintothewater,andthen he pushed further, pushing my head and shoulders beneath the chillywater,andthehorrorchangeditsnature.Ithought,I’mgoingtodie.And,thinkingthat,Iwasdeterminedtolive.I flailedwithmyhands, trying to findsomething toholdon to,but there

wasnothingtograb,onlytheslipperysidesofthebathI’dbathedinforthelast twoyears. (I had readmanybooks in that bath. Itwas one ofmy safeplaces.Andnow,Ihadnodoubt,Iwasgoingtodiethere.)Iopenedmyeyes,beneaththewater,andIsawitdanglingthere,infrontof

myface:mychanceforlife,andIclutcheditwithbothhands:myfather’stie.Iheldittightly,pulledmyselfupashepushedmedown,grippingitforlife

itself,pullingmyfaceupandoutofthatfrigidwater,holdingontohistiesotightlythathecouldnolongerpushmyheadandshouldersbackintothebathwithoutgoinginhimself.Myfacewasnowoutofthewater,andIclampedmyteethintohistie,just

belowtheknot.We struggled. Iwas soaked, took some small pleasure in the knowledge

thathewassoakedaswell,hisblueshirtclingingtohishugeform.Now he pushedme down again, but fear of death gives us strength:my

handsandmyteethwereclampedtohistie,andhecouldnotbreakmygriponthemwithouthittingme.Myfatherdidnothitme.Hestraightenedup,andIwaspulledupwithhim,soakedandspluttering

andangryandcryingandscared.Iletgoofhistiewithmyteeth,stillheldon

withmyhands.Hesaid,‘Youruinedmytie.Letgo.’Thetieknothadtightenedtopeasize;

theliningofthetiewasdanglingdamplyoutsideofit.Hesaid,‘Youshouldbegladthatyourmotherisn’there.’I let go, dropped to the soakedbathroomcarpet. I took a stepbackward,

towardsthetoilet.Helookeddownatme.Thenhesaid,‘Gotoyourbedroom.Idon’twanttoseeyouagaintonight.’Iwenttomyroom.

IwasshiveringconvulsivelyandIwaswetthroughandIwascold,verycold.Itfeltlikeallmyheathadbeenstolen.Thewetclothesclungtomyfleshanddrippedcoldwaterontothefloor.WitheverystepItook,mysandalsmadecomical squelching noises, andwater oozed from the little diamond-shapedholesonthetopofthem.Ipulledallofmyclothesoff,andIlefttheminasoppingheaponthetiles

bythefireplace,wheretheybegantopuddle.Itooktheboxofmatchesfromthemantelpiece,turnedonthegastapandlittheflameinthegasfire.(Iamstaringatapond,rememberingthingsthatarehardtobelieve.Why

doIfindthehardestthingformetobelieve,lookingback,isthatagirloffiveandaboyofsevenhadagasfireintheirbedroom?)Therewerenotowelsintheroom,andIstoodthere,wet,wonderinghow

to drymyself off. I took the thin counterpane that coveredmy bed,wipedmyselfoffwithit,thenputonmypyjamas.Theywererednylon,shinyandstriped, with a black plasticised burnmark on the left sleeve, where I hadleaned too close to the gas fire once, and the pyjama arm caught alight,althoughbysomemiracleIhadnotburnedmyarm.TherewasadressinggownthatIalmostneverusedhangingonthebackof

thebedroomdoor,itsshadowperfectlypositionedtocastnightmareshadowsonthewallwhenthehalllightwasonandthedoorwasopen.Iputiton.Thebedroomdooropened,andmysistercameintogetthenightdressfrom

under her pillow. She said, ‘You’ve been so naughty that I’m not evenallowedtobeintheroomwithyou.IgettosleepinMummyandDaddy’sbedtonight.AndDaddysaysIcanwatchthetelevision.’Therewasanoldtelevisioninabrownwoodencabinetinthecornerofmy

parents’ bedroom that was almost never turned on. The vertical hold wasunreliable,andthefuzzyblackandwhitepicturehadatendencytostream,inaslowribbon:people’sheadsvanishedoff thebottomof thescreenas theirfeetdescended,inastatelyfashion,fromthetop.‘Idon’tcare,’Itoldher.‘Daddy said you ruined his tie. And he’s all wet,’ said my sister, with

satisfactioninhervoice.

UrsulaMonktonwasatthebedroomdoor.‘Wedon’ttalktohim,’shetoldmysister.‘Wewon’ttalktohimagainuntilhe’sallowedtorejointhefamily.’My sister slippedout, heading to thenext room,myparents’ room. ‘You

aren’tinmyfamily,’ItoldUrsulaMonkton.‘WhenMummycomesback,I’lltellherwhatDaddydid.’‘Shewon’t be home for another two hours,’ saidUrsulaMonkton. ‘And

what can you say to her thatwillmake any difference?She backs up yourfatherineverything,doesn’tshe?’Shedid.Theyalwayspresentedaperfectlyunitedfront.‘Don’tcrossme,’saidUrsulaMonkton.‘Ihavethingstodohere,andyou

aregettinginmyway.Nexttimeitwillbesomuchworse.Nexttime,Ilockyouintheattic.’‘I’mnotafraidofyou,’Itoldher.Iwasafraidofher,moreafraidthanIhad

everbeenofanything.‘It’shotinhere,’shetoldme,andsmiled.Shewalkedovertothegasfire,

reacheddown,turneditoff,tookthematchesfromthemantel.Isaid,‘You’restilljustaflea.’She stopped smiling. She reached up to the lintel above the door, higher

thananychildcouldreach,andshepulleddownthekeythatrestedthere.Shewalkedoutoftheroom,andclosedthedoor.Iheardthekeyturn,heardthelockengageandclick.Icouldheartelevisionvoicescomingfromtheroomnextdoor.Iheardthe

hallwaydoorclose,cuttingoffthetwobedroomsfromtherestofthehouse,and I knew thatUrsulaMonktonwas going downstairs. Iwent over to thelock, and squinted through it. I had learned froma book that I could use apencil topushakey throughakeyholeon to a sheetofpaperbeneath, andfreemyselfthatway…butthekeyholewasempty.Icriedthen,coldandstilldamp,inthatbedroom,criedwithpainandanger

andterror,criedsafelyintheknowledgethatnoonewouldcomeinandseeme, that no onewould teaseme for crying, as they teased any boys atmyschoolwhowereunwiseenoughtogivewaytotears.I heard the gentle patter of raindrops against the glass of my bedroom

window,andeventhatbroughtmenojoy.IcrieduntilIwasallcriedout.ThenIbreathedinhugegulpsofair,andI

thought,UrsulaMonkton,flappingcanvasmonster,wormandflea,wouldgetmeifItriedtoleavetheproperty.Iknewthat.ButUrsulaMonktonhadlockedmein.Shewouldnotexpectmetoleave

now.Andperhaps,ifIwaslucky,shemightbedistracted.

I opened thebedroomwindow, and listened to thenight.Thegentle rainmadeanoisethatwasalmostarustling.Itwasacoldnight,andIwasalreadychilled. My sister was in the room next door, watching something on thetelevision.Shewouldnothearme.Iwentovertothedoor,andturnedoffthelight.Iwalkedthroughthedarkbedroom,andclimbedbackonthebed.I’minmybed,I thought.I’mlyinginmybed,thinkingabouthowupsetI

am. Soon, I’ll fall asleep. I’m inmybed, and I know she’swon, and if shechecksuponmeI’minmybed,asleep.I’minmybed,and it’s time forme tosleepnow… I can’t evenkeepmy

eyesopen.I’mfastasleep.Fastasleepinmybed…Istoodonthebed,andclimbedoutofthewindow.Ihungforamoment,

then letmyself drop, as quietly as I could, on to thebalcony.Thatwas theeasybit.Growing up, I took somany cues from books. They taught memost of

what I knew about what people did, about how to behave. They were myteachers andmyadvisers. In books, boys climbed trees, so I climbed trees,sometimesveryhigh,alwaysscaredof falling. Inbooks,peopleclimbedupanddowndrainpipestoget inandoutofhouses,soIclimbedupanddowndrainpipes too.Theywere theheavy irondrainpipes of old, clamped to thebrick,nottoday’slightweightplasticaffairs.Ihadneverclimbeddownadrainpipeinthedark,orintherain,butIknew

wherethefootholdswere.Iknewalsothatthebiggestchallengewouldnotbefalling, a twenty-foot tumble down into thewet flower bed; itwas that thedrainpipeIwasclimbingdownwentpastthetelevisionroom,downstairs,inwhich, I had no doubt, UrsulaMonkton andmy fatherwould bewatchingtelevision.Itriednottothink.Iclimbedoverthebrickwallthatedgedthebalcony,reachedoutuntilIfelt

theirondrainpipe,coldandslickwithrain.Iheldontoit,thentookonelargestep towards it, letting my bare feet come to rest on the metal clamp thatencircledthedrainpipe,fixingitsturdilytothebrick.Iwentdown,astepatatime,imaginingmyselfBatman,imaginingmyself

a hundred heroes and heroines of school romances, then, rememberingmyself,IimaginedthatIwasadropofrainonthewall,abrick,atree.Iamon my bed, I thought. I was not here, with the light of the TV room,uncurtained,spillingoutbelowme,makingtherainthatfellpastthewindowintoaseriesofglitteringlinesandstreaks.Don’tlookatme,Ithought.Don’tlookoutofthewindow.

Iincheddown.UsuallyIwouldhavesteppedfromthedrainpipeovertotheTV room’s outerwindow ledge, but thatwas out of the question.Warily, Iloweredmyselfanotherfewinches,leanedfurtherbackintotheshadowsandawayfromthe light,andstolea terrifiedglance into theroom,expecting toseemyfatherandUrsulaMonktonstaringbackatme.Theroomwasempty.Thelightswereon,thetelevisionwasonaswell,butnobodywassittingon

thesofaandthedoortothedownstairshallwaywasopen.Itookaneasystepdownontothewindowledge,hopingagainstallhope

thatneitherof themwouldcomebackinandseeme, thenI letmyselfdropfromtheledgeintotheflowerbed.Thewetearthwassoftagainstmyfeet.Iwasgoingtorun,justrun,buttherewasalightoninthedrawingroom,

wherewechildrenneverwent,theoak-panelledroomkeptonlyforbestandforspecialoccasions.Thecurtainsweredrawn.Theyweregreenvelvet,linedwithwhite,andthe

light that escaped them, where they had not been closed all the way, wasgoldenandsoft.Iwalkedover to thewindow.Thecurtainswerenot completelyclosed. I

couldseeintotheroom,seewhatwasimmediatelyinfrontofme.I was not sure what I was looking at. My father had Ursula Monkton

pressedupagainstthesideofthebigfireplaceinthefarwall.Hehadhisbacktome.Shedidtoo,herhandspressedagainstthehugehighmantelpiece.Hewashuggingherfrombehind.Hermidiskirtwashikeduparoundherwaist.Ididnotknowexactlywhattheyweredoing,andIdidnotreallycare,not

atthatmoment.AllthatmatteredwasthatUrsulaMonktonhadherattentiononsomethingthatwasnotme,andIturnedawayfromthegapinthecurtainsandthelightandthehouse,andfled,barefoot,intotherainydark.Itwas not pitch-black. Itwas the kind of cloudy nightwhere the clouds

seemtogatheruplightfromdistantstreetlightsandhousesbelow,andthrowitbackattheearth.Icouldseeenough,oncemyeyesadjusted.Imadeittothebottomofthegarden,pastthecompostheapandthegrasscuttings,thendownthehilltothelane.Bramblesandthornsstuckmyfeetandprickedmylegs,butIkeptrunning.Iwentoverthelowmetalfence,intothelane.Iwasoffourpropertyandit

felt as if a headache I had not known that I had had suddenly lifted. Iwhispered, urgently, ‘Lettie?LettieHempstock?’ and I thought, I’m in bed.I’mdreamingallthis.Suchvividdreams.Iaminmybed,butIdidnotbelievethatUrsulaMonktonwasthinkingaboutmejustthen.As I ran, I thought ofmy father, his arms around the housekeeper-who-

wasn’t,kissingherneck,andthenIsawhisfacethroughthechillybathwater

asheheldmeunder,andnowIwasnolongerscaredbywhathadhappenedin the bathroom; now I was scared by what it meant that my father waskissing theneckofUrsulaMonkton, thathishandshad liftedhermidiskirtaboveherwaist.My parents were a unit, inviolate. The future had suddenly become

unknowable:anythingcouldhappen;thetrainofmylifehadjumpedtherailsandheadedoffacrossthefieldsandwascomingdownthelanewithme,then.TheflintsofthelanehurtmyfeetasIran,butIdidnotcare.Soonenough,

I was certain, the thing that was UrsulaMonktonwould be done withmyfather.Perhaps theywouldgoupstairs to checkonme together.ShewouldfindthatIwasgoneandshewouldcomeafterme.Ithought,iftheycomeafterme,theywillbeinacar.Ilookedforagapin

the hedgerow on either side of the lane. I spotted a wooden stile andclamberedover it,andkeptrunningacross themeadow,heartpoundinglikethe biggest, loudest drum there was or had ever been, barefoot, with mypyjamasandmydressinggownallsoakedbelowthekneeandclinging.Iran,notcaringabout thecowpats.Themeadowwaseasieronmy feet than theflintlanehadbeen.Iwashappier,andIfeltmorereal,runningonthegrass.Thunderrumbledbehindme,althoughIhadseennolightning.Iclimbeda

fence, and my feet sank into the soft earth of a freshly ploughed field. Istumbledacrossit,fallingsometimes,butIkeptgoing.Overastileandintothe next field, this one unploughed, and I crossed it keeping close to thehedge,scaredofbeingtoofaroutintheopen.Thelightsofacarcamedownthelane,suddenandblinding.Ifrozewhere

Iwas,closedmyeyes,imaginedmyselfasleepinmybed.Thecardrovepastwithoutslowing,andIcaughtaglimpseofitsredrearlightsasitmovedawayfromme:awhitevanthatIthoughtbelongedtotheAndersfamily.Still, it made the lane seem less safe, and now I cut away across the

meadow.Ireachedthenextfield,sawitwasonlydividedfromtheoneIwasinby thin lengthsofwire,easy toduckbeneath,notevenbarbedwire,soIreached out my arm and pushed a bare wire up to make room to squeezeunder,and—ItwasasifIhadbeenthumped,andthumpedhard,inthechest.Myarm,

whereithadgraspedthewireofthefence,wasconvulsed,andmypalmwasburningjustasifIhadjustslammedmyfunnyboneintoawall.Iletgooftheelectricfenceandstumbledback.Icouldnotrunanylonger,

butIhurriedinthewindandtherainandthedarknessalongthesideofthefence,carefulnownottotouchit,untilIreachedafive-bargate.Iwentoverthegate,andacrossthefield,headingtothedeeperdarknessatthefarend–

trees,Ithought,andwoodland–andIdidnotgotooclosetotheedgeofthefieldincasetherewasanotherelectricfencewaitingforme.I hesitated, uncertain where to go next. As if in answer, the world was

illuminated,foramoment,butIonlyneededamoment,bylightning.Isawawoodenstile,andIranforit.Overthestile.Icamedownintoaclumpofnettles,Iknew,asthehot-cold

prickingburningcoveredmyexposedanklesandthetopsofmyfeet,butIranagain, now, ran as best I could. I hoped I was still heading for theHempstocks’farm.Ihadtobe.IcrossedonemorefieldbeforeIrealisedthatInolongerknewwherethelanewas,or,forthatmatter,whereIwas.IknewonlythattheHempstocks’farmwasattheendofmylane,butIwaslostinadarkfield,andthethundercloudshadlowered,andthenightwassodark,andit was still raining, even if it was not raining hard yet, and now myimagination filled the darkness with wolves and ghosts. I wanted to stopimagining,tostopthinking,butIcouldnot.Andbehindthewolvesandtheghostsandthetreesthatwalked,therewas

UrsulaMonkton,tellingmethatthenexttimeIdisobeyedheritwouldbesomuchworseforme,thatshewouldlockmeintheattic.Iwasnotbrave.Iwasrunningawayfromeverything,andIwascold,and

wetandlost.I shouted, at the topofmyvoice. ‘Lettie?LettieHempstock!Hello?’but

therewasnoreply,andIhadnotexpectedone.The thunder grumbled and rumbled into a low continuous roar, a lion

pushed into irritability, and the lightningwas flashing and flickering like amalfunctioning fluorescent tube. In the flickersof light, Icouldsee that theareaoffieldIwasincametoapoint,withhedgesonbothsides,andnowaythrough. I could seenogate, andno stile other than theone I had come inthrough,atthefarendofthefield.Somethingcrackled.Ilookedupatthesky.Ihadseenlightninginfilmsonthetelevision,long

jaggedforksoflightacrosstheclouds.ButthelightningIhadseenuntilnowwithmyowneyeswassimplyawhite flash fromabove, like the flashofacamera,burningtheworldinastrobeofvisibility.WhatIsawintheskythenwasnotthat.Itwasnotforkedlightningeither.Itcameanditwent,awrithing,burningblue-whitenessinthesky.Itdied

backandthenitflaredup,anditsflaresandflickersilluminatedthemeadow,made it something I could see.The rainpatteredhard, and then itwhippedagainstmy face,moved in amoment fromadrizzle to a downpour, and insecondsmydressinggownwas soaked through.But in the light I saw–or

thoughtIsaw–anopeninginthehedgerowtomyright,andIwalked,forIcouldno longer run,notany longer,as fastas Icould, towards it,hoping itwassomethingreal.Mywetgownflappedinthegustingwind,andthesoundofithorrifiedme.Ididnotlookupinthesky.Ididnotlookbehindme.But I could see the far end of the field, and there was indeed a space

betweenthehedgerows.Ihadalmostreacheditwhenavoicesaid:‘I thought I toldyou to stay inyour room.AndnowI findyousneaking

aroundlikeadrownedsailor.’Iturned,lookedbehindme,sawnothingatall.Therewasnobodythere.ThenIlookedup.The thing thatcalled itselfUrsulaMonktonhung in theair, about twenty

feetaboveme,andlightningscrawledandflickeredintheairbehindher.Shewasnotflying.Shewasfloating,weightlessasaballoon,althoughthesharpgustsofwinddidnotmoveher.Wind howled and whipped at my face. The distant thunder roared and

smaller thunders crackled and spat, and she spoke quietly, but I could heareverywordshesaidasdistinctlyasifshewerewhisperingintomyears.‘Oh,sweety-weety-pudding-and-pie,youareinsomuchtrouble.’Shewassmiling,thehugest,toothiestgrinIhadeverseenonahumanface,

butshedidnotlookamused.Ihadbeenrunningfromherthroughthedarknessfor,what,halfanhour?

An hour? Iwished I had stayed on the lane and not tried to cut across thefields.IwouldhavebeenattheHempstocks’farmbynow.Instead,IwaslostandIwastrapped.UrsulaMonkton came lower.Her pink blousewas open and unbuttoned.

Sheworeawhitebra.Hermidiskirtflappedinthewind,revealinghercalves.Shedidnotappeartobewet,despitethestorm.Herclothes,herface,herhairwereperfectlydry.Shewasfloatingabovemenow,andshereachedoutherhands.Every move she made, everything she did, was strobed by the tame

lightnings that flickered and writhed about her. Her fingers opened likeflowersinaspeeded-upfilm,andIknewthatshewasplayingwithme,andIknew what she wanted me to do, and I hated myself for not standing myground,butIdidwhatshewanted:Iran.Iwas a little thing that amused her. Shewas playing, just as I had seen

Monster, thebigorange tomcat,playwithamouse– letting itgo,so that itwouldrun,andthenpouncing,andbattingitdownwithapaw.Butthemousestillran,andIhadnochoice,andIrantoo.

I ranfor thebreak in thehedge,as fastas Icould,stumblingandhurtingandwet.HervoicewasinmyearsasIran.‘ItoldyouIwasgoingtolockyouintheattic,didn’tI?AndIwill.Your

daddy likesme now.He’ll dowhatever I say. Perhaps fromnowon, everynight,he’llcomeup the ladderand letyououtof theattic.He’llmakeyouclimb down from the attic.Down the ladder.And every night, he’ll drownyou in thebath,he’llplungeyou into thecold,coldwater. I’ll lethimdo iteverynightuntilitboresme,andthenI’lltellhimnottobringyouback,tosimply push you under the water until you stop moving and until there’snothingbutdarknessandwaterinyourlungs.I’llhavehimleaveyouinthecoldbath,andyou’llnevermoveagain.AndeverynightI’llkisshimandkisshim…’Iwasthroughthegapinthehedgerow,andrunningonsoftgrass.The crackle of the lightning, and a strange sharp,metallic smellwere so

close they made my skin prickle. Everything around me got brighter andbrighter,illuminatedbytheflickeringblue-whitelight.‘Andwhenyourdaddy finally leavesyou in thebath forgood,you’llbe

happy,’whisperedUrsulaMonkton,andIimaginedthatIcouldfeelherlipsbrushingmyears.‘Becauseyouwon’tlikeitintheattic.Notjustbecauseit’sdarkupthere,withthespiders,andtheghosts.ButbecauseI’mgoingtobringmyfriends.Youcan’tseetheminthedaylight,butthey’llbeintheatticwithyou,andyouwon’tenjoythematall.Theydon’tlikelittleboys,myfriends.They’llbespidersasbigasdogs.Oldclotheswithnothinginsidethattugatyou and never let you go. The inside of your head.And no books, and nostories,everagain.’AndIrealisedthatIhadnotimaginedit.Herlipshadbrushedmyear.She

wasfloatingintheairbesideme,soherheadwasnexttomine,andwhenshecaughtme lookingather she smiledherpretend smile, and I couldnot runany longer. I could barelymove. I had a stitch inmy side, and I could notcatchmybreath,andIwasdone.Mylegsgavewaybeneathme,andIstumbledandfell,andthistimeIdid

notgetup.I feltheatonmylegs,andI lookeddowntoseeayellowstreamcoming

fromthefrontofmypyjamatrousers.Iwassevenyearsold,nolongeralittlechild,butIwaswettingmyselfwithfear,likeababy,andtherewasnothingIcould do about it, while Ursula Monkton hung in the air above me andwatched,dispassionately.Thehuntwasdone.

Shestoodupstraightintheair,threefeetabovetheground.Iwassprawledbeneath her, on my back, in the wet grass. She began to descend, slowly,inexorably,likeapersononabrokentelevisionscreen.Somethingtouchedmylefthand.Somethingsoft.Itnosedmyhand,andI

lookedover,fearingaspiderasbigasadog.InthelightofthelightningsthatwrithedaboutUrsulaMonkton,Isawapatchofdarknessbesidemyhand.Apatchofdarknesswithawhitespotoveroneear.Ipickedthekittenupinmyhand,andbroughtittomyheart,andIstrokedit.Isaid,‘Iwon’tcomewithyou.Youcan’tmakeme.’Isatup,becauseIfelt

less vulnerable sitting, and the kitten curled andmade itself comfortable inmyhand.‘Pudding-and-pieboy,’saidUrsulaMonkton.Herfeettouchedtheground,

illuminatedbyherown lightnings, likeapaintingofawoman ingreysandgreens and blues, not a real woman at all. ‘You’re just a little boy. I’m agrown-up.Iwasanadultwhenyourworldwasaballofmoltenrock.IcandowhateverIwishtoyou.Now,standup.I’mtakingyouhome.’Thekitten,whichwasburrowingintomychestwithitsface,madeahigh-

pitched noise, not a mew. I turned, looking away from Ursula Monkton,lookingbehindme.Thegirlwhowaswalking towards us, across the field,wore a shiny red

raincoat,withahood, andapairofblackwellingtonboots that seemed toobigforher.Shewalkedoutofthedarkness,unafraid.ShelookedupatUrsulaMonkton.‘Getoffmyland,’saidLettieHempstock.UrsulaMonktontookastepbackwardsandrose,atthesametime,soshe

hung in the air above us. Lettie Hempstock reached out to me, withoutglancingdownatwhereIsat,andshetookmyhand,twiningherfingersintomine.‘I’mnottouchingyourland,’saidUrsulaMonkton.‘Goaway,littlegirl.’‘Youareonmyland,’saidLettieHempstock.UrsulaMonktonsmiled,andthelightningswreathedandwrithedabouther.

Shewaspowerincarnate,standinginthecracklingair.Shewasthestorm,shewasthelightning,shewastheadultworldwithallitspowerandallitssecretsandallitsfoolishcasualcruelty.Shewinkedatme.Iwasaseven-year-oldboy,andmyfeetwerescratchedandbleeding.Ihad

justwetmyself.And the thing that floatedabovemewashugeandgreedy,anditwantedtotakemetotheattic,andwhenittiredofmeitwouldmakemydaddykillme.LettieHempstock’shandinmyhandmademebraver.ButLettiewasjusta

girl,evenifshewasabiggirl,evenifshewaseleven,evenifshehadbeen

elevenforaverylongtime.UrsulaMonktonwasanadult.Itdidnotmatter,atthatmoment,thatshewaseverymonster,everywitch,everynightmaremadeflesh. Shewas also an adult, andwhen adults fight children, adults alwayswin.Lettie said, ‘Youshouldgobackwhereyoucamefrom in the firstplace.

It’snothealthyforyoutobehere.Foryourowngood,goback.’Anoiseintheair,ahorrible,twistedscratchingnoise,filledwithpainand

withwrongness, a noise that setmy teeth on edge andmade the kitten, itsfront paws resting onmy chest, stiffen and its fur prickle. The little thingtwistedandclawedupontomyshoulder,andithissedanditspat.IlookedupatUrsulaMonkton. Itwas onlywhen I saw her face that I knewwhat thenoisewas.UrsulaMonktonwaslaughing.‘Go back? When your people ripped the hole in Forever, I seized my

chance.Icouldhaveruledworlds,butIfollowedyou,andIwaited,andIhadpatience. Iknew that sooneror later theboundswould loosen, that IwouldwalkthetrueEarth,beneaththeSunofHeaven.’Shewasnotlaughingnow.‘Everythinghereissoweak,littlegirl.Everythingbreakssoeasily.Theywantsuchsimplethings.IwilltakeallIwantfromthisworld,likeachildstuffingitsfatlittlefacewithblackberriesfromabush.’Ididnot letgoofLettie’shand,not this time.Istrokedthekitten,whose

needleclawswerediggingintomyshoulder,andwasbittenformytrouble,butthebitewasnothard,justscared.Hervoicecamefromallaroundus,asthestormwindgusted.‘Youkeptme

awayfromhereforalongtime.Butthenyoubroughtmeadoor,andIusedhimtocarrymeoutofmycell.AndwhatcanyoudonowthatIamout?’Lettiedidn’tseemangry.Shethoughtaboutit,thenshesaid,‘Icouldmake

you a newdoor.Or, better still, I could getGranny to send you across theocean,allthewaytowhereveryoucamefrominthebeginning.’UrsulaMonktonspatontothegrass,andatinyballofflamesputteredand

fizzedontheground,wherethespithadfallen.‘Givemetheboy,’wasallshesaid.‘Hebelongstome.Icamehereinside

him.Iownhim.’‘You don’t own nuffink, you don’t,’ said Lettie Hempstock, angrily.

‘’Speciallynothim.’Lettiehelpedme tomy feet, andshe stoodbehindmeandputherarmsaroundme.Weweretwochildreninafieldinthenight.Sheheldme,andIheldthekitten,whileaboveusandallaroundusavoicesaid:‘Whatwill you do?Take him homewith you?Thisworld is aworld of

rules, littlegirl.Hebelongs tohisparents, afterall.Takehimawayandhisparentswillcometobringhimhome,andhisparentsbelongtome.’

‘I’mallboredofyounow,’saidLettieHempstock.‘Igivedyouachance.You’reonmyland.Goaway.’Asshesaidthat,myskinfeltlikeitdidwhenI’drubbedaballoononmy

sweaterthentouchedittomyfaceandhair.Everythingprickledandtickled.Myhairwassoaked,butevenwet,itfeltlikeitwasstartingtostandonend.LettieHempstockheldmetightly.‘Don’tworry,’shewhispered,andIwas

goingtosaysomething,toaskwhyIshouldn’tworry,whatIhadtobeafraidof,whenthefieldwewerestandinginbegantoglow.Itglowedgolden.Everybladeofgrassglowedandglimmered,everyleaf

oneverytree.Eventhehedgeswereglowing.Itwasawarmlight.Itseemed,tomyeyes,asifthesoilbeneaththegrasshadtransmutedfrombasematterinto pure light, and in the golden glow of the meadow the blue-whitelightnings that still crackled around Ursula Monkton seemed much lessimpressive.UrsulaMonktonroseunsteadily,asiftheairhadjustbecomehotandwas

carryingherupwards.ThenLettieHempstockwhisperedoldwords into theworldand themeadowexploded intoagolden light. I sawUrsulaMonktonsweptupandaway,althoughI feltnowind,but therehad tobeawind, forshewasflailingandtippinglikeadeadleaf inagale.Iwatchedher tumbleintothenight,andthenUrsulaMonktonandherlightningsweregone.‘Comeon,’saidLettieHempstock.‘Weshouldgetyouinfrontofakitchen

fire.Andahotbath.You’llcatchyourdeath.’Sheletgoofmyhand,stoppedhuggingme,steppedback.Thegoldenglowdimmed,soslowly,and then itwasgone, leavingonlyvanishingglimmersand twinkles in thebushes, likethefinalmomentsofthefireworksonBonfireNight.‘Isshedead?’Iasked.‘No.’‘Thenshe’llcomeback.Andyou’llgetintrouble.’‘That’sasmaybe,’saidLettie.‘Areyouhungry?’Sheaskedme,andIknewthatIwas.Ihadforgotten,somehow,butnowI

remembered.Iwassohungryithurt.‘Let’ssee…’Lettiewastalkingassheledmethroughthefields.‘You’re

wetthrough.We’llneedtogetyousomethingtowear.I’llhavealookinthechestofdrawersinthegreenbedroom.IthinkCousinJapethleftsomeofhisclothestherewhenhewentofftofightintheMouseWars.Hewasn’tmuchbiggerthanyou.’Thekittenwaslickingmyfingerswithasmall,roughtongue.‘Ifoundakitten,’Isaid.‘Icanseethat.Shemusthavefollowedyoubackfromthefieldswhereyou

pulledherup.’

‘Thisisthatkitten?ThesameonethatIpicked?’‘Yup.Didshetellyouhernameyet?’‘No.Dotheydothat?’‘Sometimes.Ifyoulisten.’IsawthelightsoftheHempstocks’farminfrontofus,welcoming,andI

wascheered,althoughIcouldnotunderstandhowwehadgotfromthefieldwewereintothefarmhousesoquickly.‘You were lucky,’ said Lettie. ‘Fifteen feet further back, and the field

belongstoColinAnders.’‘Youwouldhavecomeanyway,’Itoldher.‘Youwouldhavesavedme.’Shesqueezedmyarmwithherhandbutshesaidnothing.Isaid,‘Lettie.Idon’twanttogohome.’Thatwasnottrue.Iwantedtogo

homemorethananything,justnottotheplaceIhadfledthatnight.IwantedtogobacktothehomeIhadlivedinbeforetheopalminerhadkilledhimselfinourlittlewhiteMini,orbeforehehadrunovermykitten.Theballofdarkfurpresseditselfintomychest,andIwishedshewasmy

kitten,andknewthatshewasnot.Therainhadbecomeadrizzleonceagain.We splashed through deep puddles, Lettie in her wellington boots, my

stingingfeetbare.Thesmellofmanurewassharpintheairaswereachedthefarmyard, and then we walked through a side door and into the hugefarmhousekitchen.

Lettie’smotherwas prodding the huge fireplacewith a poker, pushing theburninglogstogether.OldMrsHempstockwas stirring abulbouspoton the stovewith a large

wooden spoon. She lifted the spoon to her mouth, blew on it theatrically,sippedfromit,pursedherlips,thenaddedapinchofsomethingandafistfulofsomethingelse.Sheturneddowntheflame.Thenshelookedatme,frommywethairtomybarefeet,whichwerebluewithcold.AsIstoodthere,apuddle began to appear on the flagstone floor aroundme, and the drips ofwaterfrommydressinggownsplashedintoit.‘Hotbath,’saidOldMrsHempstock.‘Orhe’llcatchhisdeath.’‘ThatwaswhatIsaid,’saidLettie.Lettie’s mother was already hauling a tin bath from beneath the kitchen

table,andfillingitwithsteamingwaterfromtheenormousblackkettle thathungabovethefireplace.Potsofcoldwaterwereaddeduntilshepronouncedittheperfecttemperature.‘Right.Inyougo,’saidOldMrsHempstock.‘Spit-spot.’Ilookedather,horrified.WasIgoingtohavetoundressinfrontofpeople

Ididn’tknow?‘We’llwash your clothes, and dry them for you, andmend that dressing

gown,’saidLettie’smother,andshetookthedressinggownfromme,andshetookthekitten,whichIhadbarelyrealisedIwasstillholding,andthenshewalkedaway.Asquickly as possible I shedmy rednylonpyjamas– the bottomswere

soakedandthelegswerenowraggedandrippedandwouldneverbewholeagain.Idippedmyfingersintothewater,thenIclimbedinandsatinthetinbathinthatreassuringkitcheninfrontofthehugefire,andIleanedbackinthehotwater.Myfeetbegantothrobastheycamebacktolife.Iknewthatnakedwaswrong,but theHempstocksseemed indifferent tomynakedness:Lettiewas gone, andmy pyjamas and dressing gownwith her; hermotherwas laying the table, getting out and arranging knives, forks, spoons, littlejugs and bigger jugs, carving knives and wooden trenchers, and arrangingthem.

OldMrsHempstockpassedmeamug,filledwithsoupfromtheblackpotonthestove.‘Getthatdownyou.Heatyouupfromtheinsidefirst.’Thesoupwasrich,andwarming.Ihadneverdrunksoupinthebathbefore.

Itwasaperfectlynewexperience.WhenIfinishedthemug,Igaveitbacktoher,andinreturnshepassedmealargecakeofwhitesoapandafaceflanneland said, ‘Now get scrubbin’. Rub the life and thewarmth back into yourbones.’She satdown ina rockingchairon theother sideof the fire, and rocked

gently,notlookingatme.I felt safe. It was as if the essence of grandmotherliness had been

condensedintothatoneplace,thatonetime.IwasnotatallafraidofUrsulaMonkton,whatevershewas,notthen.Notthere.YoungMrsHempstockopenedanovendoorandtookoutapie, itsshiny

crustbrownandglistening,andputitonthewindowledgetocool.Idriedmyselfoffwithatoweltheybroughtme,thefire’sheatdryingme

as much as the towel did, then Lettie Hempstock returned and gave me avoluminous white thing, like a girl’s nightdress but made of white cotton,with long arms, and a skirt that draped to the floor, and a white cap. Ihesitated to put it on, until I realisedwhat itwas: a nightgown. I had seenpicturesoftheminbooks.WeeWillieWinkieranthroughthetownwearingoneineverybookofnurseryrhymesIhadeverowned.Islippedintoit.Thenightcapwastoobigforme,andfelldownovermy

face,andLettietookitawayoncemore.Dinner was wonderful. There was a joint of beef, with roast potatoes,

golden-crispon theoutside and soft andwhite inside, butteredgreens I didnotrecognise,althoughIthinknowthattheymighthavebeennettles,roastedcarrots,blackenedand sweet (Ididnot think that I likedcookedcarrots, sonearlydidnoteatone,butIwasbrave,andItriedit,andIlikedit,andwasdisappointedinboiledcarrotsfor therestofmychildhood).Fordessert,wehadthepie,stuffedwithapplesandwithswollenraisinsandcrushednuts,alltoppedwitha thickyellowcustard,creamierandricher thananything Ihadevertastedatschoolorathome.Thekittensleptonacushionbesidethefire,untiltheendofthemeal,when

it joineda fog-colouredhousecat four times its size in amealof scrapsofmeat.Whileweate,nothingwassaidaboutwhathadhappenedtome,orwhyI

wasthere.TheHempstockladiestalkedaboutthefarm–therewasthedoortothemilkingshedneededanewcoatofpaint,acownamedRhiannonwholookedtobegettinglameinherrearleftleg,thepathtobeclearedonthewaythatleddowntothereservoir.

‘Isitjustthethreeofyou?’Iasked.‘Aren’tthereanymen?’‘Men!’ hooted OldMrs Hempstock. ‘I dunno what blessed good a man

wouldbe!NothingamancoulddoaroundthisfarmthatIcan’tdotwiceasfastandfivetimesaswell.’Lettie said, ‘We’ve had men here, sometimes. They come and they go.

Rightnow,it’sjustus.’Hermothernodded.‘Theywentofftoseektheirfateandfortune,mostly,

the male Hempstocks. There’s never any keeping them here when the callcomes.Theygetadistantlookintheireyesandthenwe’velost them,goodandproper.Next chance theygets they’reoff to townsandevencities, andnothingbutanoccasionalpostcardtoevenshowtheywerehereatall.’OldMrsHempstocksaid, ‘Hisparentsarecoming!They’redrivinghere.

TheyjustpassedParson’selmtree.Thebadgerssawthem.’‘Isshewiththem?’Iasked.‘UrsulaMonkton?’‘Her?’saidOldMrsHempstock,amused.‘Thatthing?Nother.’I thoughtabout it foramoment.‘Theywillmakemegobackwith them,

andthenshe’ll lockmeintheatticandletmydaddykillmewhenshegetsbored.Shesaidso.’‘She may have told you that, ducks,’ said Lettie’s mother, ‘but she en’t

goingtodoit,oranythinglikeit,ormyname’snotGinnieHempstock.’IlikedthenameGinnie,butIdidnotbelieveher,andIwasnotreassured.

Soonthedoortothekitchenwouldopen,andmyfatherwouldshoutatme,orhewouldwaituntilwegotintothecar,andhewouldshoutatmethen,andtheywouldtakemebackupthelanetomyhouse,andIwouldbelost.‘Let’ssee,’saidGinnieHempstock.‘Wecouldbeawaywhentheygethere.

TheycouldarrivelastTuesday,whenthere’snobodyhome.’‘Outofthequestion,’saidtheoldwoman.‘Justcomplicatesthings,playing

withtime…Wecouldturntheboyintosomethingelse,sothey’dneverfindhim,lookhowhardtheymight.’I blinked.Was that evenpossible? Iwanted to be turned into something.

Thekittenhadfinisheditsportionofmeatscraps(indeed,itseemedtohaveeatenmore than the house cat) and now it leapt intomy lap, and began towashitself.GinnieHempstockgotupandwentoutoftheroom.Iwonderedwhereshe

wasgoing.‘Wecan’tturnhimintoanything,’saidLettie,clearingthetableofthelast

of theplatesandcutlery.‘Hisparentswillgetfrantic.Andif theyarebeingcontrolledby theflea,she’ll just feed thefranticness.Next thingyouknow,we’llhavethepolicedraggingthereservoir,lookingforhim.Orworse.Theocean.’

The kitten lay down and curled up, wrapping around itself until it wasnothingmorethanaflattenedcircletoffluffyblackfur.Itcloseditsvividblueeyes,thecolourofanocean,anditslept,anditpurred.‘Well?’saidOldMrsHempstock.‘Whatdoyousuggest,then?’Lettie thought, pushing her lips together,moving them over to one side.

Herheadtipped,andIthoughtshewasrunningthroughalternatives.Thenherfacebrightened.‘Snipandstitch?’shesaid.OldMrsHempstocksniffed.‘You’reagoodgirl,’shesaid.‘I’mnotsaying

you’renot.Butsnippage…well,youcouldn’tdothat.Notyet.You’dhavetocut the edges out exactly, sew them back without the seam showing. Andwhatwould you cut out?The fleawon’t let you snipher. She’s not in thefabric.She’soutsideofit.’GinnieHempstockreturned.Shewascarryingmyolddressinggown.‘Iput

it throughthemangle,’shesaid.‘But it’sstilldamp.That’llmaketheedgeshardertolineup.Youdon’twanttodoneedleworkwhenit’sstilldamp.’She put the dressing gown down on the table, in front of Old Mrs

Hempstock.Thenshepulledoutfromthefrontpocketofherapronapairofscissors,blackandold,alongneedle,andaspoolofredthread.‘Rowanberryandred thread, stopawitch inher speed,’ I recited. Itwas

somethingIhadreadinabook.‘That’d work, and work well,’ said Lettie, ‘if there was any witches

involvedinallthis.Butthere’snot.’OldMrsHempstockwasexaminingmydressinggown.Itwasbrownand

faded, with a sort of sepia tartan across it. It had been a present frommyfather’s parents, my grandparents, several birthdays ago, when it had beencomicallybigonme.‘Probably…’shesaid,asifshewastalkingtoherself,‘itwouldbebestifyourfatherwashappyforyoutostaythenighthere.Butforthattohappen,theycouldn’tbeangrywithyou,orevenworried…’Theblack scissorswere in her hand and already snip-snip-snipping then,

when I heard a knock on the front door, andGinnie Hempstock got up toanswerit.‘Don’tletthemtakeme,’IsaidtoLettie.‘Hush,’ she said. ‘I’mworking here, while grandmother’s snipping. You

justbesleepy,andatpeace.Happy.’Iwasfarfromhappy,andnotintheslightestbitsleepy.Lettieleanedacross

thetableandtookmyhand.‘Don’tworry,’shesaid.Andwiththatthedooropened,andmyfatherandmymotherwereinthe

kitchen.Iwantedtohide,butthekittenshifted,reassuringly,onmylap,andLettiesmiledatme,areassuringsmile.

‘Wearelookingforourson,’myfatherwassaying,‘andwehavereasontobelieve…’andevenashewassayingthat,mymotherwasstridingtowardsme.‘Thereheis!Darling,wewereworriedsilly!’‘You’reinalotoftrouble,youngman,’saidmyfather.Snip!Snip!Snip!wenttheblackscissors,andtheirregularsectionoffabric

thatOldMrsHempstockhadbeencuttingfelltothetable.My parents froze. They stopped talking, stopped moving. My father’s

mouthwasstillopen,mymotherstoodononeleg,asunmovingasifshewereashop-windowdummy.‘What…whatdidyoudotothem?’IwasunsurewhetherornotIoughtto

beupset.GinnieHempstock said, ‘They’re fine. Just a little snipping, then a little

sewing,andit’llallbegoodasgold.’Shereacheddowntothetable,pointedto the scrapof fadeddressinggown tartan restingupon it. ‘That’s your dadand you in the hallway, and that’s the bathtub. She’s snipped that out. Sowithoutanyofthat,there’snoreasonforyourdaddytobeangrywithyou.’Ihadnottoldthemaboutthebathtub.Ididnotwonderhowsheknew.Now the old woman was threading the needle with the red thread. She

sighed,theatrically.‘Oldeyes,’shesaid.‘Oldeyes.’Butshelickedthetipofthethreadandpushedit throughtheeyeof theneedlewithoutanyapparentdifficulty.‘Lettie.You’llneed toknowwhathis toothbrush looks like,’ said theold

woman.Shebegantosewtheedgesofthedressinggowntogetherwithtiny,carefulstitches.‘What’syourtoothbrushlooklike?’askedLettie.‘Quickly.’‘It’sgreen,’Isaid.‘Brightgreen.Asortofappleygreen.It’snotverybig.

Justagreentoothbrush,mysize.’Iwasn’tdescribingitverywell, Iknew.Ipictured it in my head, tried to find something more about it that I coulddescribe, toset itapart fromallother toothbrushes.Nogood. I imagined it,saw it in mymind’s eye, with the other toothbrushes in its red-and-white-spottedbeakerabovethebathroomsink.‘Gotit!’saidLettie.‘Nicejob.’‘Verynearlydonehere,’saidOldMrsHempstock.GinnieHempstocksmiledahugesmile,anditlitupherruddyroundface.

OldMrsHempstockpickedup the scissors and snipped a final time, and afragmentofredthreadfelltothetabletop.Mymother’sfootcamedown.Shetookastepandthenshestopped.Myfathersaid,‘Um.’Ginniesaid,‘…anditmadeourLettiesohappythatyourboywouldcome

hereandstaythenight.It’sabitold-fashionedhere,I’mafraid.’

Theoldwomansaid,‘We’vegotaninsidelavvynowadays.Idon’tknowhowmuchmoremodernanybodycouldbe.Outsidelavviesandchamberpotsweregoodenoughforme.’‘Heateafinemeal,’saidGinnie.‘Didn’tyou?’‘Therewaspie,’Itoldmyparents.‘Fordessert.’Myfather’sbrowwascreased.Helookedconfused.Thenheputhishand

intothepocketofhiscarcoat,andpulledoutsomethinglongandgreen,withtoilet paperwrapped around the top. ‘You forgot your toothbrush,’ he said.‘Thoughtyou’dwantit.’‘Now, if he wants to come home, he can come home,’ my mother was

sayingtoGinnieHempstock.‘HewenttostaythenightattheKovacs’houseafewmonthsago,andbyninehewascallingustocomeandgethim.’ChristopherKovacswastwoyearsolderandaheadtallerthanme,andhe

livedwithhismotherinalargecottageoppositetheentrancetoourlane,bythe old green water tower. His mother was divorced. I liked her. She wasfunny,anddroveaVWbeetle, the first Ihadeverseen.Christopherownedmanybooks I had not read, andwas amember of thePuffinClub. I couldreadhisPuffinbooks,butonlyifIwenttohishouse.Hewouldneverletmeborrowthem.TherewasabunkbedinChristopher’sbedroom,althoughhewasanonly

child. Iwasgiven thebottombunk, thenight I stayed there.Once Iwas inbed,andChristopherKovacs’motherhadsaidgoodnighttousandhadturnedout the bedroom light and closed the door, he leaned down and begansquirtingmewithawaterpistolhehadhiddenbeneathhispillow.Ihadnotknownwhattodo.‘This isn’t like when I went to Christopher Kovacs’ house,’ I told my

mother,embarrassed.‘Ilikeithere.’‘Whatareyouwearing?’ShestaredatmyWeeWillieWinkienightgownin

puzzlement.Ginniesaid,‘Hehadalittleaccident.He’swearingthatwhilehispyjamas

aredrying.’‘Oh.Isee,’saidmymother.‘Well,goodnight,dear.Haveanicetimewith

yournewfriend.’ShepeereddownatLettie.‘What’syournameagain,dear?’‘Lettie,’saidLettieHempstock.‘IsitshortforLetitia?’askedmymother.‘IknewaLetitiawhenIwasat

university.Ofcourse,everybodycalledherLettuce.’Lettiejustsmiled,anddidnotsayanythingatall.Myfatherputmytoothbrushdownonthetableinfrontofme.Iunwrapped

thetoiletpaperaroundthehead.Itwas,unmistakably,mygreentoothbrush.Underhiscarcoatmyfatherwaswearingacleanwhiteshirt,andnotie.

Isaid,‘Thankyou.’‘So,’ saidmymother. ‘What timeshouldwebeby topickhimup in the

morning?’Ginnie smiled even wider. ‘Oh, Lettie will bring him back to you. We

shouldgivethemsometimetoplay,tomorrowmorning.Now,beforeyougo,Ibakedsomesconesthisafternoon…’Andsheputsomesconesintoapaperbag,whichmymothertookpolitely,

andGinnieusheredherandmyfatheroutofthedoor.IheldmybreathuntilIheardthesoundoftheRoverbeingdrivenawaybackupthelane.‘What did you do to them?’ I asked. And then, ‘Is this really my

toothbrush?’‘That,’saidOldMrsHempstock,withsatisfactioninhervoice,‘wasavery

respectable job of snipping and stitching, if you ask me.’ She held upmydressinggown:Icouldnotseewhereshehadremovedapiece,whereshehadstitched it up. Itwas seamless, themend invisible.Shepushed the scrapoffabricthatshehadcutacrossthetable.‘Here’syourevening,’shesaid.‘Youcankeepit,ifyouwish.ButifIwereyou,I’dburnit.’The rain pattered against the window, and the wind rattled the window

frames.Ipickedupthejagged-edgedsliverofcloth.Itwasdamp.Igotup,waking

thekitten,whosprangoffandvanishedintotheshadows.Iwalkedovertothefireplace.‘IfIburnthis,’Iaskedthem,‘willithavereallyhappened?Willmydaddy

havepushedmedownintothebath?WillIforgetiteverhappened?’Ginnie Hempstock was no longer smiling. Now she looked concerned.

‘Whatdoyouwant?’sheasked.‘Iwanttoremember,’Isaid.‘Becauseithappenedtome.AndI’mstillme.’

Ithrewthelittlescrapofclothontothefire.Therewasacrackleandtheclothsmoked,thenitbegantoburn.Iwasunderthewater.Iwasholdingontomyfather’stie.Ithoughthewas

goingtokillme…Iscreamed.Iwas lying on the flagstone floor of theHempstocks’ kitchen and Iwas

rollingandscreaming.MyfootfeltlikeIhadtrodden,barefoot,onaburningcinder. The painwas intense. Therewas another pain, too, deep insidemychest,moredistant,notassharp:adiscomfort,notaburning.Ginniewasbesideme.‘What’swrong?’‘Myfoot.It’sonfire.Ithurtssomuch.’Sheexamined it, then lickedher finger, touched it to thehole inmysole

from which I had pulled the worm, two days before. There was a hissing

noise,andthepaininmyfootbegantoease.‘En’t never seen one of these before,’ saidGinnieHempstock. ‘Howdid

yougetit?’‘Therewas aworm inside it,’ I told her. ‘Thatwas how it camewith us

fromtheplacewiththeorangeysky.Inmyfoot.’AndthenIlookedatLettie,whohadcrouchedbesidemeandwasnowholdingmyhand, and I said, ‘Ibroughtitback.Itwasmyfault.I’msorry.’OldMrsHempstockwasthelasttoreachme.Sheleanedover,pulledthe

soleofmyfootupandintothelight.‘Nasty,’shesaid.‘Andveryclever.Sheleft the hole inside you so she could use it again. She could have hiddeninsideyou,ifsheneededto,usedyouasadoortogohome.Nowondershewanted tokeepyou in theattic.So.Let’s strikewhile the iron’shot, as thesoldier saidwhenhe entered the laundry.’Sheprodded thehole inmy footwithherfinger.Itstillhurt,butthepainhadfaded,alittle.Nowitfeltlikeathrobbingheadacheinsidemyfoot.Somethingflutteredinmychest,likeatinymoth,andthenwasstill.OldMrsHempstocksaid,‘Canyoubebrave?’Ididnotknow.Ididnotthinkso.ItseemedtomethatallIhaddonesofar

thatnightwastorunfromthings.Shewasholdingtheneedleshehadusedtosewupmydressinggown,andshegraspeditnow,notasifsheweregoingtosewwithit,butasifshewereplanningtostabme.Ipulledmyfootback.‘Whatareyougoingtodo?’Lettiesqueezedmyhand.‘She’sgoingtomaketheholegoaway,’shesaid.

‘I’llholdyourhand.Youdon’thavetolook,notifyoudon’twantto.’‘Itwillhurt,’Isaid.‘Stuffandnonsense,’saidtheoldwoman.Shepulledmyfoottowardsher,

sothesolewasfacingher,andstabbedtheneedledown…notintomyfoot,Irealised,butintotheholeitself.Itdidnothurt.Then she twisted the needle and pulled it back towards her. I watched,

amazed, as something that glistened – it seemed black, at first, thentranslucent,thenreflectivelikemercury–waspulledoutfromthesoleofmyfoot,ontheendoftheneedle.Icouldfeelitleavingmyleg–itseemedtotravelupallthewayinsideme,

upmyleg,throughmygroinandmystomachandintomychest.Ifeltitleavemewithrelief:theburningsensationabated,asdidmyterror.Myheartpoundedstrangely.I watched OldMrs Hempstock reel the thing in, and I was still unable,

somehow, to entirelymake sense ofwhat Iwas seeing. Itwas a holewith

nothingaroundit,overtwofeetlong,thinnerthananearthworm,liketheshedskinofatranslucentsnake.And then she stopped reeling it in. ‘Doesn’twant tocomeout,’ she said.

‘It’sholdingon.’Therewasacoldnessinmyheart,asifachipoficewerelodgedthere.The

oldwomangaveanexpertflickofherwrist,andthentheglisteningthingwasdanglingfromherneedle(Ifoundmyselfthinkingnownotofmercury,butofthesilveryslimetrailsthatsnailsleaveinthegarden),anditnolongerwentintomyfoot.SheletgoofmysoleandIpulledmyfootback.Thetinyroundholehad

vanishedcompletely,asifithadneverbeenthere.OldMrsHempstockcackledwithglee. ‘Thinksshe’ssoclever,’shesaid,

‘leaving her way home inside the boy. Is that clever? I don’t think that’sclever.Iwouldn’tgivetuppenceforthelotofthem.’GinnieHempstockproducedanemptyjamjar,andtheoldwomanputthe

bottomofthedanglingthingintoit,thenraisedthejartoholdit.Attheend,sheslippedtheglisteninginvisibletrailofftheneedleandputthelidonthejamjarwithadecisiveflickofherbonywrist.‘Ha!’shesaid.Andagain,‘Ha!’Lettiesaid,‘CanIseeit?’Shetookthejamjar,heldituptothelight.Inside

thejarthethinghadbegunlazilytouncurl.Itseemedtobefloating,asifthejar had been filled with water. It changed colour as it caught the light indifferentways,sometimesblack,sometimessilver.An experiment that I had found in a book of things boys could do, and

which Ihad,ofcourse,done: ifyou takeanegg,andblacken it completelywithsootfromacandleflame,andthenputitintoaclearcontainerfilledwithsaltwater, itwill float in thewater, and itwill seem tobe silver: apeculiar,artificialsilver,thatisonlyatrickofthelight.Ithoughtofthategg,then.Lettieseemedfascinated.‘You’reright.Sheleftherwayhomeinsidehim.

Nowondershedidn’twanthimtoleave.’Isaid,‘I’msorryIletgoofyourhand,Lettie.’‘Oh,hush,’ she said. ‘It’s always too late for sorries, but I appreciate the

sentiment.Andnext time,you’ll keepholdofmyhandnomatterwhat shethrowsatus.’Inodded.Theicechipinmyheartseemedtowarmthen,andmelt,andI

begantofeelwholeandsafeoncemore.‘So,’saidGinnie.‘We’vegotherwayhome.Andwe’vegottheboysafe.

That’sagoodnight’sworkorIdon’tknowwhatis.’‘Butshe’sgottheboy’sparents,’saidOldMrsHempstock.‘Andhissister.

And we can’t just leave her free as a daisy. Remember what happened in

Cromwell’s day? And before that?When Red Rufus was running around?Fleasattractvarmints.’Shesaiditasifitwereanaturallaw.‘That canwaituntil themorrow,’ saidGinnie. ‘Now,Lettie.Take the lad

andfindaroomforhimtosleepin.He’shadalongday.’Theblackkittenwas curledupon the rocking chair beside the fireplace.

‘CanIbringthekittenwithme?’‘Ifyoudon’t,’saidLettie,‘she’lljustcomeandfindyou.’Ginnie produced two candlesticks, thekindwithbig roundhandles, each

onewithashapelessblobofwhitewaxinit.Shelitawoodentaperfromthekitchenfire,thentransferredtheflamefirsttoonecandlewickandthentotheother.Shehandedacandletome,theothertoLettie.‘Don’t you have electricity?’ I asked. There were electric lights in the

kitchen,bigold-fashionedbulbshangingfromtheceiling,filamentsglowing.‘Notinthatpartofthehouse,’saidLettie.‘Thekitchen’snew.Sortof.Put

yourhandinfrontofyourcandleasyouwalk,soitdoesn’tblowout.’Shecuppedherownhandaroundtheflameasshesaid this,andIcopied

her,andwalkedbehindher.Theblackkittenfollowedus,outofthekitchen,throughawoodendoorpaintedwhite,downastep,andintothefarmhouse.Itwasdark,andourcandlescasthugeshadows,soitlookedtome,aswe

walked,asifeverythingwasmoving,pushedandshapedbytheshadows:thegrandfather clock and the stuffed animals and birds (were they stuffed? Iwondered.Didthatowlmove,orwasit just thecandleflamethatmademethinkthatithadturneditsheadaswepassed?),thehalltable,thechairs.Allof themmoved, and all of them stayed perfectly still.Wewent up a set ofstairs,andthenupsomesteps,andwepassedanopenwindow.Moonlight spilled on to the stairs, brighter than our candle flames. I

glancedup through thewindowandIsawthefullmoon.Thecloudlessskywassplashedwithstarsbeyondallcounting.‘That’sthemoon,’Isaid.‘Granlikesitlikethat,’saidLettieHempstock.‘But it was a crescent moon yesterday. And now it’s full. And it was

raining.Itisraining.Butnowit’snot.’‘Gran likes thefullmoontoshineon thissideof thehouse.Shesays it’s

restful,anditremindsherofwhenshewasagirl,’saidLettie.‘Andyoudon’ttriponthestairs.’Thekittenfollowedusupthestairsinasequenceofbounces.Itmademe

smile.AtthetopofthehousewasLettie’sroom,andbesideit,anotherroom,and

itwasthisroomthatweentered.Afireblazedinthehearth,illuminatingtheroomwithorangesandyellows.The roomwaswarmand inviting.Thebed

hadpostsateachcorner,andithaditsowncurtains.Ihadseensomethinglikeitincartoons,butneverinreallife.‘There’s clothes already set out for you to put on in the morning,’ said

Lettie. ‘I’ll beasleep in the roomnextdoor ifyouwantme– just shoutorknock if youneed anything, and I’ll come in.Gran said for you to use theinsidelavatory,butit’salongwaythroughthehouse,andyoumightgetlost,soifyouneedtodoyourbusiness,there’sachamberpotunderthebed,sameasthere’salwaysbeen.’Iblewoutmycandle,andpushedthroughthecurtainsintothebed.Theroomwaswarm,butthesheetswerecold.Thebedshookassomething

landedon it,and thensmall feetpaddedup theblankets,andawarm, furrypresencepusheditselfintomyfaceandthekittenbegan,softly,topurr.Therewasstillamonsterinmyhouse,and,inafragmentoftimethathad,

perhaps,beensnippedoutofreality,myfatherhadpushedmedownintothewaterofthebathandtried,perhaps,todrownme.Ihadrunformilesthroughthedark.IhadseenmyfatherkissingandtouchingthethingthatcalleditselfUrsulaMonkton.Thedreadhadnotleftmysoul.But therewas a kitten onmy pillow, and itwas purring inmy face and

vibratinggentlywitheverypurr,andverysoon,Islept.

Ihadstrangedreamsinthathouse,thatnight.Iwokemyselfinthedarkness,andIknewonlythatadreamhadscaredmesobadlyIhadtowakeupordie,andyet,tryasImight,IcouldnotrememberwhatIhaddreamed.Thedreamwashauntingme:standingbehindme,presentandinvisible,likethebackofmyhead,simultaneouslythereandnotthere.Imissedmy fatherand Imissedmymother, and Imissedmybed inmy

house, only amileor so away. Imissedyesterday, beforeUrsulaMonkton,beforemy father’s anger, before the bathtub. I wanted that yesterday backagain,andIwanteditsobadly.Itriedtopullthedreamthathadupsetmesotothefrontofmymind,butit

would not come. Therewas betrayal in it, I knew, and loss, and time. Thedreamleftmescaredtogobacktosleep:thefireplacewasalmostdarknow,withonlythedeepredglowofembersinthehearthtomarkthatithadoncebeenburning,oncehadgivenlight.Iclimbeddownfromthefour-posterbed,andfeltbeneathituntilIfound

theheavychinachamberpot.IhitchedupmynightgownandIusedit.ThenIwalkedtothewindowandlookedout.Themoonwasstillfull,butnowitwaslowinthesky,andadarkorange:whatmymothercalledaharvestmoon.Butthingswereharvestedinautumn,Iknew,notinspring.IntheorangemoonlightIcouldseeanoldwoman–Iwasalmostcertainit

was OldMrs Hempstock, although it was hard to see her face properly –walking up and down. She had a big long stick shewas leaning on as shewalked,likeastaff.SheremindedmeofthesoldiersonparadeIhadseenonatriptoLondon,outsideBuckinghamPalace,astheymarchedbackwardsandforwardsonparade.Iwatchedher,andIwascomforted.Iclimbedbackintomybedinthedark,laidmyheadontheemptypillow,

andthought,I’llnevergobacktosleep,notnow,andthenIopenedmyeyesandsawthatitwasmorning.Therewere clothes I hadnever seenbeforeon a chair by thebed.There

were twochina jugsofwater–onesteaminghot,onecold–besideabowlthatIrealisedwasahandbasin,set intoasmallwoodentable.Therewasafluffyblackkittenonthefootofthebed.ItopeneditseyesasIsatup;they

were a vivid blue-green, unnatural and odd, like the sea in summer, and itmewedahigh-pitched,questioningnoise.Istrokedit,thenIgotoutofbed.Imixedthehotwaterandthecoldinthebasin,andIwashedmyfaceand

hands. Icleanedmyteethwith thecoldwater.Therewasno toothpaste,butthere was a small round tin box on which was written Max Melton’sRemarkablyEfficaciousToothPowder,inold-fashionedletters.Iputsomeofthewhite powder onmygreen toothbrush, and cleanedmy teethwith it. Ittastedmintyandlemonyinmymouth.Iexaminedtheclothes.TheywereunlikeanythingIhadeverwornbefore.

Therewerenounderpants.Therewasawhiteundershirt,withnobuttonsbutwith a long tail.Therewere brown trousers that stopped at the knees, longwhitestockings,andachestnut-colouredjacketwithaVcutintointheback,likeaswallow’s tail.The lightbrownsocksweremore likestockings. IputtheclothesonasbestIcould,wishingtherewerezipsorclasps,rather thanhooksandbuttonsandstiff,unyieldingbuttonholes.Theshoeshadsilverbuckles in the front,but theshoeswere toobigand

didnotfitme,soIwentoutoftheroominmystockingedfeet,andthekittenfollowedme.ToreachmyroomthenightbeforeIhadwalkedupstairsand,atthetopof

thestairs, turned left.NowI turnedright,andwalkedpastLettie’sbedroom(thedoorwasajar,theroomwasempty)andmadeforthestairs.ButthestairswerenotwhereIrememberedthem.Thecorridorendedinablankwall,andawindowthatlookedoutoverwoodlandandfields.Theblackkittenwiththeblue-greeneyesmewed,loudly,asiftoattractmy

attention,andturnedbackdownthecorridorinaself-importantstrut,tailheldhigh.Itledmedownthehall,roundacorneranddownapassageIhadneverseenbefore,toastaircase.Thekittenbouncedamiablydownthestairs,andIfollowed.GinnieHempstockwas standing at the foot of the stairs. ‘You slept long

andwell,’shesaid,‘We’vealreadymilkedthecows.Yourbreakfastisonthetable,andthere’sasaucerofcreambythefireplaceforyourfriend.’‘Where’sLettie,MrsHempstock?’‘Offonanerrand,gettingstuffshemayneed.Ithastogo,thethingatyour

house,ortherewillbetrouble,andworsewillfollow.She’salreadybounditonce,anditslippedthebounds,sosheneedstosendithome.’‘IjustwantUrsulaMonktontogoaway,’Isaid.‘Ihateher.’GinnieHempstockputoutafinger,ranitacrossmyjacket.‘It’snotwhat

anyoneelsehereabouts iswearingthesedays,’shesaid,‘butmymamputalittleglamouronit,soit’snotasifanyonewillnotice.Youcanwalkaround

initallyouwant,andnotasoulwillthinkthere’sanythingoddaboutit.Noshoes?’‘Theydidn’tfit.’‘I’llleavesomethingthatwillfityoubythebackdoor,then.’‘Thankyou.’Shesaid,‘Idon’thateher.Shedoeswhatshedoes,accordingtohernature.

Shewasasleep,shewokeup,she’stryingtogiveeveryonewhattheywant.’‘Shehasn’tgivenmeanythingIwant.Shesaysshewantstoputmeinthe

attic.’‘That’sasmaybe.Youwereherwayhere,andit’sadangerousthingtobea

door.’ She tappedmy chest, abovemy heart,with her forefinger. ‘And shewasbetteroffwhereshewas.Wewouldhavesentherhomesafely–doneitbeforeforherkindadozentimes.Butshe’sheadstrong,thatone.Noteachingthem.Right.Yourbreakfastisonthetable.I’llbeupinthenine-acrefieldifanyoneneedsme.’Therewasabowlofporridgeon thekitchen tableandbeside it,asaucer

withalumpofgoldenhoneycombonit,andajugofrichyellowcream.Ispoonedupapieceofthehoneycombandmixeditintothethickporridge,

thenIpouredinthecream.Therewastoast,too,cookedbeneaththegrill,asmyfathercookedit,with

home-madeblackberryjam.TherewasthebestcupofteaIhaveeverdrunk.Bythefireplace,thekittenlappedatasaucerofcreamymilk,andpurredsoloudlyIcouldhearitacrosstheroom.IwishedIcouldpurrtoo.Iwouldhavepurredthen.Lettie came in, carrying a shopping bag, the old-fashioned kind: elderly

women used to carry them to the shops, bigwoven bags that were almostbaskets, raffia-work outside and lined with cloth, with rope handles. Thisbasketwasalmostfull.Hercheekhadbeenscratched,andhadbled,althoughthebloodhaddried.Shelookedmiserable.‘Hello,’Isaid.‘Well,’shesaid.‘Letmetellyou,ifyouthinkthatwasfun,thatwasn’tany

fun,notonebit.Mandrakesaresoloudwhenyoupullthemup,andIdidn’thave earplugs, and I swapped it for a shadow bottle, an old-fashioned onewith lotsof shadowsdissolved invinegar…’Shebutteredsome toast, thencrushedalumpofgoldenhoneycombontoitandstartedmunching.‘Andthatwasjusttogetmetothebazaar,andtheyaren’tevenmeanttobeopenyet.ButIgotmostofwhatIneededthere.’‘CanIlook?’‘Ifyouwantto.’

I looked into the basket. It was filled with broken toys: doll’s eyes andheadsandhands,carswithnowheels,chippedcat’s-eyeglassmarbles.Lettiereachedupandtookdownthejamjarfromthewindowledge.Insideit, thesilvery translucent wormhole shifted and twisted and spiralled and turned.Lettiedroppeditintotheshoppingbag,withthebrokentoys.Thekittenslept,andignoredusentirely.Lettiesaid,‘Youdon’thavetocomewithme,forthisbit.Youcanstayhere

whileIgoandtalktoher.’Ithoughtaboutit.‘I’dfeelsaferwithyou,’Itoldher.Shedidnotlookhappyatthis.Shesaid,‘Let’sgodowntotheocean.’The

kittenopeneditstoo-blueeyesandstaredatusdisinterestedlyasweleft.Therewere black leather boots, like riding boots, waiting forme by the

backdoor.Theylookedold,butwellcaredfor,andwerejustmysize.Iputthemon,althoughI feltmorecomfortable insandals.Together,LettieandIwalkeddowntoherocean,bywhichImeanthepond.We sat on the old bench, and looked at the placid brown surface of the

pond,andthelilypads,andthescumofduckweedbythewater’sedge.‘Youaren’tpeople,’Isaid.‘Aretoo.’I shook my head. ‘I bet you don’t actually look like that,’ I said. ‘Not

really.’Lettieshrugged.‘Nobodylookslikewhattheyreallyareontheinside.You

don’t. I don’t. People are much more complicated than that. It’s true ofeverybody.’Isaid,‘Areyouamonster?LikeUrsulaMonkton?’Lettiethrewapebbleintothepond.‘Idon’tthinkso,’shesaid.‘Monsters

comeinallshapesandsizes.Someof themare thingspeoplearescaredof.Someof themare things that look like thingspeopleused tobescaredofalongtimeago.Sometimesmonstersarethingspeopleshouldbescaredof,buttheyaren’t.’Isaid,‘PeopleshouldbescaredofUrsulaMonkton.’‘P’rhaps.WhatdoyouthinkUrsulaMonktonisscaredof?’‘Dunno.Why do you think she’s scared of anything? She’s a grown-up,

isn’tshe?Grown-upsandmonstersaren’tscaredofthings.’‘Oh, monsters are scared,’ said Lettie. ‘And as for grown-ups …’ She

stoppedtalking,rubbedherfrecklednosewithafinger.Then,‘I’mgoingtotell you something important.Grown-ups don’t look like grown-ups on theinsideeither.Outside,they’rebigandthoughtlessandtheyalwaysknowwhatthey’re doing. Inside, they look just like they always have. Like they didwhentheywereyourage.Thetruthis,therearen’tanygrown-ups.Notone,in

thewholewideworld.’Shethoughtforamoment.Thenshesmiled.‘ExceptforGranny,ofcourse.’Wesatthere,sidebyside,ontheoldwoodenbench,notsayinganything.I

thought about adults. I wondered if that was true: if they were all reallychildrenwrappedinadultbodies,likechildren’sbookshiddeninthemiddleofdull,longbooks.Thekindwithnopicturesorconversations.‘Ilovemyocean,’Lettiesaid,intheend.‘It’sjustpretending,though,’Itoldher,feelinglikeIwaslettingchildhood

downbyadmitting it. ‘Yourpond. It’snotanocean. Itcan’tbe.Oceansarebiggerthanseas.Yourpondisjustapond.’‘It’sasbigas itneeds tobe,’ saidLettieHempstock,nettled.Shesighed.

‘We’dbettergetonwithsendingUrsulawhatsernamebackwhereshecamefrom.’Thenshesaid,‘Idoknowwhatshe’sscaredof.Andyouknowwhat?I’mscaredofthemtoo.’The kitten was nowhere to be seen when we returned to the kitchen,

althoughthefog-colouredcatwassittingonawindowsill,staringoutat theworld.Thebreakfastthingshadallbeentidiedupandputaway,andmyredpyjamas andmy dressing gown, neatly folded,werewaiting forme on thetable,inalargebrownpaperbag,alongwithmygreentoothbrush.‘Youwon’tlethergetme,willyou?’IaskedLettie.Sheshookherhead,andtogetherwewalkedupthewindingflintylanethat

ledtomyhouseandtothethingwhocalledherselfUrsulaMonkton.Icarriedthebrown-paperbagwithmynightwearinit,andLettiecarriedhertoo-big-for-herraffiashoppingbag,filledwithbrokentoys,whichshehadobtainedinexchangeforamandrakethatscreamed,andshadowsdissolvedinvinegar.Children,asIhavesaid,usebackwaysandhiddentracks,whileadultstake

roads and official paths.Wewent off the road, took a short cut that Lettieknew that led us through some fields, then into the extensive abandonedgardensofarichman’scrumblinghouse,andthenbackontothelaneagain.WecameoutjustbeforetheplacewhereIhadgoneoverthemetalfence.Lettiesniffedtheair.‘Novarmintsyet,’shesaid.‘That’sgood.’‘Whatarevarmints?’She said only, ‘You’ll know ’em when you see ’em. And I hope you’ll

neversee’em.’‘Arewegoingtosneakin?’‘Whywouldwedothat?We’llgoupthedriveandthroughthefrontdoor,

likegentry.’Westartedupthedrive.Isaid,‘Areyougoingtomakeaspellandsendher

away?’

‘Wedon’tdospells,’shesaid.Shesoundedalittledisappointedtoadmitit.‘We’lldorecipessometimes.Butnospellsorcantrips.Grandoesn’tholdwithnoneofthat.Shesaysit’scommon.’‘Sowhat’sthestuffintheshoppingbagfor,then?’‘It’s to stop things travelling when you don’t want them to. Mark

boundaries.’In the morning sunlight, my house looked so welcoming and friendly.

Warmredbricks,andaredtileroof.Lettiereachedintotheshoppingbag.Shetook a marble from it, pushed it into the still-damp soil. Then, instead ofgoingintothehouse,sheturnedleft,walkingtheedgeoftheproperty.ByMrWollery’svegetablepatchwestoppedandshetooksomethingelsefromhershoppingbag: aheadless, leglesspinkdoll-body,withbadlychewedhands.Sheburieditbesidethepeaplants.We picked some pea pods, opened them and ate the peas inside. Peas

baffled me. I could not understand why grown-ups would take things thattastedsogoodraw,andputthemintins,andmakethemrevolting.Lettie placed a toy wolf, the small plastic kind you would find in a

children’szoo,oranark,inthecoalshed,beneathalargelumpofcoal.Thecoalshedsmelledofdampandblacknessandofold,crushedforests.‘Willthesethingsmakehergoaway?’‘No.’‘Thenwhataretheyfor?’‘Tostophergoingaway.’‘Butwewanthertogoaway.’‘No.Wewanthertogohome.’I stared at her: at her short brown hair, her snub nose, her freckles. She

lookedthreeorfouryearsolderthanme.Shemighthavebeenthreeorfourthousandyearsolder,ora thousandtimesagain.IwouldhavetrustedhertothegatesofHellandback.Butstill…‘Iwishyou’dexplainproperly,’Isaid.‘Youtalkinmysteriesallthetime.’I was not scared, though, and I could not have told you why I was not

scared.ItrustedLettie,justasIhadtrustedherwhenwehadgoneinsearchoftheflappingthingbeneaththeorangesky.Ibelievedinher,andthatmeantIwouldcometonoharmwhileIwaswithher.IknewitinthewayIknewthatgrasswasgreen,thatroseshadsharp,woodythorns,thatbreakfastcerealwassweet.Wewentintothehousethroughthefrontdoor.Itwasnotlocked–unless

wewentawayonholidays,Idonoteverrememberitbeinglocked–andwewentinside.

Mysisterwaspractisingthepianointhefrontroom.Wewentin.Sheheardthenoise,stoppedplaying‘Chopsticks’andturnedaround.She looked at me curiously. ‘What happened last night?’ she asked. ‘I

thoughtyouwereintrouble,butthenMummyandDaddycamebackandyouwerejuststayingwithyourfriends.Whywouldtheysayyouweresleepingatyour friends’? You don’t have any friends.’ She noticed Lettie Hempstockthen.‘Who’sthis?’‘Myfriend,’Itoldher.‘Where’sthehorriblemonster?’‘Don’tcallherthat,’saidmysister.‘She’snice.She’shavingalie-down.’Mysisterdidnotsayanythingaboutmyclothes.Lettie Hempstock took a broken xylophone from her shopping bag and

droppeditontothescreeoftoysthathadaccumulatedbetweenthepianoandthebluetoyboxwiththedetachedlid.‘There,’shesaid.‘Nowit’stimetogoandsayhello.’Thefirstfaintstirringsoffearinsidemychest,insidemymind.‘Goupto

herroom,youmean?’‘Yup.’‘What’sshedoingupthere?’‘Stillgivingpeoplemoney,’saidLettie.‘Onlylocalpeoplesofar.Shefinds

what they think theyneedandshe tries togive it to them.She’sdoing it tomake the world into something she’ll be happier in. Somewhere morecomfortableforher.Somewherecleaner.Andshedoesn’tcaresomuchaboutgivingthemmoney,notanymore.Nowwhatshecaresaboutmoreispeoplehurting.’Aswewent up the stairs, Lettie placed something on each step: a clear

glassmarblewithatwistofgreeninsideit;oneofthelittlemetalobjectswecalledknucklebones;abead;apairofbrightbluedoll’seyes,connectedattheback with white plastic, to make them open or close; a small horseshoemagnet; a black pebble; a badge, the kind that came attached to birthdaycards,with I Am Seven on it; a book ofmatches; a plastic ladybirdwith ablackmagnetinthebase;atoycar,halfsquashed,itswheelsgone;andlastofall,aleadsoldier.Itwasmissingaleg.Wewereatthetopofthestairs.Thebedroomdoorwasclosed.Lettiesaid,

‘Shewon’tputyouintheattic.’Then,withoutknocking,sheopenedthedoor,and shewent into thebedroom that hadoncebeenmine, and, reluctantly, Ifollowed.UrsulaMonktonwas lyingon thebedwithher eyes closed.Shewas the

first adult woman who was not my mother that I had seen naked, and Iglancedathercuriously.But the roomwasmore interesting tome thanshewas.

Itwasmyoldbedroom,but itwasn’t.Notanymore.Therewas the littleyellowhandbasin,justmysize,andthewallswerestillrobin’s-eggblue,asthey had been when it was mine. But now strips of cloth hung from theceiling,grey,raggedclothstrips,likebandages,someonlyafootlong,othersdanglingalmostallthewaytothefloor.Thewindowwasopenandthewindrustledandpushedthem,sotheyswayed,greyly,anditseemedasifperhapstheroomwasmoving,likeatentorashipatsea.‘Youhavetogonow,’saidLettie.UrsulaMonkton sat upon thebed, and then sheopenedher eyes,which

were the same grey as the hanging cloths. She said, in a voice that stillsoundedhalfasleep,‘IwonderedwhatIwouldhavetodotobringyoubothhere,andnowlook,youcame.’‘You didn’t bring us here,’Lettie said. ‘We came becausewewanted to.

AndIcametogiveyouonelastchancetogo.’‘I’mnotgoingnow,’saidUrsulaMonkton,andshesoundedpetulant,likea

very small child whowanted something. ‘I’ve only just got here. I have ahouse, now. I have pets – his father is just the sweetest thing. I’mmakingpeoplehappy.Thereisnothinglikemeanywhereinthiswholeworld.Iwaslooking, just nowwhenyou came in. I’m theonlyone there is.They can’tdefend themselves. They don’t know how. So this is the best place in thewholeworld.’Shesmiledatusboth,brightly.Shereallywaspretty,foragrown-up,but

when you are seven, beauty is an abstraction, not an imperative. I wonderwhat I would have done if she had smiled at me like that now: whether Iwouldhavehandedmymindormyheartormyidentitytoherfortheasking,asmyfatherdid.‘You think thisworld’s like that,’ saidLettie. ‘You think it’s easy.But it

en’t.’‘Of course it is. What are you saying? That you and your family will

defend this world against me? You’re the only one who ever leaves thebordersofyourfarm–andyoutriedtobindmewithoutknowingmyname.Yourmother wouldn’t have been that foolish. I’m not scared of you, littlegirl.’Lettiereacheddeepintotheshoppingbag.Shepulledoutthejamjarwith

thetranslucentwormholeinside,andhelditout.‘Here’s your way back,’ she said. ‘I’m being kind, and I’m being nice.

Trustme.Takeit.Idon’tthinkyoucangetanynearertohomethantheplacewemetyou,withtheorangesky,butthat’sfarenough.Ican’tgetyoufromtheretowhereyoucamefrominthefirstplace–IaskedGran,andshesaysit

isn’teventhereanymore–butonceyou’reback,wecanfindaplaceforyou,somewheresimilar.Somewhereyou’llbehappy.Somewhereyou’llbesafe.’Ursula Monkton got off the bed. She stood up and looked down at us.

Therewereno lightningswreathingher,notany longer,butshewasscarierstandingnakedinthatbedroomthanshehadbeenfloatinginthestorm.Shewas an adult – no,more than an adult. Shewasold.And I have never feltmorelikeachild.‘I’m so happy here,’ she said. ‘So very, very happy.’And then she said,

almostregretfully,‘You’renot.’Iheardasound,asoft,raggedy,flappingsound.Thegreyclothsbeganto

detachthemselvesfromtheceiling,onebyone.Theyfell,butnotinastraightline. They fell towards us, from all over the room, as ifweweremagnets,pulling them towardsourbodies.The first stripofgreycloth landedon theback ofmy left hand, and it stuck there. I reached outmy right hand andgrabbed it, and I pulled the cloth off; it adhered, for a moment, and as itpulled off, itmade a sucking sound. Therewas a discoloured patch on thebackofmylefthand,wheretheclothhadbeen,anditwasasredasifIhadbeensuckingonitforalong,longtime,longerandharderthanIeverhadinreallife,anditwasbeadedwithblood.TherewerepinpricksofredwetnessthatsmearedasItouchedthem,andthenalongbandageclothbegantoattachitself tomy legs, and Imoved away as a cloth landed onmy face andmyforehead,andanotherwrappeditselfovermyeyes,blindingme,soIpulledattheclothonmyeyes,butnowanotherclothcircledmywrists,bound themtogether,andmyarmswerewrappedandboundtomybody,andIstumbled,andfelltothefloor.IfIpulledagainstthecloths,theyhurtme.My world was grey. I gave up, then. I lay there, and did not move,

concentratedonlyonbreathingthroughthespacetheclothstripshadleftformynose.Theyheldme,andtheyfeltalive.Ilaythere,andIlistened.TherewasnothingelseIcoulddo.Ursulasaid,‘Ineedtheboysafe. IpromisedI’dkeephimin theattic,so

the attic it shall be. But you, little farm girl. What shall I do with you?Somethingappropriate.PerhapsIoughttoturnyouinsideout,soyourheartandbrainsandfleshareallontheoutside,andtheskinside’sinside.ThenI’llkeepyouwrappedupinmyroomhere,withyoureyesstaringforeveratthedarknessinsideyourself.Icandothat.’‘No,’ saidLettie.Shesoundedsad, I thought. ‘Actually,youcan’t.And I

gaveyouyourchance.’‘Youthreatenedme.Emptythreats.’

‘Iduntmake threats,’saidLettie. ‘I reallywantedyou tohaveachance.’And thenshesaid, ‘Whenyou lookedaround theworldfor things likeyou,didn’tyouwonderwhythereweren’tlotsofotheroldthingsaround?No,youneverwondered.Youweresohappyitwasjustyouhere,youneverstoppedtothink.‘Granalwayscallsyoursortofthingfleas,SkarthachoftheKeep.Imean,

she could call you anything. I think she thinks fleas is funny… She duntmind your kind. She says you’re harmless enough. Just a bit stupid.That’s’costherearethingsthateatfleas,inthispartofcreation.Varmints,Grancallsthem.Sheduntlikethematall.Shesaysthey’remean,andthey’rehardtogetridof.Andthey’realwayshungry.’‘I’mnotscared,’saidUrsulaMonkton.Shesoundedscared.Andthenshe

said,‘Howdidyouknowmyname?’‘Wentlookingforitthismorning.Wentlookingforotherthingstoo.Some

boundary markers, to keep you from running too far, getting into moretrouble.Andatrailofbreadcrumbsthatleadsstraighthere,tothisroom.Now,openthebottle,takeoutthedoorway,andlet’ssendyouhome.’IwaitedforUrsulaMonktontorespond,butshesaidnothing.Therewasno

answer.Only the slamming of a door, and the sound of footsteps, fast andpounding,runningdownthestairs.Lettie’svoicewasclosetome,anditsaid,‘Shewouldhavebeenbetteroff

stayinghereandtakingmeuponmyoffer.’I felt herhands tuggingat the clothsonmy face.Theycame freewith a

wet,suckingsound,buttheynolongerfeltalive,andwhentheycameofftheyfell to the ground and lay there, unmoving. This time there was no bloodbeadedonmyskin.Theworstthingthathadhappenedwasthatmyarmsandlegshadgonetosleep.Lettiehelpedmetomyfeet.Shedidnotlookhappy.‘Wheredidshego?’Iasked.‘She’s followed the trail out of the house.And she’s scared. Poor thing.

She’ssoscared.’‘You’rescaredtoo.’‘Abit,yes.Rightaboutnowshe’sgoingtofindthatshe’strappedinsidethe

boundsIputdown,Iexpect,’saidLettie.Wewentoutofthebedroom.Wherethetoysoldieratthetopofthestairs

hadbeen, therewasnowarip.That’s thebest Icandescribe it: itwasas ifsomeone had taken a photograph of the stairs and then torn out the soldierfrom thephotograph.Therewasnothing in the spacewhere the soldierhadbeenbutadimgreynessthathurtmyeyesifIlookedatittoolong.‘What’sshescaredof?’

‘Youheard.Varmints.’‘Areyouscaredofvarmints,Lettie?’Shehesitated,justamomenttoolong.Thenshesaidsimply,‘Yes.’‘Butyouaren’tscaredofher.OfUrsula.’‘Ican’tbescaredofher.It’sjustlikeGransays.She’slikeaflea,allpuffed

up with pride and power and lust, like a flea bloated with blood. But shecouldn’thavehurtme.I’veseenoffdozenslikeher,inmytime.OneascomethroughinCromwell’sday–nowtherewassomethingtotalkabout.Hemadefolklonely,thatone.They’dhurtthemselvesjusttomakethelonelinessstop– gouge out their eyes or jump down wells, and all the while that greatlummockingthingsitsinthecellaroftheDuke’sHead,lookinglikeasquattoadbigasabulldog.’Wewereatthebottomofthestairs,walkingdownthehall.‘Howdoyouknowwhereshewent?’‘Oh,shecouldn’thavegoneanywherebutthewayIlaidoutforher.’Inthe

frontroommysisterwasstillplaying‘Chopsticks’onthepiano.

DadaDUMdadadadaDUMdada

dadaDUMdaDUMdaDUMdada…

Wewalkedoutofthefrontdoor.‘Hewasnasty,thatone,backinCromwell’sday.Butwegothimoutoftherejustbeforethehungerbirdscame.’‘Hungerbirds?’‘WhatGrancallsvarmints.Thecleaners.’Theydidn’tsoundbad.IknewthatUrsulahadbeenscaredofthem,butI

wasn’t.Whywouldyoubescaredofcleaners?

We caught upwithUrsulaMonkton on the lawn, by the rose bushes. Shewas holding the jam jar with the drifting wormhole inside it. She lookedstrange. She tugged at the lid, and then stopped and looked up at the sky.Thenshelookedbacktothejamjaroncemore.Sheranovertomybeechtree,theonewiththeropeladder,andshethrew

thejamjarashardasshecouldagainstthetrunk.Ifshewastryingtobreakit,she failed. The jar simply bounced off, and landed on the moss that halfcoveredthetangleofroots,andlaythere,undamaged.UrsulaMonktonglaredatLettie.‘Why?’shesaid.‘Youknowwhy,’saidLettie.‘Why would you let them in?’ She had started to cry, and I felt

uncomfortable.Ididnotknowwhattodowhenadultscried.ItwassomethingIhadonlyseentwicebeforeinmylife:Ihadseenmygrandparentscry,whenmyaunthaddied, inhospital,andIhadseenmymothercry.Adultsshouldnotweep,Iknew.Theydidnothavemotherswhowouldcomfortthem.IwonderedifUrsulaMonktonhadeverhadamother.Shehadmudonher

face,andonherknees,andshewaswailing.Iheardasoundinthedistance,oddandoutlandish:alowthrumming,asif

someonehadpluckedatatautpieceofstring.‘Itwon’tbemethatletsthemin,’saidLettieHempstock.‘Theygowhere

theywantsto.Theyusuallydon’tcomeherebecausethere’snothingforthemtoeat.Now,thereis.’‘Sendmeback,’saidUrsulaMonkton.AndnowIdidnotthinkshelooked

evenfaintlyhuman.Herfacewaswrong,somehow:anaccidentalassemblageoffeaturesthatsimplyputmeinmindofahumanface,liketheknobblygreywhorls and lumps on the side of my beech tree, or the patterns in theheadboardofthebedatmygrandmother’shouse,which,ifIlookedatthemwronglyinthemoonlight,showedmeanoldmanwithhismouthopenwide,asifhewerescreaming.Lettie picked up the jam jar from the green moss, and twisted the lid.

‘You’ve gone andgot it stuck tight,’ she said. Shewalkedover to the rockpath,turnedthejamjarupsidedown,holdingitatthebottom,andbangedit,

lid sidedown,once, confidently, against theground.Then she turned it therightsideup,andtwisted.Thistimethelidcameoffinherhand.ShepassedthejamjartoUrsulaMonkton,whoreachedinsideitandpulled

outthetranslucentthingthathadoncebeenaholeinmyfoot.Itwrithedandwiggledandflexedseeminglyindelightathertouch.Shethrewitdown.Itfellontothegrass,anditgrew.Onlyitdidn’tgrow.It

changed:asifitwasclosertomethanIhadthought.Icouldseethroughit,from one end to the other. I could have run down it, if the far end of thattunnelhadnotendedinabitterorangesky.AsIstaredatit,mychesttwingedagain:anice-coldfeeling,asifIhadjust

eatensomuchicecreamthatIhadchilledmyinsides.UrsulaMonktonwalked towards the tunnelmouth. (Howcould thatbe a

tunnel? I couldnotunderstand it. Itwas still aglistening translucent silver-blackwormhole,onthegrass,nomorethanafootorsolong.Itwasas ifIhadzoomedinonsomethingsmall, Isuppose.But itwasstilla tunnel,andyoucouldhavetakenahousethroughit.)Thenshestopped,andshewailed.She said, ‘Thewayback.’Only that. ‘Incomplete,’ she said. ‘It’s broken.

The lastof thegate isn’t there…’and she lookedaroundher, troubledandpuzzled.Shefocusedonme–notmyface,butmychest.Andshesmiled.Thensheshook.Onemomentshewasanadultwoman,nakedandmuddy,

thenext,asifshewasaflesh-colouredumbrella,sheunfurled.Andassheunfurled,shestretchedout,andshegrabbedme,pulledmeup

andhighofftheground,andIreachedoutinfearandheldherinmyturn.Iwasholdingflesh.Iwasfifteenfeetormoreabovetheground,ashighas

atree.Iwasnotholdingflesh.Iwasholdingoldfabric,aperished,rottingcanvas,and,beneathit,Icould

feelwood.Not good, solidwood, but the kind of oldwood I’d findwheretreeshadcrumbled,thekindthatalwaysfeltwet,thatIcouldpullapartwithmy fingers, soft woodwith tiny beetles in it, andwoodlice, all filled withthreadlikefungus.Itcreakedandswayedasitheldme.YOUHAVEBLOCKEDTHEWAYS,itsaidtoLettieHempstock.‘I never blocked nothing,’ Lettie said. ‘You’ve got my friend. Put him

down.’Shewasalongwaybeneathme,andIwasscaredofheightsandIwasscaredofthecreaturethatwasholdingme.THEPATHISINCOMPLETE.THEWAYSAREBLOCKED.‘Puthimdown.Now.Safely.’HECOMPLETESTHEPATH.THEPATHISINSIDEHIM.

IwascertainthatIwoulddie,then.Ididnotwanttodie.MyparentshadtoldmethatIwouldnotreallydie,

nottherealme:thatnobodyreallydied,whentheydied;thatmykittenandthe opal miner had just taken new bodies and would be back again, soonenough.Ididnotknowif itwastrueornot.IknewonlythatIwasusedtobeingme,andIlikedmybooksandmygrandparentsandLettieHempstock,andthatdeathwouldtakeallthesethingsfromme.I WILL OPEN HIM. THE WAY IS BROKEN. IT REMAINS INSIDE

HIM.Iwouldhavekicked,but therewasnothing tokickagainst. Ipulledwith

myfingersat the limbholdingme,butmyfingernailsdugintorottingclothandsoftwood,andbeneathit,woodashardasbone;andthethingheldmeclose.‘Letmego!’Ishouted.‘Let!Me!Go!’NO.‘Mummy!’Ishouted.‘Daddy!’Then,‘Lettie,makeherputmedown.’Myparentswerenotthere.Lettiewas.Shesaid,‘Skarthach.Puthimdown.

Igaveyouachoicebefore.Sendingyouhomewillbeharderwiththeendofyourtunnelinsidehim.Butwecandoit–andGrancandoitifMumandmecan’t.Soputhimdown.’ITISINSIDEHIM.ITISNOTATUNNEL.NOTANYLONGER.ITIS

ADOOR.ITISAGATE.ITCREPTUPSONOWITISINSIDEHIM.ALLINEEDTODOTOGETAWAYFROMHEREISTOREACHINTOHISCHEST AND PULL OUT HIS BEATING HEART AND FINISH THEPATH.Itwas talkingwithoutwords, the faceless flapping thing, talking directly

insidemyhead,andyettherewassomethinginitswordsthatremindedmeofUrsulaMonkton’spretty,musicalvoice.Iknewitmeantwhatitsaid.‘Allofyourchancesareusedup,’saidLettie,asifsheweretellingusthat

theskywasblue.Andsheraisedtwofingerstoherlipsand,shrillandsweetandpiercingsharp,shewhistled.Theycame.Highintheskytheywere,andblack,jetblack,soblackitseemedasifthey

werespecksonmyeyes,notrealthingsatall.Theyhadwings,buttheywerenotbirds.Theywereolder thanbirds, and they flew incirclesand in loopsand whorls, dozens of them, hundreds perhaps, and each flapping unbirdslowly,eversoslowly,descended.I foundmyself imaginingavalleyfilledwithdinosaurs,millionsofyears

ago,whohaddiedinbattle,orofdisease;imaginingfirstthecarcassesoftherottingthunderlizards,biggerthanbuses,andthenthevulturesofthataeon:

grey-black,naked,wingedbutfeatherless;facesfromnightmares–beak-likesnouts filled with needle-sharp teeth, made for rending and tearing anddevouring, and hungry red eyes. These creatureswould have descended onthecorpsesofthegreatthunderlizardsandleftnothingbutbones.Huge, theywere, and sleek, and ancient, and it hurt my eyes to look at

them.‘Now,’saidLettieHempstocktoUrsulaMonkton.‘Puthimdown.’The thing that held memade nomove to dropme. It said nothing, just

movedswiftly,likearaggedytallship,acrossthegrasstowardsthetunnel.I could see the anger in Lettie Hempstock’s face, her fists clenched so

tightly the knuckles were white. I could see above us the hunger birdscircling,circling…Andthenoneofthemdroppedfromthesky,droppedfasterthanthemind

couldimagine.Ifeltarushofairbesideme,sawablack,blackjawfilledwithneedlesandeyesthatburnedlikegasjets,andIheardarippingnoise,likeacurtainbeingtornapart.Theflyingthingswoopedbackupintotheskywithalengthofgreycloth

betweenitsjaws.I heard a voicewailing insidemy head and out of it, and the voicewas

UrsulaMonkton’s.Theydescended, then,as if theyhadallbeenwaitingfor thefirstof their

number to move. They fell from the sky on to the thing that held me,nightmarestearingatanightmare,pullingoffstripsoffabric,andthroughitallIheardUrsulaMonktoncrying.IONLYGAVETHEMWHATTHEYNEEDED,shewassaying,petulant

andafraid.IMADETHEMHAPPY.‘Youmademy daddy hurtme,’ I said, as the thing thatwas holdingme

flailedat thenightmaresthattoreat itsfabric.Thehungerbirdsrippedatit,eachbirdsilentlytearingawaystripsofclothandflappingheavilybackintothesky,towheelanddescendagain.I NEVERMADEANYOF THEMDOANYTHING, it told me. For a

momentIthoughtitwaslaughingatme,thenthelaughterbecameascream,soloudithurtmyearsandmymind.It was as if the wind left the tattered sails then, and the thing that was

holdingmecrumpledslowlytotheground.Ihitthegrasshard,skinningmykneesandthepalmsofmyhands.Lettie

pulledmeup,helpedmeawayfromthefallen,crumpledremainsofwhathadoncecalleditselfUrsulaMonkton.Therewasstillgreycloth,butitwasnotcloth:itwrithedandrolledonthe

ground around me, blown by no wind that I could perceive, a squirming

maggotymess.Theylandedonitlikeseagullsonabeachofstrandedfish,andtheytoreat

itasiftheyhadnoteatenforathousandyearsandneededtostuffthemselvesnow,as itmightbeanother thousandyearsor longerbefore theywouldeatagain.Theytoreat thegreystuff,andinmymindIcouldhearitscreamingthe whole time as they crammed its rotting-canvas flesh into their sharpmaws.Lettieheldmyarm.Shedidn’tsayanything.Wewaited.Andwhen thescreamingstopped, Iknew thatUrsulaMonktonwasgone

forever.Oncetheblackcreatureshadfinisheddevouringthethingonthegrass,and

when nothing remained, not even the tiniest scrap of grey cloth, then theyturnedtheirattentionstothetranslucenttunnel,whichwiggledandwriggledandtwitchedlikealivingthing.Severalofthemgraspeditintheirclaws,andtheyflewupwith it,pulling it into theskywhile therestof themtoreat it,demolishingitwiththeirhungrymouths.Ithoughtthatwhentheyfinishedittheywouldgoaway,returntowherever

theyhadcomefrom,buttheydidnot.Theydescended.Itriedtocountthemastheylanded,andIfailed.Ihadthoughtthattherewerehundredsofthem,butImighthavebeenwrong.Theremighthavebeentwentyofthem.Theremighthavebeenathousand.Icouldnotexplainit;perhapstheywerefromaplace where such things didn’t apply, somewhere outside of time andnumbers.Theylanded,andIstaredatthem,butsawnothingbutshadows.Somanyshadows.Andtheywerestaringatus.Lettiesaid,‘You’vedonewhatyoucameherefor.Yougotyourprey.You

cleanedup.Youcangohomenow.’Theshadowsdidnotmove.Shesaid,‘Go!’Theshadowsonthegrassstayedexactlywheretheywere.Ifanythingthey

seemeddarker,morerealthantheyhadbeenbefore.–Youhavenopoweroverus.‘Perhaps Idon’t,’ saidLettie. ‘But Icalledyouhere,andnowI’m telling

you to go home. You devoured Skarthach of the Keep. You’ve done yourbusiness.Nowclearoff.’–Wearecleaners.Wecametoclean.‘Yes,andyou’vecleanedthethingyoucamefor.Gohome.’

– Not everything, sighed the wind in the rhododendron bushes and therustleofthegrass.Lettie turned to me, and put her arms around me. ‘Come on,’ she said.

‘Quickly.’We walked across the lawn, rapidly. ‘I’m taking you down to the fairy

ring,’shesaid.‘YouhavetowaitthereuntilIcomeandgetyou.Don’tleave.Notforanything.’‘Whynot?’‘Becausesomethingbadcouldhappentoyou.Idon’tthinkIcouldgetyou

backtothefarmhousesafely,andIcan’tfixthisonmyown.Butyou’resafein the ring.Whatever you see, whatever you hear, don’t leave it. Just staywhereyouareandyou’llbefine.’‘It’s not a real fairy ring,’ I told her. ‘That’s just our games. It’s a green

circleofgrass.’‘Itiswhatitis,’shesaid.‘Nothingthatwantstohurtyoucancrossit.Now,

stay inside.’ She squeezed my hand, and walked me into the green grasscircle.Thensheranoff,intotherhododendronbushes,andshewasgone.

The shadows began to gather around the edges of the circle. Formlessblotches,onlythere,reallythere,whenglimpsedfromthecornersofmyeyes.Thatwaswhentheylookedbirdlike.Thatwaswhentheylookedhungry.IhaveneverbeenasfrightenedasIwasinthatgrasscirclewiththedead

tree in the centre, on that afternoon.No birds sang, no insects hummed orbuzzed.Nothingchanged.Iheardtherustleoftheleavesandthesighofthegrassas thewindpassedover it,butLettieHempstockwasnot there,and Iheardnovoices in thebreeze.Therewasnothing to scaremebut shadows,and the shadows were not even properly visible when I looked at themdirectly.The sun got lower in the sky, and the shadows blurred into the dusk,

became, ifanything,more indistinct,sonowIwasnotcertain thatanythingwasthereatall.ButIdidnotleavethegrasscircle.‘Hey!Boy!’Iturned.Hewalkedacrossthelawntowardsme.Hewasdressedashehad

beenthelasttimeIhadseenhim:adinnerjacket,afrillywhiteshirt,ablackbowtie.Hisfacewasstillanalarmingcherry-red,asifhehadjustspenttoolongonthebeach,buthishandswerewhite.Helookedlikeawaxwork,notaperson, something youwould expect to see in theChamber ofHorrors.Hegrinnedwhenhesawmelookingathim,andnowhelookedlikeawaxworkthatwassmiling,andIswallowed,andwishedthatthesunwasoutagain.‘Come on, boy,’ said the opal miner. ‘You’re just prolonging the

inevitable.’Ididnotsayaword.Iwatchedhim.Hisshinyblackshoeswalkeduptothe

grasscircle,buttheydidnotcrossit.MyheartwaspoundingsohardinmychestIwascertainthathemusthave

heardit.Myneckandscalpprickled.‘Boy,’hesaid,inhissharpSouthAfricanaccent.‘Theyneedtofinishthis

up.It’swhattheydo:they’rethecarrionkind,thevulturesofthevoid.Theirjob.Cleanupthelastremnantsofthemess.Niceandneat.Pullyoufromtheworldanditwillbeasifyouneverexisted.Justgowithit.Itwon’thurt.’Istaredathim.Adultsonlyeversaidthatwhenit,whateverithappenedto

be,wasgoingtohurtsomuch.

Thedeadmaninthedinnerjacketturnedhisheadslowly,untilhisfacewaslooking atmine. His eyes were rolled back in his head, and seemed to bestaringblindlyattheskyaboveus,likeasleepwalker.‘Shecan’tsaveyou,yourlittlefriend,’hesaid.‘Yourfatewassealedand

decideddaysago,when theirpreyusedyouasadoor fromitsplace to thisone,andshefastenedherpathinyourheart.’‘Ididn’tstartit!’Itoldthedeadman.‘It’snotfair.Youstartedit.’‘Yes,’saidthedeadman.‘Areyoucoming?’I satdownwithmyback to the tree in thecentreof the fairy ring, and I

closedmyeyes,andIdidnotmove.Irememberedpoemstodistractmyself,recited them silently under my breath, mouthing the words but making nosound.FurysaidtothemousethathemetinthehouseletusbothgotolawIwill

prosecuteyou…Ihad learned thatpoembyheart atmy school. Itwas toldby themouse

fromAlice inWonderland, themouse shemet swimming in thepoolofherowntears.InmycopyofAlice,thewordsofthepoemcurledandshranklikeamouse’stail.Icouldsayallofthepoeminonelongbreath,andIdid,allthewaytothe

inevitableend.I’llbejudgeI’llbejurysaidcunningoldFuryI’lltrythewholecauseand

condemnyoutodeath.WhenIopenedmyeyesandlookedup,theopalminerwasnolongerthere.Theskywasgoinggreyandtheworldwaslosingdepthandflatteninginto

twilight. If theshadowswerestill there Icouldno longerperceive them;orrather,thewholeworldhadbecomeshadows.My little sister ran down from the house, callingmy name. She stopped

beforeshereachedme,andshesaid,‘Whatareyoudoing?’‘Nothing.’‘Daddy’sonthephone.Hesaysyouhavetocomeandtalktohim.’‘No.Hedoesn’t.’‘What?’‘Hedoesn’tsaythat.’‘Ifyoudon’tcomenow,you’llbeintrouble.’Ididnotknowif thiswasmysisterornot,butIwasontheinsideofthe

grasscircle,andshewasontheoutside.IwishedIhadbroughtabookwithme,eventhoughitwasalmosttoodark

toread.Isaid theMouse’spoolof tearspoemagain, inmyhead.ComeI’lltakenodenialwemusthaveatrialforreallythismorningI’venothingtodo…

‘Where’sUrsula?’askedmysister.‘Shewentuptoherroom,butsheisn’tthereanymore.She’snotinthekitchenandshe’snotintheloo-lahs.Iwantmytea.I’mhungry.’‘Youcanmakeyourselfsomethingtoeat,’Itoldher.‘You’renotababy.’‘Where’sUrsula?’She was ripped to shreds by alien vulture-monsters and honestly I think

you’reoneofthemorbeingcontrolledbythemorsomething.‘Don’tknow.’‘I’mtellingMummyandDaddywhentheygethomethatyouwerehorrible

tometoday.You’llgetintotrouble.’Iwonderedifthiswasactuallymysisteror not. It definitely sounded like her. But she did not take a step over thecircleofgreenergrass,intothering.Shestuckhertongueoutatme,andranbacktowardsthehouse.Saidthemousetothecursuchatrialdearsirwithnojuryorjudgewould

bewastingourbreath…Deeptwilitdusk,allcolourlessandstrained.Mosquitoeswhinedaboutmy

earsandlanded,onebyone,onmycheeksandmyhands.IwasgladIwaswearing Lettie Hempstock’s cousin’s strange old-fashioned clothing then,becauseIhadlessbareskinexposed.Islappedattheinsectsastheylanded,and some of them flew off.One that didn’t fly away, gorging itself on theinsideofmywrist,burstwhenIhitit,leavingasmearedteardropofmybloodtorundowntheinsideofmyarm.Therewerebats flyingaboveme. I likedbats, alwayshad,but thatnight

thereweresomanyofthem,andtheymademethinkofthehungerbirds,andIshuddered.Twilightbecame,imperceptibly,night,andnowIwassittinginacirclethat

I could no longer see, at the bottomof the garden.Lights, friendly electriclights,wentoninthehouse.Ididnotwanttobescaredofthedark.Iwasnotscaredofanyrealthing.I

justdidnotwanttobethereanylonger,waitinginthedarknessformyfriendwhohadrunawayfrommeanddidnotseemtobecomingback.I’llbejudgeI’llbejurysaidcunningoldFuryI’lltrythewholecauseand

condemnyoutodeath.Istayed justwhereIwas. IhadseenUrsulaMonkton torn toshreds,and

theshredsdevouredbyscavengersfromoutsidetheuniverseofthingsthatIunderstood.IfIwentoutofthecircle,Iwascertain,theywoulddothesametome.ImovedfromLewisCarrolltoGilbertandSullivan.Whenyou’relyingawakewithadismalheadacheandreposeistaboo’dby

anxiety, I conceive you may use any language you choose to indulge in

withoutimpropriety…Ilovedthesoundofthewords,evenifIwasnotentirelysurewhatallof

themmeant.I needed towee. I turnedmy back on the house, took a few steps away

fromthetree,scaredthatIwouldtakeonesteptoofarandfindmyselfoutsidethecircle.Iurinatedintothedarkness.IhadjustfinishedwhenIwasblindedbya torchbeam, andmy father’svoice said, ‘Whatonearth areyoudoingdownhere?’‘I…I’mjustdownhere,’Isaid.‘Yes.Yoursistersaid.Well,timetocomebacktothehouse.Yourdinner’s

onthetable.’IstayedwhereIwas.‘No,’Isaid,andshookmyhead.‘Don’tbesilly.’‘I’mnotbeingsilly.I’mstayinghere.’‘Comeon.’Andthen,morecheerful,‘Comeon,HandsomeGeorge.’Ithad

beenhissillypetnameforme,whenIwasababy.Heevenhadasongthatwentwithitthathewouldsingwhilebouncingmeonhislap.Itwasthebestsongintheworld.Ididn’tsayanything.‘I’mnotgoingtocarryyoubacktothehouse,’saidmyfather.Therewas

anedgestartingtocreepintohisvoice.‘You’retoobigforthat.’Yes,Ithought.Andyou’dhavetocrossintothefairyringtopickmeup.But the fairy ring seemed foolish now. This was my father, not some

waxwork thing that thehungerbirdshadmade to luremeout. Itwasnight.Myfatherhadcomehomefromwork.Itwastime.Isaid,‘UrsulaMonkton’sgoneaway.Andshe’snotevercomingback.’He sounded irritated, then. ‘What did you do? Did you say something

horribletoher?Wereyourude?’‘No.’Heshonethetorchbeamontomyface.Thelightwasalmostblinding.He

seemed to be fighting to keep his temper under control. He said, ‘Tell mewhatyousaidtoher.’‘Ididn’tsayanythingtoher.Shejustwentaway.’Itwastrue,oralmost.‘Comebacktothehouse,now.’‘Please,Daddy.Ihavetostayhere.’‘Youcomebacktothehousethisminute!’shoutedmyfather,atthetopof

hisvoice,andIcouldnothelpit:mylowerlipshook,mynosestartedtorun,andtearssprangtomyeyes.Thetearsblurredmyvisionandstung,buttheydidnotfall,andIblinkedthemaway.

IdidnotknowifIwastalkingtomyownfatherornot.Isaid,‘Idon’tlikeitwhenyoushoutatme.’‘Well,Idon’tlikeitwhenyouactlikealittleanimal!’heshouted,andnow

Iwascrying,and the tearswererunningdownmyface,andIwished that Iwasanywhereelsebuttherethatnight.I had stood up to worse things than him in the last few hours. And

suddenly,Iknew:Ididn’tcareanymore.Ilookedupatthedarkshapebehindandabovethetorchbeam,andIsaid,‘Doesitmakeyoufeelbigtomakealittleboycry?’andIknewasIsaiditthatitwasthethingIshouldneverhavesaid.His face,what I could seeof it in the reflected torchlight, crumpled, and

looked shocked. He opened his mouth to speak, then he closed it again. Icouldnotremembermyfathereverbeingatalossforwords,beforeorafter.Onlythen.Ifeltterrible.Ithought,Iwilldieheresoon.Idonotwanttodiewiththosewordsonmylips.Butthetorchbeamwasturningawayfromme.Myfathersaidonly,‘We’ll

beupatthehouse.I’llputyourdinnerintheoven.’Iwatched the torchlightmovebackacross the lawn,past the rosebushes

anduptowardsthehouse,untilitwentout,andwaslosttosight.Iheardthebackdooropenandcloseagain.Thenyougetsomereposeintheformofadozewithhoteyeballsandhead

everaching,butyourslumberingteemswithsuchhorribledreamsthatyou’dverymuchbetterbewaking…Somebodylaughed.Istoppedsinging,andlookedaround,butsawnobody.‘“TheNightmareSong”,’avoicesaid.‘Howappropriate.’Shewalkedcloser,untilIcouldseeherface.Shewasstillquitenaked,and

shewassmiling.Ihadseenhertorntopiecesafewhoursbefore,butnowshewaswhole.Evenso,shelookedlesssolidthananyoftheotherpeopleIhadseen that night; I could see the lights of the house glimmering behind her,throughher.Hersmilehadnotchanged.‘You’redead,’Itoldher.‘Yes.Iwaseaten,’saidUrsulaMonkton.‘You’redead.Youaren’treal.’‘Iwaseaten,’sherepeated.‘Iamnothing.Andtheyhaveletmeout, just

for a little while, from the place inside them. It’s cold in there, and veryempty.But theyhavepromisedyoutome,soIwillhavesomethingtoplaywith; something tokeepmecompany in thedark.Andafteryouhavebeeneaten,youtoowillbenothing.Butwhateverremainsofthatnothingwillbeminetokeep,eatenandtogether,mytoyandmydistraction,untiltheendoftime.We’llhavesuchfun.’

Aghostofahandwasraised,andittouchedthesmile,anditblewmetheghostofUrsulaMonkton’skiss.‘I’llbewaitingforyou,’itsaid.Arustleintherhododendronsbehindmeandavoice,cheerfulandfemale

andyoung,saying,‘It’sokay.Granfixedit.Everything’stakencareof.Comeon.’Themoonwasvisiblenowabovetheazaleabush,abrightcrescentlikea

thicknailparing.Isatdownbythedeadtree,anddidnotmove.‘Comeon,silly.Itoldyou.They’vegonehome,’saidLettieHempstock.‘Ifyou’rereallyLettieHempstock,’Itoldher,‘youcomehere.’She stayed where she was, a shadowy girl. Then she laughed, and she

stretched and she shook, and shewas only another shadow: a shadow thatfilledthenight.‘Youarehungry,’saidthevoiceinthenight,anditwasnolongerLettie’s

voice,notanylonger.Itmighthavebeenthevoiceinsidemyownhead,butitwas speaking aloud. ‘You are tired. Your family hates you. You have nofriends.AndLettieHempstock,Iregrettotellyou,isnevercomingback.’IwishedIcouldhaveseenwhowastalking.Ifyouhavesomethingtofear,

ratherthansomethingthatcouldbeanything,itiseasier.‘Nobodycares,’saidthevoice,soresigned,sopractical.‘Now,stepoutof

thecircleandcometous.Onestepisallitwilltake.Justputonefootacrossthe thresholdandwewillmakeall thepaingoaway forever: thepainyoufeelnowandthepainthatisstilltocome.Itwillneverhappen.’Itwasnotonevoice,notanylonger.Itwastwopeopletalkinginunison.

Orahundredpeople.Icouldnottell.Somanyvoices.‘Howcanyoubehappyinthisworld?Youhaveaholeinyourheart.You

have a gateway inside you to lands beyond theworld youknow.Theywillcallyou,asyougrow.Therecanneverbeatimewhenyouforgetthem,whenyou are not, in your heart, questing after something you cannot have,something you cannot even properly imagine, the lack of which will spoilyoursleepandyourdayandyourlife,untilyoucloseyoureyesforthefinaltime,untilyourlovedonesgiveyoupoisonandsellyoutoanatomy,andeventhenyouwilldiewithaholeinsideyou,andyouwillwailandcurseatalifeill-lived.Butyouwon’tgrow.Youcancomeout,andwewillendit,cleanly,oryoucandieinthere,ofhungerandoffear.Andwhenyouaredead,yourcirclewillmeannothing,andwewill tearoutyourheartandtakeyoursoulforakeepsake.’‘P’raps itwillbe like that,’ I said, to thedarknessand the shadows, ‘and

p’raps itwon’t.And p’raps if it is, itwould have been like that anyway. I

don’tcare.I’mstillgoingtowaithereforLettieHempstock,andshe’sgoingto comeback tome.And if I die here, then I still diewaiting for her, andthat’sabetterwaytogothanyouandallyoustupidhorriblethingstearingmetobitsbecauseI’vegotsomethinginsidemethatIdon’tevenwant!’Therewassilence.Theshadowsseemedtohavebecomepartofthenight

onceagain.IthoughtoverwhatI’dsaid,andIknewthatitwastrue.Atthatmoment, foronce inmychildhood, Iwasnotscaredof thedark,andIwasperfectly willing to die (as willing as any seven-year-old, certain of hisimmortality,canbe)ifIdiedwaitingforLettie.Becauseshewasmyfriend.Timepassed.Iwaitedforthenighttobegintotalktomeagain,forpeople

tocome,forall theghostsandmonstersofmyimaginationtostandbeyondthe circle and callme out, but nothingmore happened.Not then. I simplywaited.Themoonrosehigher.Myeyeshadadjustedtothedarkness.Isang,under

mybreath,mouthingthewordsoverandover.

You’rearegularwreckwithacrickinyourneckandnowonderyousnoreforyourhead’sonthefloorandyou’veneedlesandpinsfromyoursoletoyourshinsandyourfleshisa-creepforyourleftleg’sasleepandyou’vecrampinyourtoesandaflyonyournoseyou’vegotfluffinyourlungandafeverishtongueandathirstthat’sintenseandageneralsensethatyouhaven’tbeensleepinginclover…

Isangit tomyself, thewholesong,all thewaythrough,twoorthreetimes,and I was relieved that I remembered the words, even if I did not alwaysunderstandthem.

WhenLettiearrived,therealLettie,thistime,shewascarryingabucketofwater. It must have been heavy judging from the way she carried it. Shesteppedoverwheretheedgeoftheringinthegrassmusthavebeenandshecamestraighttome.‘Sorry,’shesaid.‘ThattookalotlongerthanIexpected.Itdidn’twantto

cooperate,neither,and in theend it tookmeandGran todo it, andshedidmostoftheheavylifting.Itwasn’tgoingtoarguewithher,butitdidn’thelp,andit’snoteasy…’‘What?’Iasked.‘Whatareyoutalkingabout?’Sheput themetalbucketdownon thegrassbesidemewithout spillinga

drop.‘Theocean,’shesaid.‘Itdidn’twanttogo.ItgaveGransuchastrugglethatshesaidshewasgoingtohavetogoandhavealie-downafterwards.Butwestillgotitintothebucketintheend.’The water in the bucket was glowing, emitting a greenish-blue light. I

couldseeLettie’sfacebyit.Icouldseethewavesandripplesonthesurfaceofthewater,watchthemcrestandsplashagainstthesideofthebucket.‘Idon’tunderstand.’‘Icouldn’tgetyoutotheocean,’shesaid.‘Buttherewasnothingstopping

mebringingtheoceantoyou.’Isaid,‘I’mhungry,Lettie.AndIdon’tlikethis.’‘Mum’smadedinner.Butyou’regoingtohavetostayhungryforalittlebit

longer.Wereyouscared,uphereonyourown?’‘Yes.’‘Didtheytryandgetyououtofthecircle?’‘Yes.’She took my hands in hers, then, and squeezed them. ‘But you stayed

whereyouweremeanttobe,andyoudidn’tlistentothem.Welldone.That’squality, that is,’andshesoundedproud. In thatmoment I forgotmyhungerandIforgotmyfear.‘WhatdoIdonow?’Iaskedher.‘Now,’ she said, ‘you step into the bucket. You don’t have to take your

shoesofforanything.Juststepin.’

Itdidnotevenseemastrangerequest.Sheletgoofoneofmyhands,keptholdof theother.I thought,Iwillnever letgoofyourhand,notunlessyoutellme to. I put one foot into theglimmeringwater, raising thewater levelalmost to theedge.Myfoot restedon the tinfloorof thebucket.Thewaterwascoolonmyfoot,notcold.IputtheotherfootintothewaterandIwentdownwithit,downlikeamarblestatue,andthewavesofLettieHempstock’soceanclosedovermyhead.Ifeltthesameshockyouwouldfeelifyouhadsteppedbackwards,without

looking,andhadfallenintoaswimmingpool.Iclosedmyeyesatthewater’sstingandkeptthemtightlyshut,sotightly.Icouldnotswim.IdidnotknowwhereIwas,orwhatwashappening,but

evenunderthewaterIcouldfeelthatLettiewasstillholdingmyhand.Iwasholdingmybreath.I held it until I could hold it no longer, and then I gulped a breath in,

expectingtochoke,tosplutter,todie.Ididnotchoke.Ifeltthecoldnessofthewater–ifitwaswater–pourinto

mynoseandmythroat,feltitfillmylungs,butthatwasallitdid.Itdidnothurtme.Ithought,thisisthekindofwateryoucanbreathe.Ithought,perhapsthere

isjustasecrettobreathingwater,somethingsimplethateveryonecoulddo,ifonlytheyknew.ThatwaswhatIthought.ThatwasthefirstthingIthought.ThesecondthingIthoughtwasthatIkneweverything.LettieHempstock’s

oceanflowedinsideme,anditfilledtheentireuniverse,fromEggtoRose.Iknewthat.IknewwhatEggwas–wheretheuniversebegan,tothesoundofuncreated voices singing in the void – and I knew where Rose was – thepeculiar crinkling of space on space into dimensions that fold like origamiandblossomlikestrangeorchids,andwhichwouldmark the lastgoodtimebeforetheeventualendofeverythingandthenextBigBang,whichwouldbe,Iknewnow,nothingofthekind.I knew thatOldMrsHempstockwould be here for that one, as she had

beenforthelast.IsawtheworldIhadwalkedsincemybirthandIunderstoodhowfragileit

was,thattherealityIknewwasathinlayeroficingonagreatdarkbirthdaycakewrithingwithgrubs andnightmares andhunger. I saw theworld fromaboveandbelow.Isawthat therewerepatternsandgatesandpathsbeyondthereal.Isawallthesethingsandunderstoodthemandtheyfilledme,justasthewatersoftheoceanfilledme.Everything whispered inside me. Everything spoke to everything, and I

knewitall.

Iopenedmyeyes,curious to learnwhatIwouldsee in theworldoutsideme,ifitwouldbeanythingliketheworldinside.Iwashangingdeepbeneaththewater.I looked down, and the blue world below me receded into darkness. I

looked up and theworld aboveme did the same. Nothingwas pullingmedowndeeper,nothingwasforcingmetowardsthesurface.And then I turnedmyhead, a little, to look at her, because shewas still

holding my hand, she had never let go of my hand, and I saw LettieHempstock.Atfirst,IdonotthinkIknewwhatIwaslookingat.Icouldmakenosense

of it.WhereUrsulaMonktonhadbeenmadeofgreycloth that flappedandsnappedandgustedinthestormwinds,LettieHempstockwasmadeofsilkensheets, thecolourofice,filledwithtinyflickeringcandleflames,ahundredhundredcandleflames.Couldtherebecandleflamesburningunderthewater?Therecould.Iknew

that,whenIwasintheocean,andIevenknewhow.IunderstooditjustasIunderstoodDarkMatter,thematerialoftheuniversethatmakesupeverythingthatmustbe therebutwecannot find. I foundmyself thinkingof anoceanrunningbeneaththewholeuniverse,likethedarkseawaterthatlapsbeneaththe wooden boards of an old pier: an ocean that stretches from forever toforeverand isstillsmallenoughtofit insideabucket, ifyouhaveOldMrsHempstocktohelpyou,andyouasknicely.LettieHempstocklookedlikepalesilkandcandleflames.Iwonderedhow

Ilookedtoher,inthatplace,andknewthateveninaplacethatwasnothingbut knowledge, that was the one thing I could not know. That if I lookedinwardIwouldseeonlyinfinitemirrors,staringintomyselfforeternity.Thesilkfilledwithcandleflamesmovedthen,aslow,graceful,under-the-

watersortofamovement.Thecurrentpulledatit,andnowithadarmsandthehand thathadnever letgoofmine,andabodyanda freckled face thatwas familiar, and it opened its mouth and, in Lettie Hempstock’s voice, itsaid,‘I’mreallysorry.’‘Whatfor?’She did not reply. The currents of the ocean pulled at my hair and my

clotheslikesummerbreezes.IwasnolongercoldandIkneweverythingandI was not hungry and the whole big, complicated world was simple andgraspable and easy to unlock. Iwould stay here for the rest of time in theoceanwhichwastheuniversewhichwasthesoulwhichwasallthatmattered.Iwouldstayhereforever.‘Youcan’t,’saidLettie.‘Itwoulddestroyyou.’

Iopenedmymouthtotellherthatnothingcouldkillme,notnow,butshesaid, ‘Not kill you. Destroy you. Dissolve you. You wouldn’t die in here,nothingeverdies inhere,but ifyoustayedherefor toolong, justa littleofyou would exist everywhere, all spread out. And that’s not a good thing.Neverenoughofyoualltogetherinoneplace,sotherewouldn’tbeanythingleftthatwouldthinkofitselfasan“I”.Nopointofviewanylonger,becauseyou’dbeaninfinitesequenceofviewsandofpoints…’Iwasgoingtoarguewithher.Shewaswrong,shehadtobe;Ilovedthat

place,thatstate,thatfeeling,andIwasnevergoingtoleaveit.And then my head broke water, and I blinked and coughed, and I was

standing thigh deep in the pond at the back of the Hempstocks’ farm, andLettieHempstockwasstandingbesideme,holdingmyhand.I coughed again, and it felt like the water fledmy nose, my throat, my

lungs. Ipulledcleanair intomychest, in the lightof thehuge, fullharvestmoonthatshoneontheHempstocks’red-tiledroof,andforonefinalperfectmoment,Istillkneweverything:IrememberthatIknewhowtomakeitsothemoonwouldbefullwhenyouneededittobe,andshiningjustonthebackofthehouse,everynight.I knew everything, but Lettie Hempstock was pulling me up out of the

pond.Iwasstillwearingthestrangeold-fashionedclothesIhadbeengiventhat

morning,andasIsteppedoutofthepond,upontothegrassthatedgedit,Idiscovered thatmyclothes andmyskinwerenowperfectlydry.Theoceanwasbackinthepond,andalltheknowledgeIwasleftwith,asifIhadwokenfromadreamonasummer’sday,was that ithadnotbeen longagosinceIhadknowneverything.IlookedatLettieinthemoonlight.‘Isthathowitisforyou?’Iasked.‘Iswhathowitisforme?’‘Doyoustillknoweverything,allthetime?’She shook her head. She didn’t smile. She said, ‘Be boring, knowing

everything.Youhavetogiveall thatstuffupifyou’regoingtomuckabouthere.’‘Soyouusedtoknoweverything?’She wrinkled her nose. ‘Everybody did. I told you. It’s nothing special,

knowing how thingswork.And you really do have to give it all up if youwanttoplay.’‘Toplaywhat?’‘This,’shesaid.Shewavedatthehouseandtheskyandtheimpossiblefull

moonandtheskeinsandshawlsandclustersofbrightstars.

IwishedIknewwhatshemeant.Itwasasifshewastalkingaboutadreamwehadshared.ForamomentitwassocloseinmymindthatIcouldalmosttouchit.‘Youmustbesohungry,’saidLettie,andthemomentwasbroken,andyes,

Iwassohungry,and thehunger tookmyheadandswallowedmylingeringdreams.Therewasaplateinmyplaceatthetableinthefarmhouse’shugekitchen.

Onitwasaportionofshepherd’spie, themashedpotatoacrustybrownontop,mincedmeatandvegetablesandgravybeneathit.Iwasscaredofeatingfoodoutsidemyhome,scaredthatImightwant toleavefoodIdidnot likeandbetoldoff,orbeforcedtositandeatitinminusculeportionsuntilitwasgone,asIwasatschool,butthefoodattheHempstocks’wasalwaysperfect.Itdidnotscareme.Ginnie Hempstock was there, bustling about in her apron, rounded and

welcoming. I atewithout talking, head down, shovelling thewelcome foodintomymouth.Thewomanandthegirlspokeinlow,urgenttones.‘They’llbehere soonenough,’ saidLettie. ‘Theyaren’t stupid.And they

won’tleaveuntilthey’vetakenthelastlittlebitofwhattheycameherefor.’Her mother sniffed. Her red cheeks were flushed from the heat of the

kitchenfire.‘Stuffandnonsense,’shesaid.‘They’reallmouth,theyare.’Ihadneverheardthatexpressionbefore,andIthoughtshewastellingus

thatthecreatureswerejustmouthsandnothingmore.Itdidnotseemunlikelythat the shadowswere indeed allmouths. I had seen themdevour the greythingthathadcalleditselfUrsulaMonkton.Mymother’smotherwouldtellmeoffforeatinglikeawildanimal.‘You

mustessen, eat,’ shewould say, ‘like a person, not a chazzer, a pig.Whenanimals eat, they fress. People essen. Eat like a person.’Fressen: that washow thehunger birds had takenUrsulaMonkton, and itwas also, I hadnodoubt,howtheywouldconsumeme.‘I’veneverseensomanyofthem,’saidLettie.‘Whentheycamehereinthe

olddays,therewasonlyahandfulofthem.’Ginniepouredmeaglassofwater.‘That’syourownfault,’shetoldLettie.

‘Youputupsignals,andcalledthem.Likebangingthedinnerbell,youwere.Notsurprisingtheyallcame.’‘Ijustwantedtomakesurethatsheleft,’saidLettie.‘Herkind.They’relikechickenswhogetoutofthehen-house,andareso

proudofthemselvesandsopuffedupforbeingabletoeatallthewormsandbeetles and caterpillars they want that they never think about foxes,’ saidGinnie.‘Anyway,nowwe’vegotfoxes.Andwe’llsendthemallhome,same

aswedid the last times theywere sniffing around.Wedid it before, didn’twe?’‘Notreally,’saidLettie.‘Eitherwesentthefleahome,andthevarmintshad

nothingtohangaroundfor,likethefleainthecellarinCromwell’stime,ortheycameandtookwhattheycamehereforandthentheywentaway.Likethe fat fleawhomadepeople’sdreamscome true inRedRufus’sday.Theytookhimandtheyuppedandleft.We’veneverhadtogetridofthembefore.’Hermothershrugged.‘It’sallthesamesortofthing.We’lljustsendthem

backwheretheycamefrom.’‘Andwheredotheycomefrom?’askedLettie.I had slowed down now, and was making the final fragments of my

shepherd’spielastaslongasIcould,proddingthemaroundtheplateslowlywithmyfork.‘Thatduntmatter,’saidGinnie.‘Theyallgobackeventually.Probablyjust

getboredofwaiting.’‘I tried pushing them,’ saidLettieHempstock,matter-of-factly. ‘Couldn’t

get any traction. I held themwith a dome of protection, but that wouldn’thavelastedmuchlonger.We’regoodhere–nothing’scomingintothisfarmwithoutoursay-so.’‘Inor out,’ saidGinnie.She removedmyemptyplate, replaced itwith a

bowl containing a steaming slice of spotted dickwith thick yellow custarddrizzledalloverit.Iateitwithjoy.Idonotmisschildhood,butImissthewayItookpleasureinsmallthings,

evenasgreaterthingscrumbled.IcouldnotcontroltheworldIwasin,couldnotwalkawayfromthingsorpeopleormomentsthathurt,butItookjoyinthe things that mademe happy. The custard was sweet and creamy in mymouth,thedarkswollencurrantsinthespotteddickweretangyinthecake-thick chewyblandness of the pudding, and perhaps Iwas going to die thatnightandperhapsIwouldnevergohomeagain,butitwasagooddinner,andIhadfaithinLettieHempstock.The world outside the kitchen was still waiting. The Hempstocks’ fog-

colouredhousecat–IdonotbelieveIeverknewhername–paddedthroughthekitchen.Thatremindedme…‘Mrs Hempstock? Is the kitten still here? The black one with the white

ear?’‘Nottonight,’saidGinnieHempstock.‘She’soutandabout.Shewasasleep

onthechairinthehallallthisafternoon.’IwishedIcouldstrokehersoftfur.Iwanted,Irealised,tosaygoodbye.

‘Um.Isuppose.IfIdo.Havetodie.Tonight,’Istarted,haltingly,notsurewhereIwasgoing.Iwasgoingtoaskforsomething,Iimagine–forthemtosaygoodbyetomymummyanddaddy,ortotellmysisterthatitwasn’tfairthatnothingbadeverhappenedtoher;thatherlifewascharmedandsafeandprotected, while I was forever stumbling into disaster. But nothing seemedright,andIwasrelievedwhenGinnieinterruptedme.‘Nobodyisgoingtodietonight,’shesaid,firmly.Shetookmyemptybowl

andwasheditoutinthesink,thenshedriedherhandsonherapron.Shetookthe apron off,went out into the hallway and returned a fewmoments laterwearingaplainbrowncoatandapairoflargedarkgreenwellingtonboots.Lettieseemedlessconfident thanGinnie.ButLettie,withallherageand

wisdom,wasagirl,whileGinniewasanadult,andherconfidencereassuredme.Ihadfaithinthemboth.‘Where’sOldMrsHempstock?’Iasked.‘Havingalie-down,’saidGinnie.‘She’snotasyoungassheusedtobe.’‘How old is she?’ I asked, not expecting to get an answer. Ginnie just

smiled,andLettieshrugged.I heldLettie’s hand aswe left the farmhouse, promisingmyself that this

timeIwouldnotletitgo.

When I entered the farmhouse, through thebackdoor, themoonhadbeenfull, and it was a perfect summer’s night.When I left, I went with LettieHempstockandhermotheroutofthefrontdoor,andthemoonwasacurvedwhite smile, high in a cloudy sky, and the night was gusty with sudden,undecidedspringbreezescomingfirstfromonedirectionthenfromanother;everynowandagainagustofwindwouldcontaina sprinklingof rain thatneveramountedtoanythingmorethanthat.We walked through the manure-stinking farmyard and up the lane. We

passed a bend in the road.Although itwas dark, I knew exactlywherewewere.Thiswaswhereithadallbegun.Itwasthecornerwheretheopalminerhadparkedmy family’swhiteMini, theplacehehaddiedall alone,withafacethecolourofpomegranatejuice,achingforhislostmoney,ontheedgeoftheHempstocklandwherethebarriersbetweenlifeanddeathwerethin.Isaid,‘IthinkweshouldwakeupOldMrsHempstock.’‘Itdoesn’tworklikethat,’saidLettie.‘Whenshegetstired,shesleepsuntil

she wakes up, on her own. A fewminutes or a hundred years. There’s nowakingher.Mightaswelltryandwakeupanatombomb.’GinnieHempstock stopped, and she planted herself in themiddle of the

lane,facingawayfromthefarmhouse.‘Right!’sheshoutedtothenight.‘Let’sbehavingyou.’Nothing.Awetwindthatgustedandwasgone.Lettiesaid,‘P’rapsthey’veallgonehome…’‘Beniceiftheyhad,’saidGinnie.‘Allthispalaverandnonsense.’I feltguilty. Itwas, Iknew,myfault. If IhadkeptholdofLettie’shand,

noneof thiswouldhavehappened.UrsulaMonkton, thehungerbirds, thesethings were undoubtedly my responsibility. Even what had happened – ornowhadperhapsnolongerhappened–inthecoldbath,thepreviousnight.Ihadathought.‘Can’tyoujustsnipitout?Thethinginmyheart,thattheywant?Maybe

youcouldsnipitoutlikeyourgrannysnippedthingslastnight?’Lettiesqueezedmyhandinthedark.‘MaybeGrancoulddothatifshewashere,’shesaid.‘Ican’t.Idon’tthink

Mumcouldeither. It’s reallyhard, snipping thingsoutof time:youhave to

makesurethattheedgesalllineup,andevenGrandoesn’talwaysgetitright.Andthiswouldbeharderthanthat.It’sarealthing.Idon’tthinkevenGrancouldtakeitoutofyouwithouthurtingyourheart.Andyouneedyourheart.’Thenshesaid.‘They’recoming.’But I knew somethingwas happening, knew it before she said anything.

For the second time I saw the ground begin to glowgolden; Iwatched thetreesand thegrass, thehedgerowsand thewillowclumpsand the last straydaffodils begin to shine with a burnished half-light. I looked around, halffearful,halfwithwonder,andIobservedthat the lightwasbrightestbehindthehouseandovertothewest,wherethepondwas.Iheardthebeatingofmightywings,andaseriesof lowthumps.I turned

andIsawthem:thevulturesofthevoid,thecarrionkind,thehungerbirds.Theywerenotshadowsanylonger,nothere,notinthisplace.Theywere

alltooreal,andtheylandedinthedarkness,justbeyondthegoldenglowoftheground.Theylandedintheairandintrees,andtheyshuffledforward,ascloseastheycouldgettothegoldengroundoftheHempstocks’farm.Theywerehuge–eachofthemwasmuchbiggerthanIwas.Iwouldhavebeenhardpressedtodescribetheirfaces,though.Icouldsee

them,lookatthem,takeineveryfeature,butthemomentIlookedaway,theywere gone, and therewas nothing inmymindwhere the hunger birds hadbeenbut tearingbeaksand talons,orwriggling tentacles,orhairy,chitinousmandibles.Icouldnotkeeptheirtruefacesinmyhead.WhenIturnedaway,theonlyknowledgeIretainedwasthattheyhadbeenlookingdirectlyatme,andthattheywereravenous.‘Right,myproudbeauties,’saidGinnieHempstock,loudly.Herhandswere

onthehipsofherbrowncoat.‘Youcan’tstayhere.Youknowthat.Timetogetamoveon.’Andthenshesaidsimply,‘Hopit.’Theyshiftedbuttheydidnotmove,theinnumerablehungerbirds,andthey

began to make a noise. I thought that they were whispering amongstthemselves,andthenitseemedtomethatthenoisetheyweremakingwasanamusedchuckling.Iheardtheirvoices,distinctbuttwiningtogether,soIcouldnottellwhich

creaturewasspeaking.–We are hunger birds.We have devoured palaces andworlds and kings

andstars.Wecanstaywhereverwewishtostay.–Weperformourfunction.–Wearenecessary.Andtheylaughedsoloudlyitsoundedlikeatrainapproaching.Isqueezed

Lettie’shand,andshesqueezedmine.–Giveustheboy.

Ginnie said, ‘You’re wasting your time, and you’re wasting mine. Gohome.’–Wewere summoned here.We do not need to leave untilwe have done

whatwe came here for.We restore things to theway they aremeant to be.Wouldyoudepriveusofourfunction?‘’Course I will,’ said Ginnie. ‘You’ve had your dinner. Now you’re just

making nuisances of yourselves. Be off with you. Blinking varmints. Iwouldn’tgivetuppenceha’pennyforthelotofyou.Gohome!’andsheshookherhandinaflickinggesture.One of the creatures let out a long, wailing scream of appetite and

frustration.Lettie’sholdonmyhandwas firm.She said, ‘He’sunderourprotection.

He’sonourland.Andonestepontoourlandandthat’stheendofyou.Sogoaway.’The creatures seemed to huddle closer. There was silence in the Sussex

night:onlytherustleofleavesinthewind,onlythecallofadistantowl,onlythesighofthebreezeasitpassed;butinthatsilenceIcouldhearthehungerbirdsconferring,weighinguptheiroptions,plottingtheircourse.AndinthatsilenceIfelttheireyesuponme.Something in a tree flapped its huge wings and cried out, a shriek that

mingled triumph and delight, an affirmative shout of hunger and joy. I feltsomethinginmychestreacttothescream,likethetiniestsplinteroficeinsidemyheart.–Wecannotcross theborder.This is true.Wecannot take thechild from

yourland.Thisalsoistrue.Wecannothurtyourfarmoryourcreatures…‘That’sright.Youcan’t.Sogetalongwithyou!Gohome.Haven’tyougot

awartobegettingbackto?’–Wecannothurtyourworld,true.–Butwecanhurtthisone.Oneofthehungerbirdsreachedasharpbeakdowntothegroundatitsfeet,

andbegantotearatit–notasacreaturethateatsearthandgrass,butasifitwere eating a curtain or a piece of scenery with the world painted on it.Where it devoured the grass, nothing remained – a perfect nothing, only acolourthatremindedmeofgrey,butaformless,pulsinggreyliketheshiftingstatic of our television screen when you dislodged the aerial cord and thepicturehadgonecompletely.This was the void. Not blackness, not nothingness. This was what lay

beneaththethinlypaintedscrimofreality.Andthehungerbirdsbegantoflapandtoflock.

Theylandedonahugeoaktreeandtheytoreatitandtheywolfeditdown,and in moments the tree was gone, along with everything that had beenbehindit.A fox slipped out of a hedgerow and slunk down the lane, its eyes and

maskandbrush illuminatedgoldenby the farm light.Before ithadmade ithalfway across the road, it had been ripped from theworld, and therewasonlyvoidbehindit.Lettiesaid,‘Whathesaidbefore.WehavetowakeGran.’‘Shewon’tlikethat,’saidGinnie.‘Mightaswelltryandwakea—’‘Duntmatter. If we can’t wake her up, they’ll destroy thewhole of this

creation.’Ginniesaidonly,‘Idon’tknowhow.’Aclumpof hungerbirds flewup to a patchof thenight skywhere stars

couldbeseenthroughthebreaksintheclouds,andtheytoreatakite-shapedconstellationIcouldneverhavenamed,andtheyscratchedandtheyrentandthey gulped and they swallowed. In a handful of heartbeats, where theconstellationandskyhadbeen,therewasnowonlyapulsingnothingnessthathurtmyeyesifIlookedatitdirectly.Iwasanormalchild.Whichistosay,IwasselfishandIwasnotentirely

convincedoftheexistenceofthingsthatwerenotme,andIwascertain,rock-solid, unshakeably certain, that I was themost important thing in creation.TherewasnothingthatwasmoreimportanttomethanIwas.Even so, I understoodwhat Iwas seeing. The hunger birdswould – no,

theywererippingtheworldaway,tearingitintonothing.Soonenough,therewouldbenoworld.Mymother,my father,mysister,myhouse,myschoolfriends, my town, my grandparents, London, the Natural HistoryMuseum,France, television, books, ancient Egypt – because of me, all these thingswouldbegone,andtherewouldbenothingintheirplace.I did not want to die. More than that, I did not want to die as Ursula

Monktonhaddied,beneaththerendingtalonsandbeaksofthingsthatmightnotevenhavehadlegsorfaces.Ididnotwanttodieatall.Understandthat.IletgoofLettieHempstock’shandandIran,asfastasIcould,knowing

that to hesitate, even to slow down, would be to change my mind, whichwouldbethewrongthing,whichwouldbetosavemylife.HowfardidIrun?Notfar,Isuppose,asthesethingsgo.LettieHempstock

wasshoutingatmetostop,butstillIran,crossingthefarmland,whereeverybladeofgrass,everypebbleon the lane,everywillowtreeandhazelhedgeglowedgolden,andIrantowards thedarkness.I ranandIhatedmyselfforrunning,asIhadhatedmyselfthetimeIhadjumpedfromthehighboardat

theswimmingpool,knowingtherewasnogoingback,thattherewasnowaythatthiscouldendinanythingbutpain.They took off into the air, the hunger birds, as I ran towards them, as

pigeonswillrisewhenyourunatthem.Iknewtheywerecircling.IstoodthereinthedarknessandIwaitedforthemtodescend.Iwaitedfor

theirbeakstotearatmychest,forthemtodevourmyheart.Istoodthereforperhapstwoheartbeats,anditfeltlikeforever.It happened. Something slammed into me from behind and knockedme

downintothemudonthesideofthelane,facefirst.Isawburstsoflightthatwerenotthere.Thegroundhitmystomach,andthewindwasknockedoutofme.(Aghostmemoryriseshere:aphantommoment,ashakyreflectioninthe

pool of remembrance. I know how it would have felt when they took myheart. How it felt as the hunger birds, all mouth, tore into my chest andsnatched out my heart, still pumping, and devoured it to get at what washiddeninsideit.Iknowhowthatfeels,asifitwastrulyapartofmylife,ofmydeath.Andthenthememorysnipsandrips,neatly,and—)A voice said, ‘Idiot! Don’t move. Just don’t,’ and the voice was Lettie

Hempstock’s,andIcouldnothavemovedifIhadwantedto.Shewasontopofme,andshewasheavierthanIwas,andshewaspushingmedownintothegrassandthewetearth,andIcouldseenothing.Ifeltthem,though.I felt them crash into her. She was holding me down, making herself a

barrierbetweenmeandtheworld.IheardLettie’svoicewailinpain.Ifelthershudderandtwitch.Avoicesaid,‘Thisisunacceptable.’Itwasafamiliarvoice,butstill, Icouldnotplace it,ormove toseewho

wastalking.Lettiewasontopofme,stillshaking,butasthevoicespoke,shestopped

moving.Thevoicecontinued,‘Onwhatauthoritydoyouharmmychild?’Apause.Then,–Shewasbetweenusandourlawfulprey.‘You’rescavengers.Eatersofoffal,ofrubbish,ofgarbage.You’recleaners.

Doyouthinkthatyoucanharmmyfamily?’Iknewwhowastalking.ThevoicesoundedlikeLettie’sgran,likeOldMrs

Hempstock.Likeher,Iknew,andyetsounlike.IfOldMrsHempstockhadbeenanempress,shemighthavetalkedlikethat,hervoicemorestiltedandformalandyetmoremusicalthantheold-ladyvoiceIknew.Somethingwetandwarmwassoakingmyback.

–No…No,lady.That was the first time I heard fear or doubt in the voice of one of the

hungerbirds.‘There are pacts, and there are laws and there are treaties, and you have

violatedallofthem.’Silence then, and it was louder than words could have been. They had

nothingtosay.I felt Lettie’s body being rolled offmine, and I looked up to seeGinnie

Hempstock’ssensibleface.Shesatonthegroundontheedgeoftheroad,andIburiedmyfaceinherbosom.Shetookmeinonearm,Lettieintheother.Fromtheshadows,ahungerbirdspoke,withavoicethatwasnotavoice,

anditsaidonly,–Wearesorryforyourloss.‘Sorry?’Thewordwasspat,notsaid.GinnieHempstockswayedfromsidetoside,crooninglowandwordlessly

tomeandtoherdaughter.Herarmswerearoundme.IliftedmyheadandIlookedbackatthepersonspeaking,myvisionblurredbytears.Istaredather.ItwasOldMrsHempstock,Isuppose.Butitwasn’t.ItwasLettie’sgranin

thesamewaythat…Imean…Sheshonesilver.Herhairwasstill long,stillwhite,butnowshestoodas

straightasateenager.Myeyeshadbecomeusedtothedarkness,andIcouldnot lookather face to see if itwas the face Iwas familiarwith: itwas toobright. Magnesium-flare bright. Fireworks Night bright. Midday sunreflectingoffasilvercoinbright.IlookedatheraslongasIcouldbeartolook,andthenIturnedmyhead,

screwingmyeyes tightly shut,unable to seeanythingbut apulsatingafter-image.ThevoicethatwaslikeOldMrsHempstock’ssaid,‘ShallIbindyouinthe

heartof adark star, to feelyourpain in aplacewhere every fragmentof amomentlastsathousandyears?ShallIinvokethecompactsofCreation,andhaveyouallremovedfromthelistofcreatedthings,sothereneverwillhavebeen any hunger birds, and anything that wishes to traipse from world toworldcandosowithimpunity?’Ilistenedforareply,butheardnothing.Onlyawhimper,amewlofpainor

offrustration.‘I’mdonewithyou.Iwilldealwithyouinmyowntimeandinmyown

way.FornowImusttendtothechildren.’–Yes,lady.

–Thankyou,lady.‘Notsofast.Nobody’sgoinganywherebeforeyouputallthosethingsback

liketheywas.There’sBoötesmissingfromthesky.There’sanoaktreegone,anda fox.Youput themallback, theway theywere.’And then the silveryempress added, in a voice that was now also unmistakably Old MrsHempstock’s,‘Varmints.’Somebodywashummingatune.Irealised,asiffromalongwayaway,that

itwasme,atthesamemomentthatIrememberedwhatthetunewas:

Girlsandboyscomeouttoplay,themoondothshineasbrightasday.Leaveyoursupperandleaveyourmeat,andjoinyourplayfellowsinthestreet.Comewithawhoopandcomewithacall.Comewithawholeheartornotatall…

Iheldon toGinnieHempstock.Shesmelled likea farmand likeakitchen,likeanimalsandlikefood.Shesmelledveryreal,andtherealnesswaswhatIneededatthatmoment.I reached out a hand, tentatively touched Lettie’s shoulder. She did not

moveorrespond.Ginniestartedspeaking,then,butatfirstIdidnotknowifshewastalking

to herself or to Lettie or tome. ‘They overstepped their bounds,’ she said.‘They could have hurt you, child, and it would have meant nothing. Theycouldhavehurt thisworldwithout anythingbeing said – it’s only aworld,after all, and they’re just sand grains in the desert, worlds. But Lettie’s aHempstock.She’soutsideof theirdominion,my littleone.And theyhurtedher.’I lookedatLettie.Herheadhad floppeddown,hidingher face.Hereyes

wereclosed.‘Isshegoingtobeallright?’Iasked.Ginnie didn’t reply, just hugged us both the tighter to her bosom, and

rocked,andcroonedawordlesssong.Thefarmanditslandnolongerglowedgolden.Icouldnotfeelanythingin

theshadowswatchingme,notanylonger.‘Don’tyouworry,’saidanoldvoice,nowfamiliaroncemore.‘You’resafe

ashouses.Safer’nmosthousesI’veseen.They’vegone.’‘They’llcomebackagain,’Isaid.‘Theywantmyheart.’‘They’dnotcomebacktothisworldagainforalltheteainChina,’saidOld

MrsHempstock. ‘Not that they’ve got any use for tea – or forChina – no

morethanacarrioncrowdoes.’Whyhad I thoughtherdressed in silver?Shewore amuch-patchedgrey

dressinggownoverwhathadtohavebeenanightie,butanightieofakindthathadnotbeenfashionableforseveralhundredyears.Theoldwomanputahandonhergranddaughter’spaleforehead,liftedit

up,thenletitgo.Lettie’smothershookherhead.‘It’sover,’shesaid.I understood it then, at the last, and felt foolish for not understanding it

sooner.Thegirlbesideme,onhermother’s lap,athermother’sbreast,hadgivenherlifeformine.‘Theyweremeanttohurtme,nother,’Isaid.‘No reason they should’ve taken either of you,’ said the old lady,with a

sniff.Ifeltguiltthen,guiltbeyondanythingIhadeverfeltbefore.‘Weshouldgether toahospital,’Isaid,hopefully.‘Wecancalladoctor.

Maybetheycanmakeherbetter.’Ginnieshookherhead.‘Isshedead?’Iasked.‘Dead?’ repeated the old woman in the dressing gown. She sounded

offended.‘Hashif,’shesaid,grandlyaspiratingeachaitchasifthatweretheonlywaytoconveythegravityofherwords.‘Hashifhan’Empstockwouldheverdohanythingso…common…’‘She’shurt,’saidGinnieHempstock,cuddlingmeclose.‘Hurtasbadlyas

she can be hurt. She’s so close to death asmakes no odds if we don’t dosomething about it, and quickly.’ A final hug, then, ‘Off with you, now.’ Iclamberedreluctantlyfromherlap,andstoodup.GinnieHempstockrosetoherfeet,herdaughter’sbodylimpinherarms.

Lettielolledandwasjoggedlikearagdollashermothergotup,andIstaredather,shockedbeyondmeasure.Isaid,‘Itwasmyfault.I’msorry.I’mreallysorry.’OldMrsHempstock said, ‘Youmeantwell,’ butGinnieHempstock said

nothing at all. She walked down the lane towards the farm, and then sheturned off behind themilking shed. I thought that Lettiewas too big to becarried,butGinniecarriedheras if sheweighednomore thanakitten,herheadandupperbodyrestingonGinnie’sshoulder,likeasleepinginfantbeingtakenupstairstobed.Ginniecarriedherdownthatpath,andbesidethehedge,andback,andback,untilwereachedthepond.Therewerenobreezesbackthere,andthenightwasperfectlystill;ourpath

waslitbymoonlightandnothingmore;thepond,whenwegotthere,wasjustapond.Nogolden,glimmeringlight.Nomagicalfullmoon.Itwasblackanddull,withthemoon,thetruemoon,thequarter-moon,reflectedinit.

Istoppedattheedgeofthepond,andOldMrsHempstockstoppedbesideme.ButGinnieHempstockkeptwalking.She staggered down into the pond, until shewaswading thigh deep, her

coatandskirtfloatingonthewaterasshewaded,breakingthereflectedmoonintodozensoftinymoonsthatscatteredandre-formedaroundher.Atthecentreofthepond,withtheblackwateraboveherhips,shestopped.

She took Lettie from her shoulder, so the girl’s bodywas supported at theheadandatthekneesbyGinnieHempstock’spracticalhands;thenslowly,soveryslowly,shelaidLettiedowninthewater.Thegirl’sbodyfloatedonthesurfaceofthepond.Ginnie took a step back, and then another, never looking away fromher

daughter.Iheardarushingnoise,asifofanenormouswindcomingtowardsus.

Lettie’sbodyshook.Therewasnobreeze,butnowtherewerewhitecapson thesurfaceof the

pond.Isawwaves,gentle,lappingwavesatfirst,andthenbiggerwavesthatbroke and slapped at the edge of the pond. Onewave crested and crasheddown close tome, splashingmy clothes and face. I could taste thewater’swetnessonmylips,anditwassalt.Iwhispered,‘I’msorry,Lettie.’Ishouldhavebeenabletoseetheothersideofthepond.Ihadseenitafew

momentsbefore.But thecrashingwaveshad taken itaway,andIcouldseenothing beyondLettie’s floating body but the vastness of the lonely ocean,andthedark.Thewavesgrewbigger.Thewater began toglow in themoonlight, as it

hadglowedwhenitwasinthebucket,apale,perfectblue.Theblackshapeonthesurfaceofthewaterwasthebodyofthegirlwhohadsavedmylife.Bonyfingers restedonmyshoulder. ‘Whatareyouapologising for,boy?

Forkillingher?’Inodded,nottrustingmyselftospeak.‘She’snotdead.Youdidn’tkillher,nordidthehungerbirds,althoughthey

didtheirbest toget toyouthroughher.She’sbeengiventoherocean.Oneday,initsowntime,theoceanwillgiveherback.’I thought of corpses and of skeletons with pearls for eyes. I thought of

mermaidswithtailsthatflickedwhentheymoved,likemygoldfish’stailhadflickedbeforemygoldfishhadstoppedmoving,tolie,bellyup,likeLettie,onthetopofthewater.Isaid,‘Willshebethesame?’

Theoldwomanguffawed,asifIhadsaidthefunniestthingintheuniverse.‘Nothing’severthesame,’shesaid.‘Beitasecondlaterorahundredyears.It’salwayschurningandroiling.Andpeoplechangeasmuchasoceans.’Ginnieclamberedoutofthewater,andshestoodatthewater’sedgebeside

me, her head bowed. The waves crashed and smacked and splashed andretreated.Therewasadistantrumblethatbecamealouderandlouderrumble:somethingwascomingtowardsus,acrosstheocean.Frommilesaway,fromhundredsandhundredsofmilesawayitcame:athinwhitelineetchedintheglowingblue,anditgrewasitapproached.Thegreatwavecame,andtheworldrumbled,andIlookedupasitreached

us: itwas taller than trees, thanhouses, thanmindor eyescouldhold, thanheartcouldfollow.OnlywhenitreachedLettieHempstock’sfloatingbodydidtheenormous

wavecrashdown.Iexpectedtobesoaked,orworse,tobesweptawaybytheangryoceanwater,andIraisedmyarmtocovermyface.Therewasnosplashofbreakers,nodeafeningcrash,andwhenIlowered

myarmIcouldseenothingbut thestillblackwaterofapond in thenight,andnothingonthesurfaceofthepondbutasmatteringoflilypadsandthethoughtful,incompletereflectionofthemoon.OldMrs Hempstock was gone too. I had thought that she was standing

besideme,butonlyGinniestoodthere,nexttome,staringdownsilentlyintothedarkmirrorofthelittlepond.‘Right,’shesaid.‘I’lltakeyouhome.’

TherewasaLandRoverparkedbehind thecowshed.Thedoorswereopenandtheignitionkeywasinthelock.Isatonthenewspaper-coveredpassengerseatandwatchedGinnieHempstockturnthekey.Theenginesputteredafewtimesbeforeitstarted.Ihadnot imaginedanyof theHempstocksdriving. Isaid, ‘Ididn’tknow

youhadacar.’‘Lots of things you don’t know,’ said Mrs Hempstock, tartly. Then she

glancedatmemoregentlyandsaid,‘Youcan’tknoweverything.’Shebackedthe Land Rover up and it bumped its way forward across the ruts and thepuddlesofthebackofthefarmyard.Therewassomethingonmymind.‘OldMrsHempstock says thatLettie isn’t dead,’ I said. ‘But she looked

dead.Ithinksheisactuallydead.Idon’tthinkit’struethatshe’snotdead.’Ginnie looked like she was going to say something about the nature of

truth,butallshesaidwas,‘She’shurt.Verybadlyhurt.Theoceanhastakenher.Honestly, I don’t know if itwill ever give her back.Butwe canhope,can’twe?’‘Yes.’Isqueezedmyhandsintofists,andIhopedashardasIknewhow.Webumpedandjoltedupthelaneatfifteenmilesperhour.Isaid,‘Wasshe–isshe–reallyyourdaughter?’Ididn’tknow,Istilldon’t

know,whyIaskedherthat.PerhapsIjustwantedtoknowmoreaboutthegirlwhohadsavedmylife,whohadrescuedmemorethanonce.Ididn’tknowanythingabouther.‘Moreorless,’saidGinnie.‘ThemenHempstocks,mybrothers,theywent

out into the world, and they had babies who’ve had babies. There areHempstockwomenoutthereinyourworld,andI’llwagereachofthemisawonderinherownway.ButonlyGranandmeandLettiearethepurething.’‘Shedidn’thaveadaddy?’Iasked.‘No.’‘Didyouhaveadaddy?’‘You’reallquestions,aren’tyou?No,love.Weneverwentinforthatsort

ofthing.Youonlyneedmenifyouwanttobreedmoremen.’Isaid,‘Youdon’thavetotakemehome.Icouldstaywithyou.Icouldwait

untilLettiecomesbackfromtheocean.Icouldworkonyourfarm,andcarry

stuff,andlearntodriveatractor.’Shesaid,‘No,’butshesaiditkindly.‘Yougetonwithyourownlife.Lettie

gaveittoyou.Youjusthavetogrowupandtryandbeworthit.’Aflashofresentment.It’shardenoughbeingalive,tryingtosurviveinthe

world and find your place in it, to do the things you need to do to get by,without wondering if the thing you just did, whatever it was, was worthsomeonehaving,ifnotdied,thenhavinggivenupherlife.Itwasn’tfair.‘Life’snotfair,’saidGinnie,asifIhadspokenaloud.Sheturnedintoourdriveway,pulledupoutsidethefrontdoor.Igotoutand

shedidtoo.‘Bettermakeiteasierforyoutogohome,’shesaid.MrsHempstockrangthedoorbell,althoughthedoorwasneverlocked,and

industriouslyscraped thesolesofherwellingtonbootson thedoormatuntilmymotheropenedthedoor.Shewasdressedforbed,andwearingherquiltedpinkdressinggown.‘Hereheis,’saidGinnie.‘Safeandsound,thesoldierbackfromthewars.

Hehada lovely timeatourLettie’sgoing-awayparty,butnowit’s timeforthisyoungmantogethisrest.’Mymotherlookedblank–almostconfused–andthentheconfusionwas

replacedbya smile, as if theworldhad just reconfigured itself into a formthatmadesense.‘Oh,youdidn’thavetobringhimback,’saidmymother.‘Oneofuswould

havecomeandpickedhimup.’Thenshelookeddownatme.‘WhatdoyousaytoMrsHempstock,darling?’Isaiditautomatically.‘Thank-you-for-having-me.’Mymothersaid,‘Verygood,dear.’Then,‘Lettie’sgoingaway?’‘ToAustralia,’saidGinnie.‘Tobewithherfather.We’llmisshavingthis

little fellow over to play, but,well,we’ll let you knowwhenLettie comesback.Hecancomeandplaythen.’Iwasgettingtired.Thepartyhadbeenfun,althoughIcouldnotremember

much about it. I knew that I would not visit the Hempstock farm again,though.NotunlessLettiewasthere.Australiawas a long, longway away. Iwondered how long itwould be

until she came back from Australia with her father. Years, I supposed.Australiawasontheothersideoftheworld,acrosstheocean…Asmallpartofmymindrememberedanalternativepatternofevents,and

thenlost it,as ifIhadwokenfromacomfortablesleep,andlookedaround,pulledthebedclothesovermeandreturnedtomydream.MrsHempstockgotbackintoherancientLandRover,sobespatteredwith

mud(Icouldnowsee,inthelightabovethefrontdoor)thattherewasalmost

no trace of the original paintwork visible, and she backed it up, down thedrive,towardsthelane.My mother seemed unbothered that I had returned home in fancy dress

clothesatalmostelevenatnight.Shesaid,‘Ihavesomebadnews,dear.’‘What’sthat?’‘Ursula’s had to leave. Family matters. Pressing family matters. She’s

alreadyleft.Iknowhowmuchyouchildrenlikedher.’IknewthatIdidn’tlikeher,butIsaidnothing.Therewasnownobodysleepinginmybedroomatthetopofthestairs.My

motheraskedifIwouldlikemyroombackforawhile.Isaidno,unsureofwhyIwassayingno.IcouldnotrememberwhyIdislikedUrsulaMonktonsomuch – indeed, I felt faintly guilty for disliking her so absolutely and soirrationally–butIhadnodesire toreturnto thatbedroom,despite the littleyellowhandbasin justmysize,andI remained in thesharedbedroomuntilour family moved out of that house half a decade later (we childrenprotesting,theadultsIthinkjustrelievedthattheirfinancialdifficultieswereover).Thehousewasdemolishedafterwemovedout.Iwouldnotgoandseeit

standingempty,andrefusedtowitnessthedemolition.Therewastoomuchofmylifeboundupinthosebricksandtiles,thosedrainpipesandwalls.Years later, my sister, now an adult herself, confided in me that she

believedthatourmotherhadfiredUrsulaMonkton(whomsheremembered,sofondly,astheniceoneinasequenceofgrumpychildminders)becauseourfatherwas having an affairwith her. Itwas possible, I agreed.Our parentswerebothstillalivethen,andIcouldhaveaskedthem,butIdidn’t.Myfatherdidnotmentiontheeventsofthosenights,notthen,notlater.If I took anything fromhim andmy childhood, itwas the resolve not to

shoutatpeople,andespeciallynottoshoutatchildren.IfinallymadefriendswithmyfatherwhenIenteredmytwenties.Wehad

so little in common when I was a boy, and I am certain I had been adisappointmenttohim.Hedidnotaskforachildwithabook,offinitsownworld. Hewanted a sonwho didwhat he had done: swam and boxed andplayedrugby,anddrovecarsatspeedwithabandonandjoy,butthatwasnotwhathehadwoundupwith.Ididnotevergodownthelaneallthewaytotheend.Ididnotthinkofthe

whiteMini.WhenIthoughtoftheopalminer,itwasinthecontextofthetworough raw opal rocks that sat on our mantelpiece, and in my memory healwaysworeacheckedshirtand jeans.His faceandarmswere tan,not thecherry-redofmonoxidepoisoning,andhehadnobowtie.

Monster,thegingertomcattheopalminerhadleftus,hadwanderedofftobe fed by other families, and although we saw him, from time to time,prowlingtheditchesandtreesattheendofthelane,hewouldnotevercomewhenwecalled.Iwasrelievedbythis,Ithink.Hehadneverbeenourcat.Weknewit,andsodidhe.A story onlymatters, I suspect, to the extent that the people in the story

change.But Iwas sevenwhen all of these things happened, and Iwas thesame person at the end of it that Iwas at the beginning,wasn’t I? Sowaseveryoneelse.Peopledon’tchange.Somethingschanged,though.Amonthorsoaftertheeventshere,andfiveyearsbeforetheramshackle

worldI livedinwasdemolishedandreplacedbytrim,squat,regularhousescontainingsmartyoungpeoplewhoworkedintheCitybutlivedinmytown,whomademoney bymovingmoney from place to place but who did notbuild or dig or farm orweave, and nine years before Iwould kiss smilingCallieAnders…Icamehomefromschool.ThemonthwasMay,orperhapsearlyJune.She

waswaitingbythebackdoorasifsheknewpreciselywhereshewasandwhoshewaslookingfor:ayoungblackcat,largerthanakittennow,withawhitesplodgeoveroneear,andwitheyesofanintenseandunusualgreenish-blue.Shefollowedmeintothehouse.IfedherwithanunusedcanofMonster’scatfood,whichIspoonedinto

Monster’sdustybowl.Myparents,whohadnevernoticedthegingertom’sdisappearance,didnot

initially notice the arrival of the new kitten-cat, and by the timemy fathercommentedonherexistence,shehadbeenlivingwithusforseveralweeks,exploring the garden until I came home from school, then staying nearmewhile I read or played. At night she would wait beneath the bed until thelights were turned out, then shewould accommodate herself on the pillowbesideme,groomingmyhair,andpurring,soquietlyasnevertodisturbmysister.I would fall asleep with my face pressed into her fur, while her deep

electricalpurrvibratedsoftlyagainstmycheek.Shehadsuchunusualeyes.Theymademe thinkof the seaside,andso I

calledherOcean,andcouldnothavetoldyouwhy.

Isatonthedilapidatedgreenbenchbesidetheduckpond,atthebackofthered-brickfarmhouse,andIthoughtaboutmykitten.IonlyrememberedthatOceanhadgrownintoacat,andthatIhadadored

her for years. Iwonderedwhat had happened to her, and then I thought, itdoesn’tmatterthatIcan’trememberthedetailsanylonger:deathhappenedtoher.Deathhappenstoallofus.Adooropenedinthefarmhouse,andIheardfeetonthepath.Soontheold

woman sat down beside me. ‘I brung you a cup of tea,’ she said. ‘And acheese and tomato sandwich. You’ve been out here for quite a while. Ithoughtyou’dprobablyfallenin.’‘I sortofdid,’ I toldher.And, ‘Thankyou.’ Ithadbecomedusk,without

mynoticing,whileIhadbeensittingthere.Itookthetea,andsippedit,andIlookedatthewoman,morecarefullythis

time.Icomparedhertomymemoriesoffortyyearsago.Isaid,‘Youaren’tLettie’s mother. You’re her grandmother, aren’t you? You’re Old MrsHempstock.’‘That’sright,’shesaid,unperturbed.‘Eatyoursandwich.’I took a bite of my sandwich. It was good, really good. Freshly baked

bread, sharp, salty cheese, the kind of tomatoes that actually taste likesomething.Iwasawash inmemory,andIwanted toknowwhat itmeant,what itall

meant. I said, ‘Is it true?’andfelt foolish.Ofall thequestions Icouldhaveasked,Ihadaskedthat.OldMrsHempstockshrugged.‘Whatyouremembered?Probably.Moreor

less.Differentpeoplerememberthingsdifferently,andyou’llnotgetanytwopeopletorememberanythingthesame,whethertheywerethereornot.Youstandtwoofyoulotnexttoeachother,andtheycouldbecontinentsawayforallitmeansanything.’Therewas another question I needed answered. I said, ‘Whydid I come

here?’Shelookedatmeasifitwereatrickquestion.‘Thefuneral,’shesaid.‘You

wanted toget away fromeveryoneandbeonyourown.So first of all you

drovebacktotheplaceyou’dlivedinasaboy,andwhenthatdidn’tgiveyouwhatyoumissed,youcamehere,likeyoualwaysdo.’‘Like I always do?’ I drank some more tea. It was still hot, and strong

enough:aperfectcupofbuilder’stea.Youcouldstandaspoonstraightupinit,asmyfatheralwayssaidofacupofteaofwhichheapproved.‘Likeyoualwaysdo,’sherepeated.‘No,’Isaid.‘Ihaven’tbeenheresince,well,sinceLettiewenttoAustralia.

Hergoing-awayparty.’And thenIsaid, ‘Whichneverhappened.YouknowwhatImean.’‘Youcomebacksometimes,’shesaid.‘Youwerehereoncewhenyouwere

twenty-four, I remember. You had two young children, and you were soscared.You camehere before you left these parts; youwere,what, in yourthirties then? I fed you a goodmeal in the kitchen, and you toldme aboutyourdreamsandtheartyouweremaking.’‘Idon’tremember.’Shepushedthehairfromhereyes.‘It’seasierthatway.’Isippedmytea,andfinishedthesandwich.Themugwaswhite,andsowas

theplate.Theendlesssummereveningwascomingtoanend.Iaskedheragain,‘WhydidIcomehere?’‘Lettiewantedyouto,’saidsomebody.The person who said that was walking around the pond: a woman in a

brown coat, wearing wellington boots. I looked at her in confusion. ShelookedyoungerthanIwasnow.Irememberedherasvast,asadult,butnowIsawshewasonlyinherlatethirties.Irememberedherasstout,butshewasbuxom,andattractiveinanapple-cheekedsortofaway.ShewasstillGinnieHempstock, Lettie’smother, and she looked, I was certain, just as she hadlookedforty-somethingyearsago.She satdownon thebenchon theother sideofme, so Iwas flankedby

Hempstock women. She said, ‘I think Lettie just wants to know if it wasworthit.’‘Ifwhatwasworthit?’‘You,’saidtheoldwoman,tartly.‘Lettiedidaverybigthingforyou,’saidGinnie.‘Ithinkshemostlywants

tofindoutwhathappenednext,andwhetheritwaswortheverythingshedid.’‘She…sacrificedherselfforme.’‘Afterafashion,dear,’saidGinnie.‘Thehungerbirdstoreoutyourheart.

Youscreamedsopiteouslyasyoudied.Shecouldn’tabidethat.Shehadtodosomething.’Itriedtorememberthis.Isaid,‘Thatisn’thowIrememberit.’

Theoldladysniffed.‘Didn’tIjustsayyou’llnevergetanytwopeopletorememberanythingthesame?’sheasked.‘CanItalktoher?’‘She’ssleeping,’saidLettie’smother.‘She’shealing.She’snottalkingyet.’‘Not until she’s donewhere she is,’ saidLettie’s grandmother, gesturing,

butIcouldnottellifshewaspointingtotheduckpondortothesky.‘Whenwillthatbe?’‘When she’s good and ready,’ said the oldwoman, as her daughter said,

‘Soon.’‘Well,’Isaid.‘Ifshebroughtmeheretolookatme,letherlookatme,’and

asIsaidit,Iknewthatithadalreadyhappened.HowlonghadIbeensittingonthatbench?AsIhadbeenrememberingher,shehadbeenexaminingme.‘Oh.Shedidalready,didn’tshe?’‘Yes,dear.’‘AnddidIpass?’The face of the oldwomanonmy rightwas unreadable in the gathering

dusk.Onmylefttheyoungerwomansaid,‘Youdon’tpassorfailatbeingaperson,dear.’Iputtheemptycupandplatedownontheground.GinnieHempstocksaid,‘Ithinkyou’redoingbetterthanyouwerethelast

timewesawyou.You’regrowinganewheart,forastart.’Inmymemory she was a mountain, this woman, and I had sobbed and

shivered on her bosom. Now she was smaller than I was, and I could notimaginehercomfortingme,notinthatway.Themoonwasfull,intheskyabovethepond.Icouldnotforthelifeofme

rememberwhatphase themoonhadbeen in the last timeIhadnoticed it. IcouldnotactuallyrememberthelasttimeIhaddonemorethanglanceatthemoon.‘Sowhatwillhappennow?’‘Same thingashappenseveryother timeyou’vecomehere,’ said theold

woman.‘Yougohome.’‘Idon’tknowwherethatisanymore,’Itoldthem.‘Youalwayssaythat,’saidGinnie.InmymemoryLettieHempstockwasstillafullheadtallerthanIwas.She

waseleven,afterall.IwonderedwhatIwouldsee–whoIwouldsee–ifshestoodbeforemenow.Themoonintheduckpondwasfullaswell,andIfoundmyself,unbidden,

thinkingoftheholyfoolsintheoldstory,theoneswhowentfishinginalakeforthemoon,withnets,convincedthatthereflectioninthewaterwasnearerandeasiertocatchthantheglobethathunginthesky.

And,ofcourse,itis.I gotupandwalkeda few steps to the edgeof thepond. ‘Lettie,’ I said,

tryingtoignorethetwowomenbehindme.‘Thankyouforsavingmylife.’‘Sheshouldnever’vetakenyouwithherinthefirstplace,whenshewent

offtofindthestartofitall,’sniffedOldMrsHempstock.‘Nothingtostophersortingitalloutonherown.Didn’tneedtotakeyoualongforcompany,sillything.Well,that’lllearnherfornexttime.’IturnedandlookedatOldMrsHempstock.‘Doyoureallyrememberwhen

themoonwasmade?’Iasked.‘Irememberlotsofthings,’shesaid.‘WillIcomebackhereagain?’Iasked.‘That’snotforyoutoknow,’saidtheoldwoman.‘Getalongnow,’saidGinnieHempstock,gently.‘There’speoplewhoare

wonderingwhereyou’vegotto.’Andwhenshementionedthem,Irealised,withanawkwardhorror,thatmy

sister, her husband, her children and my own, all the well-wishers andmournersandvisitors,wouldbepuzzlingoverwhathadbecomeofme.Still,iftherewasadaythattheywouldfindmyabsentwayseasytoforgive,itwastoday.Ithadbeenalongdayandahardone.Iwasgladthatitwasover.Isaid,‘IhopethatIhaven’tbeenabother.’‘No,dear,’saidtheoldwoman.‘Nobotheratall.’Iheardacatmiaow.Amomentlater, itsaunteredoutof theshadowsand

into a patch of bright moonlight. It approached me confidently, pushed itsheadagainstmyshoe.Icrouchedbeside it andscratched its forehead, stroked itsback. Itwasa

beautiful cat, black, or so I imagined, themoonlight having swallowed thecolourofthings.Ithadawhitespotoveroneear.I said, ‘I used to have a cat like this. Shewas beautiful. I don’t actually

rememberwhathappenedtoher.’‘You brought her back to us,’ said Ginnie Hempstock. And then she

touched my shoulder with her hand, squeezing it for a heartbeat, and shewalkedaway.Ipickedupmyplateandmymug,andIcarriedthemalongthepathwith

measwemadeourwaybacktothehouse,theoldwomanandI.‘Themoondoesshineasbrightasday,’Isaid.‘Likeinthesong.’‘It’sgoodtohaveafullmoon,’sheagreed.Isaid,‘It’sfunny.Foramoment,Ithoughtthereweretwoofyou.Isn’tthat

odd?’‘It’sjustme,’saidtheoldwoman.‘It’sonlyeverjustme.’‘Iknow,’Isaid.‘Ofcourseitis.’

Iwasgoingtotaketheplateandmugintothekitchen,butshestoppedmeatthefarmhousedoor.‘Yououghttogetbacktoyourfamilynow,’shesaid.‘They’llbesendingoutasearchparty.’‘They’ll forgiveme,’ Isaid. Ihoped that theywould.Mysisterwouldbe

concerned,andtherewouldbepeopleIbarelyknewdisappointednottohavetoldmehowvery,very sorry theywere formy loss. ‘You’vebeen sokind.Lettingmesitandthinkhere.Bythepond.I’mverygrateful.’‘Stuffandnonsense,’shesaid.‘Nothingkindaboutit.’‘NexttimeLettiewritesfromAustralia,’Isaid,‘pleasetellherIsaidhello.’‘Iwill,’shesaid.‘She’llbegladyouthoughtofher.’I got into the car and started the engine. The old woman stood in the

doorway,watchingme,politely,untilIhadturnedthecararoundandwasonmywayupthelane.I lookedbackat thefarmhouseinmyrear-viewmirror,anda trickof the

lightmade it seemas if twomoonshung in the skyabove it, likeapairofeyeswatchingmefromabove:onemoonperfectlyfullandround,theother,itstwinontheothersideofthesky,ahalf-moon.Curiously I turned inmy seat and lookedback: a single half-moonhung

overthefarmhouse,peacefulandpaleandperfect.Iwonderedwhere the illusionof the secondmoonhad come from,but I

only wondered for a moment, and then I dismissed it from my thoughts.Perhaps it was an after-image, I decided, or a ghost: something that hadstirredinmymindforamoment,sopowerfullythatIbelievedit tobereal,but now was gone, and faded into the past like a memory forgotten, or ashadowintothedusk.

This book is the book you have just read. It’s done. Now we’re in theacknowledgements.This is not really part of the book.You do not have toreadit.It’smostlyjustnames.Thefamilyinthisbookisnotmyownfamily,whohavebeengraciousin

lettingmeplunderthelandscapeofmychildhoodandwatchedasIliberallyreshapedthoseplacesintoastory.I’mgratefultothemall,especiallytomyyoungest sister, Lizzy, who encouraged me and sent me long-forgottenmemory-joggingphotographs.(IwishI’drememberedtheoldgreenhouseintimetoputitintothebook.)Iowethankstosomanypeople,theoneswhowerethereinmylifewhenI

neededthem,theoneswhobroughtmetea,theoneswhowrotethebooksthatbroughtmeup.Tosingleanyofthemoutisfoolish,buthereIgo…WhenIfinishedthisbook,Isentittomanyofmyfriendstoread,andthey

read it with wise eyes and they told me what worked for them and whatneededwork. I’m grateful to all of them, but particular thanksmust go toMariaDahvanaHeadley,OlgaNunes,AlinaSimone(queenoftitles),GaryK.Wolfe, Kat Howard, Kelly McCullough, Eric Sussman, Hayley Campbell,ValyaDudyczLupescu,MelissaMarr,ElyseMarshall,AnthonyMartignetti,Peter Straub,KatDennings,GeneWolfe,GwendaBond,AnneBobby,Lee‘Budgie’ Barnett, Morris Shamah, Farah Mendelsohn, Henry Selick, ClareConey,GraceMonkandCorneliaFunke.Thisnovelbegan,althoughIdidnotknowitwasgoingtobeanovelatthe

time,whenJonathanStrahanaskedmetowritehimashortstory.IstartedtotellthestoryoftheopalminerandtheHempstockfamily(whohavelivedinthe farm inmyhead for sucha long time),andJonathanwas forgivingandkindwhen I finally admitted tomyself and to him that thiswasn’t a shortstory,andIletitbecomeanovelinstead.InSarasota,Florida,StephenKingremindedmeofthejoyofjustwriting

every day.Words save our lives, sometimes. Tori gaveme a safe house towriteitin,andIcannotthankherenough.ArtSpiegelmangavemehiskindpermission touseawordballoon from

hiscollaborativeconversationwithMauriceSendakintheNewYorkerastheopeningepigraph.Asthisbookentereditsseconddraft,asIwastypingoutmyhandwritten

firstdraft, Iwouldread theday’swork tomywifeAmandaatnight inbed,andIlearnedmoreaboutthewordsI’dwrittenwhenreadingitaloudtoherthanIeverhavelearnedaboutanythingI’vewritten.Shewasthebook’sfirstreader, and her puzzlement, her questions and her delight were my guidesthroughsubsequentdrafts.(IwrotethisbookforAmanda,whenshewasfarawayandImissedherverymuch.Mylifewouldbegreyeranddullerwithouther.)Mydaughters,HollyandMaddy,andmyson,Michael,weremywisestand

gentlestcriticsofall.IhavewonderfuleditorsonbothsidesoftheAtlantic:JenniferBrehland

JaneMorpeth,andRosemaryBrosnan,whoallreadthebookinfirstdraftandallsuggesteddifferentthingsIneededtochangeandfixandrebuild.JaneandJenniferhavealsobothcopedextremelywellwiththearrivalofabookthatnoneofuswasexpecting,notevenme.I would verymuch like to thank the committee for the Zena Sutherland

Lectures,heldat theChicagoPublicLibrary: theZenaSutherlandLecture Ideliveredin2012was,inretrospect,mostlyaconversationwithmyselfaboutthisbookwhileIwaswritingit,totryandunderstandwhatIwaswritingandwhoitwasfor.MerrileeHeifetzhasbeenmyliteraryagentfortwenty-fiveyearsnow.Her

supportonthisbook,aswitheverythingoverthelastquarterofacentury,wasinvaluable.JonLevin,myagentforfilmsandsuch,isafinereaderanddoesameanRingoStarrimpression.ThegoodfolkofTwitterwereextremelyhelpfulwhenIneededtodouble-

checkhowmuchblackjacksandfruitsaladsweetscostinthe1960s.WithoutthemImighthavewrittenmybooktwiceasfast.And lastly, my thanks to the Hempstock family, who, in one form or

another,havealwaysbeentherewhenIneededthem.

NeilGaimanIsleofSkyeJuly2012