Copyright©2013NeilGaiman

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1988.

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TableofContents

TitlePageCopyrightPageAbouttheAuthorPraiseforNeilGaimanAlsobyNeilGaimanAbouttheBookDedicationEpigraphPrologue

ChapterIChapterIIChapterIIIChapterIVChapterVChapterVIChapterVIIChapterVIIIChapterIXChapterXChapterXIChapterXIIChapterXIIIChapterXIVChapterXV

EpilogueAcknowledgements

AbouttheAuthor

NeilGaimanistheauthorofoverthirtyacclaimedbooksandgraphicnovels.Hehasreceivedmanyliteraryhonours.

Bornand raised inEngland,hepresently lives inNewEnglandanddreamsofendlesslibraries.

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’WilliamGibson

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

attractions’GeorgeRRMartin

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

andgrandeurthatemergefrommasterfulstorytelling’PeterStraub

‘AmericanGodsmanagestoreinvent,andtoreassert,theenduringimportanceoffantasticliteratureitselfinthislateageoftheworld.Darkfun,andnourishing

tothesoul’MichaelChabon

‘Immenselyentertaining…combinestheanarchyofDouglasAdamswithaWodehousiangenerosityofspirit’SusannaClarke

AlsobyNeilGaimanandavailablefromHeadline

AmericanGodsStardust

NeverwhereSmokeandMirrors

AnansiBoysFragileThings

AbouttheBook

Itbeganforournarratorfortyyearsagowhenthefamily lodgerstole theircarand committed suicide in it, stirring up ancient powers best left undisturbed.Dark creatures from beyond this world are on the loose, and it will takeeverything our narrator has just to stay alive: there is primal horror here, andmenaceunleashed–withinhisfamilyandfromtheforcesthathavegatheredtodestroyit.

Hisonlydefenceisthreewomen,onafarmattheendofthelane.Theyoungestofthemclaimsthatherduckpondisanocean.TheoldestcanremembertheBigBang.

The Ocean at the End of the Lane is a fable that reshapes modern fantasy:moving,terrifyingandelegiac–aspureasadream,asdelicateasabutterfly’swing, as dangerous as a knife in the dark – from storytelling genius NeilGaiman.

ForAmanda,whowantedtoknow

‘Iremembermyownchildhoodvividly…Iknewterriblethings.ButIknewImustn’tletadultsknowIknew.Itwouldscarethem.’

MauriceSendak,inconversationwithArtSpiegelman,TheNewYorker,27September

1993

Itwasonlyaduckpond,outatthebackofthefarm.Itwasn’tverybig.LettieHempstock said itwas an ocean, but I knew thatwas silly. She said

they’dcomehereacrosstheoceanfromtheoldcountry.HermothersaidthatLettiedidn’trememberproperly,anditwasalongtime

ago,andanyway,theoldcountryhadsunk.OldMrsHempstock, Lettie’s grandmother, said theywere bothwrong, and

that the place that had sunkwasn’t the really old country. She said she couldrememberthereallyoldcountry.Shesaidthereallyoldcountryhadblownup.

Iworeablacksuitandawhiteshirt,ablacktieandblackshoes,allpolishedandshiny:clothesthatnormallywouldmakemefeeluncomfortable,asifIwereinastolenuniform,orpretendingtobeanadult.Todaytheygavemecomfort,ofakind.Iwaswearingtherightclothesforahardday.Ihaddonemydutyinthemorning,spokenthewordsIwasmeanttospeak,

andImeantthemasIspokethem,andthen,whentheservicewasdone,IgotinmycarandIdrove,randomly,withoutaplan,withanhourorsotokillbeforeImetmorepeopleIhadnotseenforyearsandshookmorehandsanddranktoomany cups of tea from the best china. I drove alongwinding Sussex countryroads I only half remembered, until I foundmyself headed towards the towncentre,soIturned,randomly,downanotherroad,andtookaleft,andaright.Itwas only then that I realised where I was going, where I had been going allalong,andIgrimacedatmyownfoolishness.Ihadbeendrivingtowardsahousethathadnotexistedfordecades.Ithoughtofturningaround,then,asIdrovedownawidestreetthathadonce

been a flint lane beside a barley field, of turning back and leaving the pastundisturbed.ButIwascurious.Theoldhouse, theoneIhadlivedinforsevenyears, fromwhenIwasfive

until Iwas twelve, that househadbeenknockeddownandwas lost for good.The new house, the one my parents had built at the bottom of the garden,between theazaleabushesand thegreencircle in thegrasswecalled thefairyring,thathadbeensoldthirtyyearsago.IslowedthecarasIsawthenewhouse.Itwouldalwaysbethenewhousein

myhead.Ipulledupintothedriveway,observingthewaytheyhadbuiltoutonthemid-seventiesarchitecture.Ihadforgottenthatthebricksofthehousewerechocolate brown. The new people hadmademymother’s tiny balcony into atwo-storeysunroom.Istaredatthehouse,rememberinglessthanIhadexpected

aboutmyteenageyears:nogoodtimes,nobadtimes.I’dlivedinthatplace,forawhile,asateenager.Itdidn’tseemtobeanypartofwhoIwasnow.Ibackedthecaroutoftheirdriveway.Itwastime,Iknew,todrivetomysister’sbustling,cheerfulhouse,alltidied

andstifffortheday.IwouldtalktopeoplewhoseexistenceIhadforgottenyearsbefore and they would ask me about my marriage (failed a decade ago, arelationship that had slowly frayeduntil eventually, as they always seem to, itbroke) andwhether Iwas seeing anyone (Iwasn’t; Iwas not even sure that Icould,notyet),andtheywouldaskaboutmychildren(allgrownup,theyhavetheirownlives,theywishtheycouldbeheretoday),andwork(doingfine,thankyou, Iwould say, never knowing how to talk aboutwhat I do. If I could talkabout it, Iwouldnothave todo it. Imakeart, sometimes Imake trueart,andsometimesitfillstheemptyplacesinmylife.Someofthem.Notall).Wewouldtalkaboutthedeparted;wewouldrememberthedead.Thelittlecountrylaneofmychildhoodhadbecomeablacktarmacroadthat

servedasabufferbetweentwosprawlinghousingestates.Idrovefurtherdownit, away from the town,whichwasnot theway I shouldhavebeen travelling,anditfeltgood.Theslickblackroadbecamenarrower,windier,becamethesingle-lanetrackI

remembered frommy childhood, became packed earth and knobbly, bone-likeflints.SoonIwasdrivingslowly,bumpily,downanarrow lanewithbramblesand

briarrosesoneachside,wherevertheedgewasnotastandofhazelsorawildhedgerow.ItfeltlikeIhaddrivenbackintime.ThatlanewashowIrememberedit,whennothingelsewas.IdrovepastCarawayFarm.Irememberedbeingjustsixteen,andkissingred-

cheeked, fair-haired Callie Anders, who lived there, and whose family wouldsoonmovetotheShetlands,andIwouldneverkissherorseeheragain.Thennothing but fields on either side of the road, for almost a mile: a tangle ofmeadows.Slowlythelanebecameatrack.Itwasreachingitsend.IremembereditbeforeIturnedthecornerandsawit,inallitsdilapidatedred-

brickglory:theHempstocks’farmhouse.Ittookmebysurprise,althoughthatwaswherethelanehadalwaysended.I

couldhavegonenofurther.Iparkedthecaratthesideofthefarmyard.Ihadnoplan. I wondered whether, after all these years, there was anyone still livingthere, or, more precisely, if the Hempstocks were still living there. It seemedunlikely,butthen,fromwhatlittleIremembered,theyhadbeenunlikelypeople.

The stench of cow muck struck me as I got out of the car, and I walkedgingerlyacrossthesmallyardtothefrontdoor.Ilookedforadoorbell,invain,andthenIknocked.Thedoorhadnotbeenlatchedproperly,anditswunggentlyopenasIrappeditwithmyknuckles.I had been here, hadn’t I, a long time ago? I was sure I had. Childhood

memories are sometimes covered and obscured beneath the things that comelater,likechildhoodtoysforgottenatthebottomofacrammedadultcloset,buttheyareneverlostforgood.Istoodinthehallwayandcalled,‘Hello?Isthereanybodyhere?’I heard nothing. I smelled bread baking and wax furniture polish and old

wood.Myeyeswereslowtoadjusttothedarkness:Ipeeredintoit,wasgettingready to turn and leavewhen an elderlywoman cameout of the dimhallwayholdingawhiteduster.Sheworehergreyhairlong.Isaid,‘MrsHempstock?’She tippedherhead toone side, lookedatme. ‘Yes. Ido knowyou,young

man,’shesaid.Iamnotayoungman.Notanylonger.‘Iknowyou,butthingsgetmessywhenyougettomyage.Whoareyou,exactly?’‘IthinkImusthavebeenaboutseven,maybeeight,thelasttimeIwashere.’Shesmiledthen.‘YouwereLettie’sfriend?Fromthetopofthelane?’‘Yougavememilk. Itwaswarm, from the cows.’And then I realised how

manyyearshadgoneby,andIsaid,‘No,youdidn’tdothat,thatmusthavebeenyour mother who gave me the milk. I’m sorry.’ As we age, we become ourparents; live long enough andwe see faces repeat in time. I rememberedMrsHempstock,Lettie’smother,asastoutwoman.Thiswomanwasstick-thin,andshelookeddelicate.Shelookedlikehermother,likethewomanIhadknownasOldMrsHempstock.SometimeswhenIlookinthemirrorIseemyfather’sface,notmyown,andI

remember theway hewould smile at himself, inmirrors, before hewent out.‘Lookinggood,’he’dsaytohisreflection,approvingly.‘Lookinggood.’‘AreyouheretoseeLettie?’MrsHempstockasked.‘Is shehere?’The idea surprisedme.Shehadgone somewhere,hadn’tshe?

America?Theoldwomanshookherhead.‘Iwasjustabouttoputthekettleon.Doyou

fancyaspotoftea?’Ihesitated.ThenIsaidthat,ifshedidn’tmind,I’dlikeitifshecouldpointme

towardstheduckpondfirst.‘Duckpond?’

IknewLettiehadhadafunnynameforit.Irememberedthat.‘Shecalleditthesea.Somethinglikethat.’Theoldwomanputtheclothdownonthedresser.‘Can’tdrinkthewaterfrom

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

the way. I do not even think I would have remembered Lettie Hempstock’sname. But standing in that hallway, it was all coming back tome.Memorieswerewaitingattheedgesofthings,beckoningtome.HadyoutoldmethatIwassevenagain,Imighthavehalfbelievedyou,foramoment.‘Thankyou.’Iwalkedintothefarmyard.Iwentpastthechickencoop,pasttheoldbarnand

along the edge of the field, rememberingwhere Iwas, andwhatwas comingnext, and exulting in the knowledge. Hazels lined the side of the meadow. Ipickedahandfulofthegreennuts,puttheminmypocket.Thepondisnext,Ithought.Ijusthavetogoaroundthisshed,andI’llseeit.I saw it and felt oddly proud of myself, as if that one act of memory had

blownawaysomeofthecobwebsoftheday.ThepondwassmallerthanIremembered.Therewasalittlewoodenshedon

the far side, and, by the path, an ancient, heavy wood-and-metal bench. Thepeelingwoodenslatshadbeenpaintedgreenafewyearsago.Isatonthebench,andstaredatthereflectionoftheskyinthewater,atthescumofduckweedattheedges,andthehalf-dozenlilypads.EverynowandagainItossedahazelnutintothemiddleofthepond,thepondthatLettieHempstockhadcalled…Itwasn’tthesea,wasit?ShewouldbeolderthanIamnow,LettieHempstock.Shewasonlyahandful

ofyearsolderthanIwasbackthen,forallherfunnytalk.Shewaseleven.Iwas…whatwasI?Itwasafterthebadbirthdayparty.Iknewthat.SoIwouldhavebeenseven.I wondered if we had ever fallen in the water. Had I pushed her into the

duckpond,thatstrangegirlwholivedinthefarmattheverybottomofthelane?Irememberedherbeinginthewater.Perhapsshehadpushedmeintoo.Wheredidshego?America?No,Australia.Thatwas it.Somewherea long

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

Nobodycametomyseventhbirthdayparty.Therewas a table laidwith jellies and trifles, with a party hat beside each

placeandabirthdaycakewithsevencandlesonitinthecentreofthetable.Thecakehadabookdrawnonit,inicing.Mymother,whohadorganisedtheparty,toldme that the lady at the bakery said that they had never put a book on abirthdaycakebefore,and thatmostlyforboys itwasfootballsorspaceships. Iwastheirfirstbook.When it becameobvious that nobodywas coming,mymother lit the seven

candlesonthecake,andIblewthemout.Iateasliceofthecake,asdidmylittlesisterandoneofherfriends(bothofthemattendingthepartyasobservers,notparticipants),beforetheyfled,giggling,tothegarden.Partygameshadbeenpreparedbymymother,butbecausenobodywasthere,

notevenmysister,noneof thepartygameswereplayed,andIunwrappedthenewspaper around the pass-the-parcel gift myself, revealing a blue plasticBatmanfigure.Iwassadthatnobodyhadcometomyparty,buthappythatIhadaBatmanfigure,andtherewasabirthdaypresentwaitingtoberead,aboxedsetoftheNarniabooks,whichItookupstairs.Ilayonthebedandlostmyselfinthestories.Ilikedthat.Booksweresaferthanotherpeopleanyway.MyparentshadalsogivenmeaBestofGilbertandSullivanLP,toaddtothe

twothatIalreadyhad.IhadlovedGilbertandSullivansinceIwasthree,whenmyfather’syoungestsister,myaunt,tookmetoseeIolanthe,aplayfilledwithlords and fairies. I found the existence and nature of the fairies easier tounderstandthanthatofthelords.Myaunthaddiedsoonafter,ofpneumonia,inthehospital.That evening, when my father arrived home from work, he brought a

cardboardboxwithhim.Inthecardboardboxwasasoft-hairedblackkittenof

uncertaingender,whichI immediatelynamedFluffy,andwhichI lovedutterlyandwholeheartedly.Fluffysleptonmybedatnight.Italkedtoit,sometimes,whenmylittlesister

wasnotaround,halfexpectingittoanswerinahumantongue.Itneverdid.Ididnotmind.Thekittenwasaffectionateandinterestedandagoodcompanionforsomeonewhoseseventhbirthdaypartyhadconsistedofatablewithicedbiscuitsandablancmangeandcakeandfifteenemptyfoldingchairs.Idonotremembereveraskinganyoftheotherchildreninmyclassatschool

whytheyhadnotcometomyparty.Ididnotneedtoaskthem.Theywerenotmyfriends,afterall.TheywerejustthepeopleIwenttoschoolwith.Imadefriendsslowly,whenImadethem.Ihadbooks,andnowIhadmykitten.WewouldbelikeDickWhittingtonand

his cat, I knew, or, if Fluffy proved particularly intelligent, we would be themiller’ssonandPussinBoots.Thekittensleptonmypillow,anditevenwaitedformetocomehomefromschool,sittingonthedrivewayinfrontofmyhouse,bythefence,until,amonthlater,itwasrunoverbythetaxithatbroughttheopalminertostay.Iwasnottherewhenithappened.Igothomefromschoolthatday,andmykittenwasnotwaitingtomeetme.In

thekitchenwasatall,rangymanwithtannedskinandacheckedshirt.Hewasdrinkingcoffeeatthekitchentable,Icouldsmellit.Inthosedaysallcoffeewasinstantcoffee,abitterdarkbrownpowderthatcameoutofajar.‘I’mafraid Ihada littleaccidentarrivinghere,’he toldme,cheerfully. ‘But

nottoworry.’Hisaccentwasclipped,unfamiliar:itwasthefirstSouthAfricanaccentIhadheard.He,too,hadacardboardboxonthetableinfrontofhim.‘Theblackkitten,washeyours?’heasked.‘It’scalledFluffy,’Isaid.‘Yeah. Like I said. Accident coming here. Not to worry. Disposed of the

corpse.Don’thavetotroubleyourself.Dealtwiththematter.Openthebox.’‘What?’Hepointedtothebox.‘Openit,’hesaid.Theopalminerwasatallman.HeworejeansandcheckedshirtseverytimeI

sawhim,exceptthelast.Hehadathickchainofpalegoldaroundhisneck.ThatwasgonethelasttimeIsawhim,too.Ididnotwanttoopenhisbox.Iwantedtogooffonmyown.Iwantedtocry

formykitten,butIcouldnotdothatifanyoneelsewasthereandwatchingme.I

wantedtomourn.Iwantedtoburymyfriendat thebottomofthegarden,pastthegreen-grassfairyring,intotherhododendronbushcave,backpasttheheapofgrasscuttings,wherenobodyeverwentbutme.Theboxmoved.‘Boughtitforyou,’saidtheman.‘Alwayspaymydebts.’Ireachedout,liftedthetopflapofthebox,wonderingifthiswasajoke,ifmy

kittenwouldbeinthere.Insteadagingerfacestaredupatmetruculently.Theopalminertookthecatoutofthebox.Hewas a huge, ginger-striped tomcat,missing half an ear.He glared atme

angrily.Thiscathadnot likedbeingput inabox.Hewasnotusedtoboxes.Ireachedouttostrokehishead,feelingunfaithfultothememoryofmykitten,buthepulledback,soIcouldnottouchhim,andhehissedatmethenstalkedofftoafarcorneroftheroom,wherehesatandlookedandhated.‘Thereyougo.Catforacat,’saidtheopalminer,andheruffledmyhairwith

hisleatheryhand.Thenhewentoutintothehall,leavingmeinthekitchenwiththecatthatwasnotmykitten.Themanputhisheadbackthroughthedoor.‘It’scalledMonster,’hesaid.Itfeltlikeabadjoke.Iproppedopenthekitchendoor,sothecatcouldgetout.ThenIwentupto

mybedroom,andlayonmybedandcriedfordeadFluffy.Whenmyparentsgothomethatevening,Idonotthinkmykittenwasevenmentioned.Monsterlivedwithusforaweekormore.Iputcatfoodinthebowlforhimin

themorningandagainatnightasIhadformykitten.Hewouldsitbythebackdooruntil I,or someoneelse, lethimout.Wesawhim in thegarden, slippingfrom bush to bush, or in trees, or in the undergrowth. We could trace hismovementsbythedeadbluetitsandthrusheswewouldfindinthegarden,butwesawhimrarely.ImissedFluffy. Iknewyoucouldnot simply replacesomethingalive,but I

darednotgrumbletomyparentsaboutit.Theywouldhavebeenbaffledatmyupset: after all, if my kitten had been killed, it had also been replaced. Thedamagehadbeenmadeup.Itallcameback,andevenasitcamebackIknewitwouldnotbeforlong:all

the things I remembered, sittingon thegreenbenchbeside the littlepond thatLettieHempstockhadonceconvincedmewasanocean.

Iwasnothappyasachild,althoughfromtimetotimeIwascontent.IlivedinbooksmorethanIlivedanywhereelse.Ourhousewaslargeandmany-roomed,whichwasgoodwhentheyboughtit

andmyfatherhadmoney,notgoodlater.My parents called me into their bedroom one afternoon, very formally. I

thoughtImusthavedonesomethingwrongandwastherefora telling-off,butno:theytoldmeonlythattheywerenolongeraffluent,thatwewouldallneedtomakesacrifices,andthatwhatIwouldbesacrificingwasmybedroom,thelittleroom at the top of the stairs. I was sad:my bedroom had a tiny little yellowwashbasintheyhadputinforme,justmysize;theroomwasabovethekitchen,andimmediatelyupthestairsfromthetelevisionroom,soatnightIcouldhearthe comforting buzz of adult conversation up the stairs, throughmyhalf-opendoor,andIdidnotfeelalone.Also,inmybedroom,nobodymindedifIkeptthehalldoorhalfopen,allowinginenoughlightthatIwasnotscaredofthedark,and,justasimportant,allowingmetoreadsecretly,aftermybedtime,inthedimhallwaylight,ifIneededto.Ialwaysneededto.Exiledtomylittlesister’shugebedroom,Iwasnotheartbroken.Therewere

alreadythreebedsinthere,andItookthebedbythewindow.IlovedthatIcouldclimb out of that bedroomwindow on to the long brick balcony, that I couldsleepwiththewindowopenandfeelthewindandtherainonmyface.Butweargued,mysisterandI,arguedabouteverything.Shelikedtosleepwiththedoortothehallclosed,andtheimmediateargumentsaboutwhetherthebedroomdoorshouldbeopenorshutweresummarilyresolvedbymymotherwritingachartthathungonthebackofthedoor,showingthatalternatenightsweremineormysister’s.Eachnight Iwascontentor Iwas terrified,dependingonwhether thedoorwasopenorclosed.Myformerbedroomatthetopofthestairswasletout,andavarietyofpeople

passed through it. I viewed themallwith suspicion: theywere sleeping inmy

bedroom,usingmylittleyellowbasinthatwasjusttherightsizeforme.Therehad been a fat Austrian ladywho told us she could leave her head andwalkaround the ceiling; an architectural student from New Zealand; an Americancouple whommy mother, scandalised, made leave when she discovered theywerenotactuallymarried;andnowtherewastheopalminer.HewasaSouthAfrican,althoughhehadmadehismoneyminingforopalsin

Australia. He gave my sister and me an opal each, a rough black rock withgreen-blue-red fire in it. My sister liked him for this, and treasured her opalstone.Icouldnotforgivehimforthedeathofmykitten.Itwas thefirstdayof thespringholidays: threeweeksofnoschool. Iwoke

early,thrilledbytheprospectofendlessdaystofillhoweverIwished.Iwouldread.Iwouldexplore.I pulled on my shorts, my T-shirt, my sandals. I went downstairs to the

kitchen.Myfatherwascooking,whilemymothersleptin.Hewaswearinghisdressing gown over his pyjamas.He always cooked breakfast on Saturdays. Isaid, ‘Dad!Where’s my comic?’ He normally bought me a copy of SMASH!beforehedrovehome fromworkonFridays, and Iwould read it onSaturdaymornings.‘Inthebackofthecar.Doyouwanttoast?’‘Yes,’Isaid.‘Butnotburnt.’Myfatherdidnotliketoasters.Hetoastedbreadunderthegrill,andusually,

heburntit.I went outside into the drive. I looked around. I went back into the house,

pushedthekitchendoor,wentin.Ilikedthekitchendoor.Itswungbothways,inandout,soservantssixtyyearsagowouldbeable towalk inoroutwith theirarmsladenwithdishesemptyorfull.‘Dad?Where’sthecar?’‘Inthedrive.’‘Noitisn’t.’‘What?’The telephone rang, andmy fatherwent out into the hall,where the phone

was,toanswerit.Iheardhimtalkingtosomeone.Thetoastbegantosmokeunderthegrill.Igotuponachairandturnedthegrilloff.‘That was the police,’ my father said. ‘Someone’s reported seeing our car

abandonedatthebottomofthelane.IsaidIhadn’tevenreporteditstolenyet.Right.Wecanheaddownnow,meetthemthere.Toast!’

He pulled the pan out from beneath the grill. The toast was smoking andblackenedononeside.‘Ismycomicthere?Ordidtheystealit?’‘Idon’tknow.Thepolicedidn’tmentionyourcomic.’Myfatherputpeanutbutterontheburntsideofeachpieceoftoast,replaced

hisdressinggownwithacoatwornoverhispyjamas,putonapairofshoes,andwewalkeddownthelanetogether.Hemunchedhis toastaswewalked.Iheldmytoast,anddidnoteatit.We had walked for perhaps fiveminutes down the narrow lane, which ran

throughfieldsoneachside,whenapolicecarcameupbehindus.Itslowed,andthedrivergreetedmyfatherbyname.Ihidmypieceofburnt toastbehindmybackwhilemy father talked to the

policeman.Iwishedmyfamilywouldbuynormalslicedwhitebread, thekindthatwent into toasters, like everyother family Iknew.My fatherhad foundalocalbaker’sshopwheretheymadethickloavesofheavybrownbread,andheinsisted on buying them. He said they tasted better, which was, to mymind,nonsense.Properbreadwaswhite,andpre-sliced,andtastedlikealmostnothing:thatwasthepoint.Thedriverofthepolicecargotout,openedthepassengerdoor,toldmetoget

in.Myfatherrodeupfrontbesidethedriver.Thepolicecarwentslowlydownthelane.Thewholelanewasunpavedback

then,justwideenoughforonecaratatime,apuddly,precipitous,bumpyway,withflintsstickingupfromit,thewholethingruttedbyfarmequipmentandrainandtime.‘Thesekids,’ said thepoliceman. ‘They think it’s funny.Steal acar,drive it

around,abandonit.They’llbelocals.’‘I’mjustgladitwasfoundsofast,’saidmyfather.PastCarawayFarm,whereasmallgirlwithhairsoblonditwasalmostwhite,

andred,redcheeksstaredatusaswewentpast.Iheldmypieceofburnttoastonmylap.‘Funnythemleavingitdownhere,though,’saidthepoliceman.‘Becauseit’sa

longwalkbacktoanywherefromhere.’WepassedabendinthelaneandsawthewhiteMinioverontheside,infront

ofagateleadingintoafield,tyressunkdeepinthebrownmud.Wedrovepastit, parked on the grass verge. The policeman let me out, and the three of uswalkedover to theMini,while thepoliceman toldmydadaboutcrime in this

area,andwhyitwasobviouslythelocalkidswhohaddoneit,thenmydadwasopeningthepassenger-sidedoorwithhissparekey.He said, ‘Someone’s left somethingon theback seat.’He reachedback and

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

parentstotakemetoMadameTussaudswaxworksinLondon,whenIwassix,because I had wanted to visit the Chamber of Horrors, expecting the movie-monsterChambersofHorrorsI’dreadaboutinmycomics.IhadwantedtothrilltowaxworksofDraculaandFrankenstein’sMonsterandtheWolf-man.InsteadIwaswalkedthroughaseeminglyendlesssequenceofdioramasofunremarkable,glum-lookingmenandwomenwhohadmurderedpeople–usuallylodgers,andmembersoftheirownfamilies–andwhowerethenmurderedintheirturn:byhanging,bytheelectricchair,ingaschambers.Mostofthemweredepictedwiththeir victims in awkward social situations – seated around a dinner table,perhaps,astheirpoisonedfamilymembersexpired.Theplaquesthatexplainedwho they were also told me that the majority of them had murdered theirfamilies and sold the bodies to anatomy. It was then that the word anatomygarnered its own edge of horror forme. I did not knowwhatanatomywas. Iknewonlythatanatomymadepeoplekilltheirchildren.The only thing that had kept me running screaming from the Chamber of

HorrorsasIwasledarounditwasthatnoneofthewaxworkshadlookedfullyconvincing.Theycouldnottrulylookdead,becausetheydidnoteverlookalive.Thethinginthebackseatthathadbeencoveredbytheblueblanket(Iknew

thatblanket.Itwastheonethathadbeeninmyoldbedroom,ontheshelf,forwhenitgotcold)wasnotconvincingeither.Itlookedalittleliketheopalminer,butitwasdressedinablacksuit,withawhiteruffledshirtandablackbowtie.Itshairwasslickedbackandartificiallyshiny.Itseyeswerestaring.Itslipswerebluish,butitsskinwasveryred.Itlookedlikeaparodyofhealth.Therewasnogoldchainarounditsneck.I could see, underneath it, crumpled and bent, my copy of SMASH!, with

Batman,lookingjustashedidonthetelevision,onthecover.Idon’trememberwhosaidwhatthen,justthattheymademestandawayfrom

theMini.Icrossedtheroad,andIstoodthereonmyownwhilethepolicemantalkedtomyfatherandwrotethingsdowninanotebook.

IstaredattheMini.Alengthofgreengardenhoseranfromtheexhaustpipeup to the driver’s window. There was thick brownmud all over the exhaust,holdingthehosepipeinplace.Nobodywaswatchingme.Itookabiteofmytoast.Itwasburntandcold.Athome,myfatherateallthemostburntpiecesoftoast.‘Yum!’he’dsay,and

‘Charcoal!Goodforyou!’and‘Burnttoast!Myfavourite!’andhe’deatitallup.WhenIwasmucholder,heconfessedtomethathehadneverlikedburnttoast,had only eaten it to prevent it from going to waste, and for a fraction of amoment,my entire childhood felt like a lie: it was as if one of the pillars ofbeliefthatmyworldhadbeenbuiltuponhadcrumbledintodrysand.Thepolicemanspokeintoaradiointhefrontofhiscar.Thenhecrossedtheroadandcameovertome.‘Sorryaboutthis,sonny,’he

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

trouble.’Shewasmuch older thanme, at least eleven.Her hairwasworn relatively

short,foragirl,andhernosewassnub.Shewasfreckled.Sheworearedskirt–girlsdidn’twearjeansmuchbackthen,notinthoseparts.ShehadasoftSussexaccentandsharpgrey-blueeyes.Thegirlwent,withthepoliceman,overtomyfather,andshegotpermission

totakemeaway,andthenIwaswalkingdownthelanewithher.Isaid,‘Thereisadeadmaninourcar.’‘That’swhyhecamedownhere,’shetoldme.‘Theendoftheroad.Nobody’s

goingtofindhimandstophimaroundhere,threeo’clockinthemorning.Andthemudthereiswetandeasytomould.’‘Doyouthinkhekilledhimself?’‘Yes.Doyoulikemilk?Gran’smilkingBessienow.’I said, ‘You mean, real milk from a cow?’ and then felt foolish, but she

nodded,reassuringly.Ithoughtaboutthis.I’dneverhadmilkthatdidn’tcomefromabottle.‘Ithink

I’dlikethat.’Westoppedatasmallbarnwhereanoldwoman,mucholderthanmyparents,

with longgreyhair, likecobwebs,anda thin face,wasstandingbesideacow.

Long black tubeswere attached to each of the cow’s teats. ‘We used tomilkthembyhand,’shetoldme.‘Butthisiseasier.’Sheshowedmehow themilkwent from thecowdown theblack tubesand

intothemachine,throughacoolerandintohugemetalchurns.Thechurnswereleftonaheavywoodenplatformoutsidethebarn,wheretheywouldbecollectedeachdaybyalorry.Theold ladygavemea cupof creamymilk fromBessie thecow, the fresh

milkbeforeithadgonethroughthecooler.NothingIhaddrunkhadevertastedlikethatbefore:richandwarmandperfectlyhappyinmymouth.IrememberedthatmilkafterIhadforgotteneverythingelse.‘There’smoreofthemupthelane,’saidtheoldwoman,suddenly.‘Allsorts

comingdownwithlightsflashingandall.Suchapalaver.Youshouldgettheboyintothekitchen.He’shungry,andacupofmilkwon’tdoagrowingboy.’Thegirlsaid,‘Haveyoueaten?’‘Justapieceoftoast.Itwasburned.’She said, ‘My name’s Lettie. Lettie Hempstock. This is Hempstock Farm.

Come on.’ She took me in through the front door, and into their enormouskitchen, satme down at a hugewooden table, so stained and patterned that itlookedasiffaceswerestaringupatmefromtheoldwood.‘We have breakfast here early,’ she said. ‘Milking starts at first light. But

there’sporridgeinthesaucepan,andjamtoputinit.’Shegavemeachinabowlfilledwithwarmporridgefromthestovetop,with

a lump of home-made blackberry jam, my favourite, in the middle of theporridge,thenshepouredcreamonit.IswisheditaroundwithmyspoonbeforeI ate it, swirling it into a purplemess, andwas as happy as I have ever beenaboutanything.Ittastedperfect.Astockywomancamein.Herred-brownhairwasstreakedwithgrey,andcut

short. She had apple cheeks, a dark green skirt that went to her knees, andwellingtonboots.Shesaid,‘Thismustbetheboyfromthetopofthelane.Suchabusinessgoingonwiththatcar.There’llbefiveofthemneedingteasoon.’Lettiefilledahugecopperkettlefromthetap.Shelitagashobwithamatch

andputthekettleontheflame.Thenshetookdownfivechippedmugsfromacupboard,andhesitated,lookingatthewoman.Thewomansaid,‘You’reright.Six.Thedoctorwillbeheretoo.’Thenthewomanpursedherlipsandmadeatchutch!noise.‘They’vemissed

thenote,’shesaid.‘Hewroteitsocarefullytoo,foldeditandputitinhisbreastpocket,andtheyhaven’tlookedthereyet.’

‘Whatdoesitsay?’askedLettie.‘Read it yourself,’ said the woman. I thought she was Lettie’smother. She

seemedlikeshewassomebody’smother.Thenshesaid,‘Itsaysthathetookallthemoney that his friendshadgivenhim to smuggleout ofSouthAfrica andbank for them inEngland,alongwithall themoneyhe’dmadeover theyearsminingforopals,andhewenttothecasinoinBrighton,togamble,butheonlymeant togamblewithhisownmoney.And thenheonlymeant todip into themoneyhisfriendshadgivenhimuntilhehadmadebackthemoneyhehadlost.‘Andthenhedidn’thaveanything,’saidthewoman,‘andallwasdark.’‘That’snotwhathewrote,though,’saidLettie,squintinghereyes.‘Whathe

wrotewas,

“Toallmyfriends,AmsosorryitwasnotlikeImeanttoandhopeyoucanfinditinyourheartstoforgivemeforI

cannotforgivemyself.”’

‘Same thing,’ said the olderwoman. She turned tome. ‘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.ThisisHempstockFarm.It’stheoldestfarmhereabouts.It’sintheDomesdayBook.’IwonderedwhytheywereallcalledHempstock,thosewomen,butIdidnot

ask,anymorethanIdaredtoaskhowtheyknewaboutthesuicidenoteorwhattheopalminerhadthoughtashedied.Theywereperfectlymatter-of-factaboutit.Lettiesaid,‘Inudgedhimtolookinthebreastpocket.He’llthinkhethought

ofithimself.’‘There’sagoodgirl,’saidMrsHempstock.‘They’llbeinherewhenthekettle

boilstoaskifI’veseenanythingunusualandtohavetheirtea.Whydon’tyoutaketheboydowntothepond?’‘It’s not a pond,’ said Lettie. ‘It’s my ocean.’ She turned to me and said,

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

duckpond, darkwater spottedwithduckweed and lily pads.Therewas a dead

fish,silverasacoin,floatingonitssideonthesurface.‘That’snotgood,’saidLettie.‘Ithoughtyousaiditwasanocean,’Itoldher.‘It’sjustapond,really.’‘Itisanocean,’shesaid.‘WecameacrossitwhenIwasjustababy,fromthe

oldcountry.’Lettiewent into theshedandcameoutwitha longbamboopole,withwhat

lookedlikeashrimpingnetontheend.Sheleanedover,carefullypushedthenetbeneaththedeadfish.Shepulleditout.‘ButHempstockFarmisintheDomesdayBook,’Isaid.‘Yourmumsaidso.

AndthatwasWilliamtheConqueror.’‘Yes,’saidLettieHempstock.Shetookthedeadfishoutofthenetandexaminedit.Itwasstillsoft,notstiff,

anditfloppedinherhand.Ihadneverseensomanycolours:itwassilver,yes,butbeneaththesilverwasblueandgreenandpurpleandeachscalewastippedwithblack.‘Whatkindoffishisit?’Iasked.‘This is very odd,’ she said. ‘I mean, mostly fish in this ocean don’t die

anyway.’Sheproducedahorn-handledpocketknife,althoughIcouldnothavetoldyoufromwhere,andshepusheditintothestomachofthefish,andslicedalong,towardsthetail.‘Thisiswhatkilledher,’saidLettie.Shetooksomethingfrominsidethefish.Thensheputit,stillgreasyfromthe

fishguts,intomyhand.Ibentdown,dippeditintothewater,rubbedmyfingersacrossittocleanitoff.Istaredatit.QueenVictoria’sfacestaredbackatme.‘Sixpence?’Isaid.‘Thefishateasixpence?’‘It’snotgood,isit?’saidLettieHempstock.Therewasalittlesunshinenow:

itshowedthefrecklesthatclusteredacrosshercheeksandnose,andwherethesunlighttouchedherhair,itwasacopperyred.Andthenshesaid,‘Yourfather’swonderingwhereyouare.Timetobegettingback.’Itriedtogiveherthelittlesilversixpence,butsheshookherhead.‘Youkeep

it,’shesaid.‘Youcanbuychocolates,orsherbetlemons.’‘I don’t think I can,’ I said. ‘It’s too small. I don’t know if shopswill take

sixpenceslikethesenowadays.’‘Thenputitinyourpiggybank,’shesaid.‘Itmightbringyouluck.’Shesaid

thisdoubtfully,asifshewereuncertainwhatkindofluckitwouldbring.The policemen and my father and two men in brown suits and ties were

standinginthefarmhousekitchen.Oneofthementoldmehewasapoliceman,

buthewasn’twearingauniform,whichIthoughtwasdisappointing:ifIwereapoliceman Iwouldwearmyuniformwhenever I could.Theothermanwith asuitandtieIrecognisedasDrSmithson,ourfamilydoctor.Theywerefinishingtheirtea.MyfatherthankedMrsHempstockandLettiefortakingcareofme,andthey

saidIwasnotroubleatall,andthatIcouldcomeagain.ThepolicemanwhohaddrivenusdowntotheMininowdroveusbacktoourhouse,anddroppedusoffattheendofthedrive.‘Probablybestifyoudon’ttalkaboutthistoyoursister,’saidmyfather.Ididn’twanttotalkaboutittoanybody.Ihadfoundaspecialplace,andmade

a new friend, and lost my comic, and I was holding an old-fashioned silversixpencetightlyinmyhand.Isaid,‘Whatmakestheoceandifferenttothesea?’‘Bigger,’saidmyfather.‘Anoceanismuchbiggerthanthesea.Why?’‘Justthinking,’Isaid.‘Couldyouhaveanoceanthatwasassmallasapond?’‘No,’saidmyfather.‘Pondsarepond-sized,lakesarelake-sized.Seasareseas

andoceansareoceans.Atlantic,Pacific,Indian,Arctic.I thinkthat’sallof theoceansthereare.’Myfatherwentuptohisbedroom,totalktomymumandtobeonthephone

up there. Idropped the silver sixpence intomypiggybank. Itwas thekindofchinapiggybankfromwhichnothingcouldberemoved.Oneday,whenitcouldholdnomorecoins,Iwouldbeallowedtobreakit,butitwasfarfromfull.

Ineversaw thewhiteMiniagain.Twodays later,onMonday,myfather tookdeliveryofablackRover,withcrackedredleatherseats.ItwasabiggercarthantheMinihadbeen,butnotascomfortable.Thesmellofoldcigarspermeatedtheleatherupholstery,andlongdrivesinthebackoftheRoveralwaysleftusfeelingcar-sick.TheblackRoverwasnottheonlythingtoarriveonMondaymorning.Ialso

receivedaletter.Iwassevenyearsold,andInevergotletters.Igotcards,onmybirthday,from

mygrandparents,andfromEllenHenderson,mymother’sfriendwhomIdidnotknow.OnmybirthdayEllenHenderson,wholivedinacaravan,wouldsendmeahandkerchief.Ididnotgetletters.Evenso,Iwouldchecktheposteverydaytoseeiftherewasanythingforme.Andthatmorning,therewas.I opened it, did not understand what I was looking at, and took it to my

mother.‘You’vewonthePremiumBonds,’shesaid.‘Whatdoesthatmean?’‘When you were born – when all of her grandchildren were born – your

grandmaboughtyouaPremiumBond.Andwhenthenumbergetschosen,youcanwinthousandsofpounds.’‘DidIwinthousandsofpounds?’‘No.’Shelookedattheslipofpaper.‘You’vewontwenty-fivepounds.’Iwassadnottohavewonthousandsofpounds(IalreadyknewwhatIwould

buywithit.Iwouldbuyaplacetogoandbealone,likeaBatcave,withahiddenentrance), but I was delighted to be in possession of a fortune beyond myprevious imaginings. Twenty-five pounds. I could buy four little blackjack orfruitsaladsweetsforapenny:theywereafarthingeach,althoughtherewereno

morefarthings.Twenty-fivepounds,at240penniestothepoundandfoursweetstothepenny,was…moresweetsthanIcouldeasilyimagine.‘I’llputitinyourPostOfficeaccount,’saidmymother,crushingmydreams.IdidnothaveanymoresweetsthanIhadhadthatmorning.Evenso,Iwas

rich.ThirteenpoundselevenshillingsricherthanIhadbeenmomentsbefore.Ihadneverwonanything,ever.Imadehershowmethepieceofpaperwithmynameonitagain,beforeshe

putitintoherhandbag.That wasMondaymorning. In the afternoon, the ancientMrWollery, who

came in on Monday and Thursday afternoons to do some gardening (MrsWollery, his equally ancient wife, who wore galoshes, huge semi-transparentovershoes,wouldcomeinonWednesdayafternoonsandclean),wasdigginginthevegetablegardenanddugupabottlefilledwithpenniesandhalfpenniesandthreepennybitsandevenfarthings.Noneofthecoinswasdatedlaterthan1937,andIspenttheafternoonpolishingthemwithbrownsauceandvinegar,tomakethemshine.Mymotherputthebottleofoldcoinsonthemantelpieceofthediningroom,

and said that she expected that a coin collectormight pay several pounds forthem.Iwent to bed that night happy and excited. Iwas rich.Buried treasure had

beendiscovered.Theworldwasagoodplace.Idon’trememberhowthedreamsstarted.Butthat’sthewayofdreams,isn’t

it?IknowthatIwasinschool,andhavingabadday,hidingfromthekindsofkidswhohitmeandcalledmenames,but theyfoundmeanyway,deep in therhododendronthicketbehindtheschool,andIknewitmustbeadream(butinthedreamIdidn’tknow;itwasrealanditwastrue)becausemygrandfatherwaswith them, andhis friends, oldmenwithgrey skin andhacking coughs.Theyheldsharppencils,thekindthatdrewbloodwhenyouwerejabbedwiththem.Iranfromthem,but theywerefaster thanIwas, theoldmen,andthebigboys,andintheboys’toilets,whereIhadhiddeninacubicle,theycaughtupwithme.Theyheldmedown,forcedmymouthwideopen.Mygrandfather(butitwasnotmygrandfather;itwasreallyawaxworkofmy

grandfather, intent on selling me to anatomy) held something sharp andglittering,andhebeganpushingitintomymouthwithhisstubbyfingers.Itwashard and sharp and familiar, and itmademegag and choke.Mymouth filledwithametallictaste.

Theywere looking atmewithmean, triumphant eyes, all the people in theboys’toilets,andItriednottochokeonthethinginmythroat,determinednottogivethemthatsatisfaction.IwokeandIwaschoking.I could not breathe.Therewas something inmy throat, hard and sharp and

stoppingmefrombreathingorfromcryingout.IbegantocoughasIwoke,tearsstreamingdownmycheeks,noserunning.I pushed my fingers as deeply as I could into my mouth, desperate and

panickedanddetermined. I felt theedgeofsomethinghardwith the tipofmyforefinger, put the middle finger on the other side of it, choking myself,clampingthethingbetweenthem,andIpulledwhateveritwasoutofmythroat.Igaspedforbreath,and thenIhalfvomitedon tomybedsheets, threwupa

cleardroolfleckedwithblood,fromwherethethinghadcutmythroatasIhadpulleditout.Ididnotlookatthething.Itwastightinmyhand,slimywithmysalivaand

myphlegm. I did notwant to look at it. I did notwant it to exist, the bridgebetweenmydreamandthewakingworld.Irandownthehallwaytothebathroom,atthefarendofthehouse.Iwashed

mymouth out, drank directly from the cold tap, spat red into thewhite sink.OnlywhenI’ddonethatdidIsitonthesideofthewhitebathtubandopenmyhand.Iwasscared.Butwhatwasinmyhand–whathadbeeninmythroat–wasn’tscary.Itwas

acoin:asilvershilling.I went back to the bedroom. I dressedmyself, cleaned the vomit frommy

sheetsasbestIcouldwithadampfaceflannel.IhopedthatthesheetswoulddrybeforeIhadtosleepinthebedthatnight.ThenIwentdownstairs.Iwantedtotellsomeoneabouttheshilling,butIdidnotknowwhototell.I

knewenoughaboutadultstoknowthatifIdidtellthemwhathadhappened,Iwouldnotbebelieved.AdultsrarelyseemedtobelievemewhenItoldthetruthanyway.Whywouldtheybelievemeaboutsomethingsounlikely?Mysisterwasplaying in thebackgardenwithsomeofher friends.She ran

overtomeangrilywhenshesawme.Shesaid,‘Ihateyou.I’mtellingMummyandDaddywhentheycomehome.’‘What?’‘Youknow,’shesaid.‘Iknowitwasyou.’‘Whatwasme?’‘Throwingcoinsatme.Atallofus.Fromthebushes.Thatwasjustnasty.’

‘ButIdidn’t.’‘Ithurt.’Shewentbacktoherfriends,andtheyallglaredatme.Mythroatfeltpainful

andragged.Iwalkeddownthedrive.Idon’tknowwhereIwasthinkingofgoing–Ijust

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

chestnut trees.She looked as if shehadbeenwaiting for a hundredyears andcouldwait for another hundred. Shewore awhite dress, but the light comingthroughthechestnut’syoungspringleavesstaineditgreen.Isaid,‘Hello.’Shesaid,‘Youwerehavingbaddreams,weren’tyou?’Itooktheshillingoutofmypocketandshowedittoher.‘Iwaschokingonit,’

I told her. ‘When Iwoke up.But I don’t know how it got intomymouth. Ifsomeonehadputitintomymouth,Iwouldhavewokenup.Itwasjustinthere,whenIwoke.’‘Yes,’shesaid.‘MysistersaysIthrewcoinsatthemfromthebushes,butIdidn’t.’‘No,’sheagreed.‘Youdidn’t.’Isaid,‘Lettie?What’shappening?’‘Oh,’ she said, as if it was obvious. ‘Someone’s just trying to give people

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

here and there, back then, and she pointed to them as wewent past. ‘In thathouse,’ said Lettie Hempstock, ‘a man dreamed of being sold and of beingturnedintomoney.Nowhe’sstartedseeingthingsinmirrors.’‘Whatkindsofthings?’‘Himself.Butwithfingerspokingoutofhiseyesockets.Andthingscoming

outofhismouth.Likecrabclaws.’

Ithoughtaboutpeoplewithcrablegscomingoutoftheirmouths,inmirrors.‘WhydidIfindashillinginmythroat?’‘Hewantedpeopletohavemoney.’‘Theopalminer?Whodiedinthecar?’‘Yes.Sortof.Notexactly.Hestartedthisalloff,likesomeonelightingafuse

onafirework.Hisdeathlitthetouchpaper.Thethingthat’sexplodingrightnow,thatisn’thim.That’ssomebodyelse.Somethingelse.’Sherubbedherfrecklednosewithagrubbyhand.‘Alady’sgonemadinthathouse,’shetoldme,anditwouldnothaveoccurred

tometodoubther. ‘Shehasmoneyin themattress.Nowshewon’tgetoutofbed,incasesomeonetakesitfromher.’‘Howdoyouknow?’Sheshrugged.‘Onceyou’vebeenaroundforabit,yougettoknowstuff.’Ikickedastone.‘By“abit”,doyoumean“areallylongtime”?’Shenodded.‘Howoldareyou,really?’Iasked.‘Eleven.’Ithoughtforawhile.ThenIasked,‘Howlonghaveyoubeenelevenfor?’Shesmiledatme.WewalkedpastCarawayFarm.Thefarmers,whomonedayIwouldcometo

know as Callie Anders’ parents, were standing in their farmyard, shouting ateachother.Theystoppedwhentheysawus.When we rounded a bend in the lane, and were out of sight, Lettie said,

‘Thosepoorpeople.’‘Whyaretheypoorpeople?’‘Because they’ve beenhavingmoneyproblems.And thismorninghe had a

dreamwhereshe…shewasdoingbadthings.Toearnmoney.Sohelookedinherhandbagandfoundlotsoffolded-upten-shillingnotes.Shesaysshedoesn’tknowwheretheycamefrom,andhedoesn’tbelieveher.Hedoesn’tknowwhattobelieve.’‘Allthefightingandthedreams.It’saboutmoney,isn’tit?’‘I’mnotsure,’saidLettie,andsheseemedsogrown-upthenthatIwasalmost

scaredofher.‘Whatever’s happening,’ she said, eventually, ‘it can all be sorted out.’ She

sawtheexpressiononmyfacethen,worried.Scaredeven.Andshesaid,‘Afterpancakes.’

Lettiecookeduspancakesonabigmetalgriddle,onthekitchenstove.Theywerepaperthin,andaseachpancakewasdone,Lettiewouldsqueezelemonontoit,andplopablobofplumjamintothecentre,androllittightly,likeacigar.Whentherewereenough,wesatatthekitchentableandwolfedthemdown.Therewasahearthinthatkitchen,andtherewereashesstillsmoulderingin

thehearth,fromthenightbefore.Thatkitchenwasafriendlyplace,Ithought.IsaidtoLettie,‘I’mscared.’Shesmiledatme.‘I’llmakesureyou’resafe.Ipromise.I’mnotscared.’Iwasstillscared,butnotasmuch.‘It’sjustscary.’‘IsaidIpromise,’saidLettieHempstock.‘Iwon’tletyoubehurt.’‘Hurt?’ said a high, cracked voice. ‘Who’s hurt? What’s been hurt? Why

wouldanybodybehurt?’It was old Mrs Hempstock, her apron held between her hands, and in the

hollow of the apron so many daffodils that the light reflected up from themtransformedherfacetogold,andthekitchenseemedbathedinyellowlight.Lettie said, ‘Something’s causing trouble. It’s givingpeoplemoney. In their

dreamsandinreallife.’Sheshowedtheoldladymyshilling.‘Myfriendfoundhimselfchokingonthisshillingwhenhewokeupthismorning.’OldMrsHempstock put her apron on the kitchen table, rapidlymoved the

daffodilsofftheclothandontothewood.ThenshetooktheshillingfromLettie.Shesquintedatit,sniffedit,rubbedatit,listenedtoit(orputittoherear,atanyrate),thentoucheditwiththetipofherpurpletongue.‘It’snew,’shesaid,atlast.‘Itsays1912onit,butitdidn’texistyesterday.’Lettiesaid,‘Iknewtherewassomethingfunnyaboutit.’IlookedupatoldMrsHempstock.‘Howdoyouknow?’‘Goodquestion,luvvie.It’selectrondecay,mostly.Youhavetolookatthings

closely to see the electrons. They’re the little dinky ones that look like tinysmiles.Theneutronsarethegreyonesthatlooklikefrowns.Theelectronswereallabittoosmileyfor1912,sothenIcheckedthesidesofthelettersandtheoldKing’shead,andeverythingwasatadtoocrispandsharp.Evenwheretheywereworn,itwasasifthey’dbeenmadetobeworn.’‘Youmusthaveverygoodeyesight,’Itoldher.Iwasimpressed.Shegaveme

backthecoin.‘Not as good as it once was, but then, when you get to be my age, 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, and they liked tellingushowoldtheywere.OldMrsHempstockwentovertoacupboard,andtookoutseveralcolourful

vases.‘Oldenough,’shesaid.‘Irememberwhenthemoonwasmade.’‘Hasn’ttherealwaysbeenamoon?’‘Bless you. Not in the slightest. I remember the day the moon came. We

lookedupinthesky–itwasalldirtybrownandsootygreyherethen,notgreenandblue…’Shehalffilledeachofthevasesatthesink.Thenshetookapairofblackenedkitchen scissors, and snippedoff thebottomhalf-inchof stem fromeachofthedaffodils.I said, ‘Are you sure it’s not thatman’s ghost doing this?Are you surewe

aren’tbeinghaunted?’Theybothlaughedthen,thegirlandtheoldwoman,andIfeltstupid.Isaid,

‘Sorry.’‘Ghosts can’t make things,’ said Lettie. ‘They aren’t even good at moving

things.’Old Mrs Hempstock said, ‘Go and get your mother. She’s doing laundry.’

Then,tome,‘Youshallhelpmewiththedaffs.’I helped her put the flowers into the vases, and she asked my opinion on

wheretoputthevasesinthekitchen.WeplacedthemwhereIsuggested,andIfeltwonderfullyimportant.Thedaffodils sat likepatchesof sunlight,making that darkwoodenkitchen

evenmorecheerful.Thefloorwasredflagstone.Thewallswerewhitewashed.Theoldwomangavemea lumpofhoneycomb, fromtheHempstocks’own

beehive,onachippedsaucer,andpouredalittlecreamoveritfromajug.Iateitwithaspoon,chewingthewaxlikegum,lettingthehoneyflowintomymouth,sweetandstickywithanaftertasteofwildflowers.Iwasscraping the lastof thecreamandhoney from thesaucerwhenLettie

andhermothercame into thekitchen.MrsHempstockstillhadbigwellingtonbootson,andshestrodeinas ifshewere inanenormoushurry.‘Mother!’shesaid.‘Givingtheboyhoney.You’llrothisteeth.’Old Mrs Hempstock shrugged. ‘I’ll have a word with the wigglers in his

mouth,’shesaid.‘Getthemtoleavehisteethalone.’

‘You can’t just boss bacteria around like that,’ said the younger MrsHempstock.‘Theydon’tlikeit.’‘Stuffandsilliness,’saidtheoldlady.‘Youleavewigglersaloneandthey’llbe

carryingonlikeanything.Showthemwho’sbossandtheycan’tdoenoughforyou. You’ve tasted my cheese.’ She turned to me. ‘I’ve won medals for mycheese.Medals.Back in theoldKing’sday therewere thosewho’d ride for aweektobuyaroundofmycheese.TheysaidthattheKinghimselfhaditwithhisbread,andhisboys,PrinceDickonandPrinceGeoffreyandevenlittlePrinceJohn,theysworeitwasthefinestcheesetheyhadevertasted…’‘Gran,’saidLettie,andtheoldladystopped,midflow.Lettie’s mother said, ‘You’ll be needing a hazel wand. And,’ she added,

somewhatdoubtfully,‘Isupposeyoucouldtakethelad.It’shiscoin,andit’llbeeasiertocarryifhe’swithyou.Somethingshemade.’‘She?’saidLettie.Shewasholdingherhorn-handledpenknife,withtheblade

closed.‘Tasteslikeashe,’saidLettie’smother.‘Imightbewrong,mind.’‘Don’ttaketheboy,’saidOldMrsHempstock.‘Askingfortrouble,thatis.’Iwasdisappointed.‘We’ll be fine,’ said Lettie. ‘I’ll take care of him. Him andme. It’ll be an

adventure.Andhe’llbecompany.Please,Gran?’IlookedupatOldMrsHempstockwithhopeonmyface,andwaited.‘Don’tsayIdidn’twarnyou,ifitallgoeswobbly,’saidOldMrsHempstock.‘Thankyou,Gran.Iwon’t.AndI’llbecareful.’OldMrsHempstocksniffed.‘Now,don’tdoanythingstupid.Approachitwith

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

Lettie led me to a hazel thicket beside the old road (the hazel catkins werehangingheavyinthespring)andbrokeoffabranch.Then,withherknife,asifshehaddoneittenthousandtimesbefore,shestrippeditofbarkandcutitagainsothatnowitresembledaY.Sheputtheknifeaway(Ididnotseewhereitwent)andheldthetwoendsoftheYinherhands.‘I’mnotdowsing,’shetoldme.‘Justusingitasaguide.We’relookingfora

blue…abluebottle,Ithinktostartwith.Orsomethingpurply-blue,andshiny.’Ilookedaroundwithher.‘Ican’tseeone.’‘It’llbehere,’sheassuredme.I gazed around, taking in thegrass, a reddish-brownchickenpecking at the

sideofthedriveway,somerustyfarmmachinery,thewoodentrestletablebesidethe road and the six empty metal milk churns that sat upon it. I saw theHempstocks’ red-brick farmhouse, crouchedandcomfortable likeananimal atrest. I saw the spring flowers; the omnipresent white and yellow daisies, thegoldendandelions anddo-you-like-butter buttercups, and, late in the season, alonebluebell in theshadowsbeneath themilk-churn table, stillglisteningwithdew…‘That?’Iasked.‘You’vegotsharpeyes,’shesaid,approvingly.Wewalkedtogethertothebluebell.Lettieclosedhereyeswhenwereachedit.

Shemovedherbodybackandforth,thehazelwandextended,asifshewerethecentralpointonaclockoracompass,herwandthehands,orientingtowardsamidnightoranEast that I couldnotperceive. ‘Black,’ she said suddenly,as ifsheweredescribingsomethingfromadream.‘Andsoft.’Wewalkedawayfromthebluebell,alongthelanethatIimagined,sometimes,

musthavebeenaRomanroad.Wewereahundredyardsupthelane,nearwhere

theMinihadbeenparked,whenshespottedit:ascrapofblackclothcaughtonthebarbedwireofthefence.Lettieapproachedit.Againtheoutstretchedhazelstick,againtheslowturning

andturning.‘Red,’shesaid,withcertainty.‘Veryred.Thatway.’Wewalkedtogetherinthedirectionsheindicated.Acrossameadowandinto

aclumpoftrees.‘There,’Isaid,fascinated.Thecorpseofaverysmallanimal–avole, by the lookof it – layona clumpofgreenmoss. It hadnohead, andbrightbloodstaineditsfurandbeadedonthemoss.Itwasveryred.‘Now,fromhereon,’saidLettie,‘holdontomyarm.Don’tletgo.’I put out my right hand and took her left arm, just below the elbow. She

movedthehazelwand.‘Thisway,’shesaid.‘Whatarewelookingfornow?’‘We’regettingcloser,’shesaid.‘Thenextthingwe’relookingforisastorm.’Wepushedourwayintoaclumpoftrees,andthroughtheclumpoftreesinto

awood,andsqueezedourway through trees tooclose together, their foliageathick canopy above our heads.We found a clearing in thewood, andwalkedalongtheclearing,inaworldmadegreen.Fromourleftcameamumbleofdistantthunder.‘Storm,’ sang Lettie. She let her body swing again, and I turned with her,

holdingherarm.Ifelt,orimaginedIfelt,athrobbinggoingthroughme,holdingherarm,asifIweretouchingmightyengines.She set off in anewdirection.Wecrossed a tiny stream together.Then she

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

wantustocometoit.’Thehazelwandwaswhippingaroundnow likeamagnetbeingpushedat a

repellingpole.Lettiegrinned.Agustofwindthrewleavesanddirtupintoourfaces.InthedistanceIcould

hearsomethingrumble,likeatrain.Itwasgettinghardertosee,andtheskythatIcouldmakeoutabovethecanopyofleaveswasdark,asifhugestormcloudshad moved above our heads, or as if it had gone from morning directly totwilight.Lettieshouted,‘Getdown!’andshecrouchedonthemoss,pullingmedown

withher.Shelayprone,andIlaybesideher,feelingalittlesilly.Thegroundwasdamp.‘Howlongwillwe…?’

‘Shush!’Shesoundedalmostangry.Isaidnothing.Something came through the woods, above our heads. I glanced up, saw

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

knowifIwouldbeabletostandagain.‘Manta wolf,’ said Lettie. ‘We’ve already gone a bit further out than I

thought.’Shegot toher feet and stared theway the furry thinghadgone.Sheraisedthetipofthehazelwand,andturnedaroundslowly.‘I’mnotgettinganything.’Shetossedherhead,togetthehairoutofhereyes,

withoutlettinggooftheforksofthehazelwand.‘Eitherit’shidingorwe’retooclose.’Shebither lip.Thenshe said, ‘Theshilling.Theone fromyour throat.Bringitout.’Itookitfrommypocketwithmylefthand,offeredittoher.‘No,’shesaid.‘Ican’ttouchit,notrightnow.Putitdownontheforkofthe

stick.’Ididn’taskwhy.IjustputthesilvershillingdownattheintersectionoftheY.

Lettiestretchedherarmsout,andturnedveryslowly,with theendof thestickpointingstraightout.Imovedwithher,butfeltnothing.Nothrobbingengines.Wewereoverhalfwayaroundwhenshestoppedandsaid,‘Look!’I looked in the direction she was facing, but I saw nothing but trees, and

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

left,alittletotheright,alittlefurthertotherightagain,andthetipofthewandbegantoglowabrightorange.‘That’ssomethingI’venotseenbefore,’saidLettie.‘I’musingthecoinasan

amplifier,butit’sasif—’Therewasawhoompf!andtheendofthestickburstintoflame.Lettiepushed

itdownintothedampmoss.Shesaid,‘Takeyourcoinback,’andIdid,pickingitupcarefully, incase itwashot,but itwas icycold.She left thehazelwandbehindonthemoss,thecharcoaltipofitstillsmokingirritably.LettiewalkedandIwalkedbesideher.Weheldhandsnow,myrighthandin

herleft.Theairsmelledstrange,likefireworks,andtheworldgrewdarkerwitheverystepwetookintotheforest.

‘IsaidI’dkeepyousafe,didn’tI?’saidLettie.‘Yes.’‘IpromisedIwouldn’tletanythinghurtyou.’‘Yes.’Shesaid,‘Justkeepholdingmyhand.Don’tletgo.Whateverhappens,don’t

letgo.’Herhandwaswarm,butnotsweaty.Itwasreassuring.‘Hold my hand,’ she repeated. ‘And don’t do anything unless I tell you.

You’vegotthat?’Isaid,‘Idon’tfeelverysafe.’Shedidnotargue.Shesaid,‘We’vegonefurtherthanIimagined.Furtherthan

Iexpected.I’mnotreallysurewhatkindsofthingsliveouthereonthemargins.’Thetreesended,andwewalkedoutintoopencountry.Isaid,‘Arewealongwayfromyourfarm?’‘No.We’restillonthebordersofthefarm.HempstockFarmstretchesavery

longway.Webroughtalotofthiswithusfromtheoldcountry,whenwecamehere.Thefarmcamewithus,andbroughtthingswithitwhenitcame.Grancallsthemfleas.’Ididnotknowwherewewere,but I couldnotbelievewewere stillon the

Hempstocks’land,nomorethanIbelievedwewereintheworldIhadgrownupin.Theskyofthisplacewasthedullorangeofawarninglight;theplants,whichwerespiky,likehuge,raggedaloes,wereadarksilverygreen,andlookedasiftheyhadbeenbeatenfromgun-metal.Thecoin,inmylefthand,whichhadwarmedtotheheatofmybody,beganto

cooldownagain,untilitwasascoldasanicecube.MyrighthandheldLettieHempstock’shandastightlyasitcould.Shesaid,‘We’rehere.’IthoughtIwaslookingatabuildingatfirst:thatitwassomekindoftent,as

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

whimperingsound,likeadogthathadbeenkicked,andIrealisedthatthethingthatwaswhimperingwasme.Its facewas ragged, and its eyeswere deep holes in the fabric. Therewas

nothingbehindit,justagreycanvasmask,hugerthanIcouldhaveimagined,allrippedandtorn,blowinginthegustsofstormwind.

Somethingshifted,andtheraggedthinglookeddownatus.LettieHempstocksaid,‘Nameyourself.’Therewasapause.Emptyeyesstareddown.Thenavoiceasfeaturelessasthe

windsaid, ‘Iam the ladyof thisplace. Ihavebeenhere for sucha long time.Sincebeforethelittlepeoplesacrificedeachotherontherocks.Mynameismyown,child.Notyours.Nowleavemebe,beforeIblowyouallaway.’Itgesturedwithalimblikeabrokenmainsail,andIfeltmyselfshivering.LettieHempstocksqueezedmyhandandIfeltbraver.Shesaid,‘Askedyouto

nameyourself, I did. I en’theardmore’nemptyboastsof ageand time.Now,youtellmeyournameandIen’taskingyouathirdtime.’Shesoundedmorelikeacountrygirlthansheeverhadbefore.Perhapsitwastheangerinhervoice:herwordscameoutdifferentlywhenshewasangry.‘No,’ whispered the grey thing, flatly. ‘Little girl, little girl… who’s your

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

together.‘Iamgrowing tiredof this,’said thegrey thing,withapetulantshakeof its

ragged-cloth arms. ‘Something came tome, and pleaded for love and help. Ittold me how I could make all the things like it happy. That they are simplecreatures, and all any of themwant ismoney, justmoney, and nothingmore.Little tokens of work. If it had asked, I would have given them wisdom, orpeace,perfectpeace…’‘Noneofthat,’saidLettieHempstock.‘You’vegotnothingtogivethemthat

theywant.Letthembe.’The wind gusted and the gargantuan figure flapped with it, like huge sails

swinging,andwhenthewindwasdonethecreaturehadchangedposition.Nowitseemedtohavecrouchedlowertotheground,anditwasexamininguslikeanenormouscanvasscientistlookingattwowhitemice.Twoveryscaredwhitemice,holdinghands.Lettie’shandwassweating,now.Shesqueezedmyhand,whethertoreassure

meorherselfIdidnotknow,andIsqueezedback.Therippedface,theplacewherethefaceshouldhavebeen,twisted.Ithought

itwassmiling.Perhapsitwas smiling. I feltas if itwasexaminingme, takingmeapart.Asifitkneweverythingaboutme–thingsIdidnotevenknowaboutmyself.Thegirlholdingmyhandsaid,‘Ifyouen’ttellingmeyourname,I’llbindyou

asanamelessthing.Andyou’llstillbebounden,tiedandsealedlikeapolterora

shuck.’Shewaited, but the thing said nothing, and LettieHempstock began to say

wordsinalanguageIdidnotknow.Sometimesshewastalking,andsometimesitwasmorelikesinging,inatonguethatwasnothingIhadeverheard,orwouldeverencounter later in life. Iknew the tune, though. Itwasachild’s song, thetune towhichwesang thenurseryrhyme‘GirlsandBoysComeOut toPlay’.Thatwasthetune,butherwordswereolderwords.Iwascertainofthat.Andasshesang,thingshappened,beneaththeorangesky.Theearthwrithedandchurnedwithworms,longgreywormsthatpushedup

fromthegroundbeneathourfeet.Somethingcamehurtlingatusfromthecentremassofflappingcanvas.Itwas

alittlebiggerthanafootball.Atschool,duringgames,mostlyIdroppedthingsIwasmeanttocatch,orclosedmyhandonthemamomenttoolate,lettingthemhitmeinthefaceorthestomach.ButthisthingwascomingstraightatmeandLettieHempstock,andIdidnotthink,Ionlydid.IputbothmyhandsoutandIcaughtthething,aflapping,writhingmassof

cobwebsandrottingcloth.AndasIcaughtitinmyhandsIfeltsomethinghurtme:astabbingpaininthesoleofmyfoot,momentaryandthengone,asifIhadtroddenuponapin.Lettie knocked the thing I was holding out of my hands, and it fell to the

ground,whereitcollapsedintoitself.Shegrabbedmyrighthand,helditfirmlyoncemore.Andthroughallthis,shecontinuedtosing.Ihavedreamedofthatsong,ofthestrangewordstothatsimplerhyme-song,

andonseveraloccasionsIhaveunderstoodwhatshewassaying,inmydreams.InthosedreamsIspokethatlanguagetoo,thefirstlanguage,andIhaddominionoverthenatureofall thatwasreal.Inmydream,itwasthetongueofwhatis,andanything spoken in it becomes real, becausenothing said in that languagecanbe a lie. It is themostbasicbuildingbrickof everything. Inmydreams Ihave used that language to heal the sick and to fly; once I dreamed I kept aperfectlittlebedandbreakfastbytheseaside,andtoeveryonewhocametostaywithmeIwouldsay,inthattongue,‘Bewhole,’andtheywouldbecomewhole,not be broken people, not any longer, because I had spoken the language ofshaping.AndbecauseLettiewas speaking the languageof shaping, even if Ididnot

understandwhatshewassaying,Iunderstoodwhatwasbeingsaid.Thethinginthe clearing was being bound to that place for always, trapped, forbidden toexerciseitsinfluenceonanythingbeyonditsowndomain.

LettieHempstockfinishedsinging.Inmymind,IthoughtIcouldhearthecreaturescreaming,protesting,railing,

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

things,orlikesomuchabandonedlaundry.Nothingmoved.Lettie said, ‘That shouldhold it.’She squeezedmyhand. I thought shewas

tryingtosoundbright,butshedidn’t.Shesoundedgrim.‘Let’stakeyouhome.’Wewalked,handinhand,throughawoodofblue-tingedevergreens,andwe

crossedalacqueredredandyellowbridgeoveranornamentalpond;wewalkedalongtheedgeofafieldinwhichyoungcornwascomingup,likegreengrassplantedinrows;weclimbedawoodenstile,handinhand,andreachedanotherfield,plantedwithwhatlookedlikesmallreedsorfurrysnakes,blackandwhiteandbrownandorangeandgreyandstriped,allof themwavinggently,curlinganduncurlinginthesun.‘Whatarethey?’Iasked.‘Youcanpulloneupandsee,ifyoulike,’saidLettie.I looked down: the furry tendril by my feet was perfectly black. I bent,

graspeditatthebase,firmly,withmylefthand,andIpulled.Somethingcameupfromtheearth,andswungaroundangrily.Myhandfelt

likeadozentinyneedleshadbeensunkintoit.Ibrushedtheearthfromit,andapologised, and it stared atme,morewith surprise and puzzlement thanwithanger.Itjumpedfrommyhandtomyshirt,Istrokedit:akitten,blackandsleek,with a pointed, inquisitive face, a white spot over one ear, and eyes of apeculiarlyvividblue-green.‘Atthefarm,wegetourcatsthenormalway,’saidLettie.‘What’sthat?’‘BigOliver.Heturnedupatthefarmbackinpagantimes.Allourfarmcats

tracebacktohim.’Ilookedatthekittenhangingonmyshirtwithtinykittenclaws.‘CanItakeithome?’Iasked.‘It’snotan it. It’sashe.Not agood idea, takinganythinghome from these

parts,’saidLettie.Iputthekittendownattheedgeofthefield.Shedartedoffafterabutterfly,

whichfloatedupandoutofreach,thenscamperedaway,withoutalookback.

‘Mykittenwasrunover,’ItoldLettie.‘Itwasonlylittle.Themanwhodiedtoldmeaboutit,althoughhewasn’tdriving.Hesaidtheydidn’tseeit.’‘I’msorry,’saidLettie.Wewerewalkingbeneathacanopyofappleblossom

then, and theworld smelled like honey. ‘That’s the troublewith living things.Don’tlastverylong.Kittensoneday,oldcatsthenext.Andthenjustmemories.Andthememoriesfadeandblendandsmudgetogether…’Sheopenedafive-bargate,andwewentthroughit.Sheletgoofmyhand.We

were at the bottom of the lane, near the wooden shelf by the road with thebatteredsilvermilkchurnsonit.Theworldsmellednormal.Isaid,‘We’rereallybacknow?’‘Yes,’saidLettieHempstock.‘Andwewon’tbeseeinganymoretroublefrom

her.’Shepaused.‘Big,wasn’tshe?Andnasty?I’venotseenonelikethatbefore.IfI’dknownshewasgoingtobesoold,andsobig,andsonasty,Iwould’veleftyoubehind.’Iwasgladthatshehadtakenmewithher.Thenshesaid,‘Iwishyouhadn’tletgoofmyhand.Butstill,you’reallright,

aren’tyou?Nothingwentwrong.Nodamagedone.’I said, ‘I’m fine. Not to worry. I’m a brave soldier.’ That was what my

grandfatheralwayssaid.ThenIsaid,‘Nodamagedone.’She smiled atme, a bright, relieved smile, and I hoped I had said the right

thing.

That eveningmy sister sat on her bed, brushing her hair over and over. Shebrusheditahundredtimeseverynight,andcountedeachbrushstroke.Ididnotknowwhy.‘Whatareyoudoing?’sheasked.‘Lookingatmyfoot,’Itoldher.Iwas staring at the sole ofmy right foot. Therewas a pink line across the

centre of the sole, from the ball of the foot almost to the heel, where I hadstepped on a broken glass as a toddler. I rememberwaking up inmy cot, themorningafterithappened,lookingattheblackstitchesthatheldtheedgesofthecut together. Itwasmyearliestmemory. Iwasused to thepinkscar.The littleholebesideit, in thearchofmyfoot,wasnew.Itwaswherethesuddensharppainhadbeen,althoughitdidnothurt.Itwasjustahole.Iproddeditwithmyforefinger,anditseemedtomethatsomethinginsidethe

holeretreated.Mysisterhadstoppedbrushingherhairandwaswatchingmecuriously.Igot

up,walkedoutofthebedroom,downthecorridor,tothebathroomattheendofthehall.IdonotknowwhyIdidnotaskanadultaboutit.Idonotrememberasking

adultsaboutanything,exceptasalastresort.ThatwastheyearIdugoutawartfrommykneewithapenknife,discoveringhowdeeplyIcouldcutbeforeithurt,andwhattherootsofawartlookedlike.In the bathroom cupboard, behind the mirror, was a pair of stainless-steel

tweezers,thekindwithpointed,sharptips,forpullingoutwoodensplinters,anda box of sticking plasters. I sat on the metal side of the white bathtub andexaminedtheholeinmyfoot.Itwasasimple,smallroundhole,smooth-edged.Icouldnotseehowdeeplyitwent,becausesomethingwasintheway.Somethingwasblockingit.Somethingthatseemedtoretreatasthelighttouchedit.Iheldthetweezers,andIwatched.Nothinghappened.Nothingchanged.

Iput theforefingerofmylefthandover thehole,gently,blockingthe light.Then Iput the tipof the tweezersbeside theholeand Iwaited. Icounted toahundred – inspired, perhaps, by my sister’s hair brushing. Then I pulled myfingerawayandstabbedinwiththetweezers.Icaughttheheadoftheworm,ifthatwaswhatitwas,bythetip,betweenthe

metalprongs,andIsqueezedit,andIpulled.Haveyouevertriedtopullawormfromahole?Youknowhowhardtheycan

holdon?Theway theyuse theirwholebodies togrip the sidesof thehole? Ipulledperhapsan inchof thisworm–pinkandgrey, streaked, likesomethinginfected–outoftheholeinmyfoot,andthenfeltitstop.Icouldfeelit,insidemy flesh, making itself rigid, unpullable. I was not scared by this. It wasobviouslyjustsomethingthathappenedtopeople,likewhentheneighbour’scat,Misty,hadworms.Ihadaworminmyfoot,andIwasremovingtheworm.Itwistedthetweezers,thinking,Isuspect,ofspaghettionafork,windingthe

wormaroundthetweezers.Ittriedtopullback,butIturnedit,alittleatatime,untilIcoulddefinitelypullnofurther.I could feel, insideme, the stickyplasticway that it tried toholdon, likea

stripofpuremuscle. I leanedover,asfarasIcould, reachedoutmylefthandandturnedonthebath’shottap,theonewiththereddotinthecentre,andIletitrun.Thewaterranforthree,fourminutesoutofthetapanddowntheplugholebeforeitbegantosteam.When the water was steaming, I extended my foot and my right arm,

maintainingpressureonthetweezersandontheinchofthecreaturethatIhadwoundoutofmybody.ThenIputtheplacewherethetweezerswereunderthehottap.Thewatersplashedmyfoot,butmysoleswerebarefoot-hardened,andIscarcely minded. The water that touchedmy fingers scalded them, but I wasprepared for theheat.Thewormwasn’t. I felt it flex insideme, trying topullback from thescaldingwater, felt it loosen itsgripon the insideofmyfoot. Iturnedthetweezers,triumphantly,likepickingthebestscabintheworld,asthecreaturebegantocomeoutofme,puttinguplessandlessresistance.Ipulledatit,steadily,andasitwentunderthehotwateritslackened,untilit

wasalmostalloutofme.ButIwastooconfident,tootriumphant,andimpatient,andItuggedtooquickly,toohard,andthewormcameoffinmyhand.Theendofitthatcameoutofmewasoozingandbroken,asifithadsnappedoff.Still,ifthecreaturehadleftanythinginmyfoot,itwastiny.Iexaminedtheworm.Itwasdarkgreyandlightgrey,streakedwithpink,and

segmented,likeanormalearthworm.Nowitwasoutofthehotwater,itseemed

to be recovering. The body that had been wrapped around the tweezers nowdangled,writhing, hanging from thehead (was it its head?Howcould I tell?)whereIhadpinchedit.Ididnotwanttokillit–Ididnotkillanimals,notifIcouldhelpit–butIhad

togetridofit.Itwasdangerous.Ihadnodoubtofthat.I held the worm above the bath’s plughole, where it wriggled under the

scaldingwater.ThenIletitgo,andwatcheditvanishdownthedrain.Iletthewaterrunforawhile,andIwashedoffthetweezers.ThenIputasmallstickingplaster over the hole in the sole of my foot, and put the plug in the bath, topreventthewormfromclimbingbackuptheopenplughole,beforeIturnedoffthetap.Ididnotknowifitwasdead,butIdidnotthinkyoucamebackfromthedrain.I put the tweezers back where I had got them from, behind the bathroom

mirror,thenIclosedthemirrorandstaredatmyself.Iwondered,asIwonderedsooftenwhenIwasthatage,whoIwas,andwhat

exactlywaslookingatthefaceinthemirror.IfthefaceIwaslookingatwasn’tme,andIknewitwasn’t,becauseIwouldstillbemewhateverhappenedtomyface,thenwhatwasme?Andwhatwaswatching?Iwentbacktothebedroom.Itwasmynighttohavethedoortothehallway

open,andIwaiteduntilmysisterwasasleep,andwouldn’ttellonme,andthen,inthedimlightfromthehall,IreadaSecretSevenmysteryuntilIfellasleep.

Anadmissionaboutmyself:asaverysmallboy,perhapsthreeorfouryearsold,I could be a monster. ‘You were a littlemomzer,’ several aunts told me, ondifferentoccasions,onceIhadsafelyreachedadulthoodandmydreadfulinfantdeeds couldbe recalledwithwry amusement.But I donot actually rememberbeingamonster.Ijustrememberwantingmyownway.Smallchildrenbelieve themselves tobegods,orsomeof themdo,and they

canonly be satisfiedwhen the rest of theworld goes alongwith theirwayofseeingthings.ButIwasnolongerasmallboy.Iwasseven.Ihadbeenfearless,butnowI

wassuchafrightenedchild.Theincidentoftheworminmyfootdidnotscareme.Ididnottalkaboutit.I

wondered, though, the next day, whether people often got foot-worms, orwhetheritwassomethingthathadonlyeverhappenedtome,intheorange-skyplaceontheedgeoftheHempstocks’farm.IpeeledofftheplasteronthesoleofmyfootwhenIawoke,andwasrelieved

toseethattheholehadbeguntocloseup.Therewasapinkplacewhereithadbeen,likeabloodblister,butnothingmore.Iwent down tobreakfast.Mymother lookedhappy.She said, ‘Goodnews,

darling.I’vegotajob.TheyneedanoptometristatDicksonsOpticians,andtheywantmetostartthisafternoon.I’llbeworkingfourdaysaweek.’Ididnotmind.Iwouldbefineonmyown.‘AndI’vegotmoregoodnews.Wehavesomeonecoming to lookafteryou

children while I’m away. Her name is Ursula. She’ll be sleeping in your oldbedroom, at the topof the stairs.She’ll be a sort of housekeeper.She’llmakesureyou children are fed, and she’ll clean thehouse–MrsWollery is havingtroublewithherhip,andshesays itwillbea fewweeksbeforeshecancome

back.Itwillbesuchaloadoffmymindtohavesomeonehere,ifDaddyandIarebothworking.’‘Youdon’thavethemoney,’Isaid.‘Yousaidyoudidn’thaveanymoney.’‘That’swhyI’mtakingtheoptometrist job,’shesaid. ‘AndUrsula’s looking

afteryou for roomandboard.Sheneeds to live locally fora fewmonths.Shephonedthismorning.Herreferencesareexcellent.’I hoped that she would be nice. The previous housekeeper, Gertruda, six

monthsearlier,hadnotbeennice:shehadenjoyedplayingpracticaljokesonmysisterandme,oftheapple-pie-bedvariety,whichleftusbaffled.Eventuallywehadmarchedoutsidethehousewithplacardssaying‘WehateGertruda’and‘WedonotlikeGertruda’scooking’,andputtinyfrogsinherbed,andshehadgonebacktoSweden.Itookabookandwentoutintothegarden.Itwasawarmspringday,andsunny,and Iclimbedupa rope ladder to the

lowestbranchofthebigbeechtree,satonit,andreadmybook.Iwasnotscaredof anythingwhen I readmy book: Iwas far away, in ancient Egypt, learningaboutHathor,andhowshehadstalkedEgyptintheformofalioness,andkilledso many people that the sands of Egypt turned red, and how they had onlydefeated her bymixing beer and honey and sleeping draughts, and dying thisconcoctionred,soshethoughtitwasblood,andshedrankit,andfellasleep.Ra,thefatherofthegods,madeherthegoddessofloveafterthat,sothewoundsshehadinflictedonpeoplewouldnowonlybewoundsoftheheart.Iwonderedwhythegodshaddonethat.Whytheyhadn’tjustkilledher,when

theyhadthechance.I likedmyths.Theyweren’tadultstoriesandtheyweren’tchildren’sstories.

Theywerebetterthanthat.Theyjustwere.Adultstoriesnevermadesense,andtheyweresoslowtostart.Theymademe

feel like thereweresecrets,masonic,mythicsecrets, toadulthood.Whydidn’tadults want to read about Narnia, about secret islands and smugglers anddangerousfairies?Iwasgettinghungry.Iclimbeddownfrommytree,andwenttothebackof

thehouse,pastthelaundryroomthatsmelledoflaundrysoapandmildew,pastthelittlecoalandwoodshed,pasttheoutsidetoiletwherethespidershungandwaited,woodendoorspaintedgardengreen.Inthroughthebackdoor,alongthehallwayandintothekitchen.MymotherwasintherewithawomanIhadneverseenbefore.WhenIsaw

her, my heart hurt. I mean that literally, not metaphorically: there was a

momentarytwingeinmychest,justaflash,andthenitwasgone.Mysisterwassittingatthekitchentable,eatingabowlofcereal.Thewomanwas very pretty. Shehad shortish honey-blondhair, hugegrey-

blueeyes,andpalelipstick.Sheseemedtall,evenforanadult.‘Darling? This is Ursula Monkton,’ said my mother. I said nothing. I just

staredather.Mymothernudgedme.‘Hello,’Isaid.‘He’sshy,’saidUrsulaMonkton.‘Iamcertainthatoncehewarmsuptome

weshallbegreatfriends.’Shereachedoutahandandpattedmysister’smousy-brownhair.Mysistersmiledagap-toothedsmile.‘I like you somuch,’my sister said. Then she said, to ourmother andme,

‘WhenIgrowupIwanttobeUrsulaMonkton.’MymotherandUrsulalaughed.‘Youlittledear,’saidUrsulaMonkton.Then

sheturnedtome.‘Andwhataboutus,eh?Arewefriendsaswell?’Ijustlookedather,allgrown-upandblonde,inhergreyandpinkdress,andI

wasscared.Herdresswasn’t ragged. Itwas just the fashionof the thing, I suppose, the

kindofdressthatitwas.ButwhenIlookedather,Iimaginedherdressflapping,inthatwindlesskitchen,flappinglikethemainsailofaship,onalonelyocean,underanorangesky.Idon’tknowwhatIsaidinreply,orifIevensaidanything.ButIwentoutof

thatkitchen,althoughIwashungry,withoutevenanapple.Itookmybookintothebackgarden,beneaththebalcony,bytheflowerbed

under thetelevision-roomwindow,andIread–forgettingmyhunger inEgyptwithanimal-headedgodswhocuteachotherupandthenrestoredoneanothertolifeagain.Mysistercameoutintothegarden.‘Ilikehersomuch,’shetoldme.‘She’smyfriend.Doyouwanttoseewhat

shegaveme?’Sheproducedasmallgreypurse,thekindmymotherkeptinherhandbagforhercoins,thatfastenedwithametalbutterflyclip.Itlookedlikeitwasmadeofleather.Iwonderedifitwasmouseskin.Sheopenedthepurse,putherfingersintotheopening,cameoutwithalargesilvercoin:halfacrown.‘Look!’shesaid.‘LookwhatIgot!’Iwantedahalfacrown.No,IwantedwhatIcouldbuywithhalfacrown–

magictricksandplasticjoketoys,andbooks,and,oh,somanythings.ButIdidnotwantalittlegreypursewithahalfacrowninit.‘Idon’tlikeher,’Itoldmysister.

‘That’sonlybecauseIsawherfirst,’saidmysister.‘She’smyfriend.’IdidnotthinkthatUrsulaMonktonwasanybody’sfriend.Iwantedtogoand

warn Lettie Hempstock about her – but what could I say? That the newhousekeeper-nannyworegreyandpink?Thatshelookedatmeoddly?IwishedIhadneverletgoofLettie’shand.UrsulaMonktonwasmyfault,I

wascertainofit,andIwouldnotbeabletogetridofherbyflushingherdownaplughole,orputtingfrogsinherbed.Ishouldhaveleftatthatmoment,shouldhaverunaway,fleddownthelane

themile or so to theHempstocks’ farm, but I didn’t, and then a taxi tookmymother away to Dicksons Opticians, where she would show people lettersthroughlenses,anddispensethingstohelpthemseemoreclearly,andIwaslefttherewithUrsulaMonkton.Shecameoutintothegardenwithaplateofsandwiches.‘I’vespokentoyourmother,’shesaid,asweetsmilebeneaththepalelipstick,

‘and while I’m here, you children need to limit your travels. You can beanywhereinthehouseorinthegarden,orIwillwalkwithyoutoyourfriends’,butyoumaynotleavethepropertyandsimplygowandering.’‘Ofcourse,’saidmysister.Ididnotsayanything.Mysisterateapeanutbuttersandwich.Iwasstarving.Iwonderedwhetherthesandwichesweredangerousornot.I

didnotknow.IwasscaredthatIwouldeatoneanditwouldturnintowormsinmystomach,andthattheywouldwrigglethroughme,colonisingmybody,untiltheyforcedtheirwayoutofmyskin.Iwentbackintothehouse.Ipushedthekitchendooropen.UrsulaMonkton

wasnot there.Ifilledmypocketswithfruit,withapplesandorangesandhardbrownpears.Itookthreebananasandstuffedthemdownmyjumper,andfledtomylaboratory.My laboratory– thatwaswhat I called it–wasagreen-painted shedas far

awayfromthehouseasyoucouldget,builtupagainst thesideof thehouse’shugeoldgarage.Afigtreegrewbesidetheshed,althoughwehadnevertastedripefruitfromthetree,onlyseenthehugeleavesandthegreenfruits.Icalleditmy laboratory because I kept my chemistry set in there: the chemistry set, aperennialbirthdaypresent,hadbeenbanishedfromthehousebymyfather,afterIhadmadesomethinginatesttube.Ihadrandomlymixedthingstogether,andthen heated them, until they had erupted and turned black,with an ammoniacstench that refused to fade.Myfatherhadsaid thathedidnotmindmedoing

experiments (although neither of us knew what I could possibly have beenexperimentingon.Thatdidnotmatter;mymotherhadbeengivenchemistrysetsforherbirthday,andseehowwellthathadturnedout),buthedidnotwantthemwithinsmellingrangeofthehouse.I ate abanana and apear, thenhid the rest of the fruit beneath thewooden

table.Adults follow paths.Children explore.Adults are content towalk the same

way,hundredsof times,or thousands;perhaps itneveroccurs toadults tostepoffthepaths,tocreepbeneathrhododendrons,tofindthespacesbetweenfences.Iwasachild,andIknewadozendifferentwaysofgettingoutofourpropertyandintothelane,waysthatwouldnotinvolvewalkingdownourdrive.IdecidedthatIwouldcreepoutofthelaboratoryshed,alongthewalltotheedgeofthelawnandthenintotheborderofazaleasandbaylaurelsthatborderedthegardenthere. From the laurels, Iwould slip down the hill and over the rustingmetalfencethatborderedthelane.Nobodywaslooking.IranandIcreptandgotthroughthelaurels,andIwent

down the hill, pushing through the brambles and the nettle patches that hadsprungupsincethelasttimeIwentthatway.UrsulaMonktonwaswaitingformeatthebottomofthehill,justinfrontof

therustingmetalfence.Therewasnowayshecouldhavegottherewithoutmeseeingher, but shewas there.She foldedher arms and looked atme, andhergreyandpinkdressflappedinagustofwind.‘IbelieveIsaidthatyouwerenottoleavetheproperty.’‘I’mnot,’Itoldher,withacockinessIknewIdidnotfeel,notevenalittle.

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

timeforyournap.’Iwastoooldfornaps,butIknewthatIwastooyoungtoargue,ortowinthe

argumentifIdid.‘Okay,’Isaid.‘Don’t say “okay”,’ she said. ‘Say “Yes,MissMonkton”.Or “ma’am”. Say

“Yes,ma’am”.’Shelookeddownatmewithherblue-greyeyes,whichputmeinmindofholesrottedincanvas,andwhichdidnotlookprettyatthatmoment.Isaid,‘Yes,ma’am,’andhatedmyselfforsayingit.Wewalkedtogetherupthehill.

‘Your parents can no longer afford this place,’ said UrsulaMonkton. ‘Andthey can’t afford to keep it up. Soon enough they’ll see that theway to solvetheir financial problems is to sell this house and its gardens to propertydevelopers.Thenallofthis–’andthiswasthetangleofbrambles,theunkemptworldbehindthelawn–‘willbecomeadozenidenticalhousesandgardens.Andif you are lucky, you’ll get to live in one.And if not, youwill just envy thepeoplewhodo.Willyoulikethat?’I loved the house, and the garden. I loved the rambling shabbiness of it. I

lovedthatplaceasifitwasapartofme,andperhaps,insomeways,itwas.‘Whoareyou?’Iasked.‘UrsulaMonkton.I’myourhousekeeper.’Isaid,‘Whoareyoureally?Whyareyougivingpeoplemoney?’‘Everybodywantsmoney,’shesaid,asifitwereself-evident.‘Itmakesthem

happy. Itwillmakeyouhappy, ifyou let it.’Wehadcomeoutby theheapofgrass clippings, behind the circle of green grass thatwe called the fairy ring:sometimes,whentheweatherwaswet,itfilledwithvividyellowtoadstools.‘Now,’shesaid.‘Gotoyourroom.’Iranfromher–ranasfastasIcould,acrossthefairyring,upthelawn,past

therosebushes,pastthecoalshedandintothehouse.Ursula Monkton was standing just inside the back door of the house to

welcomemein,althoughshecouldnothavegotpastme.Iwouldhaveseen.Herhairwasperfect,andherlipstickseemedfreshlyapplied.‘I’vebeen insideyou,’shesaid. ‘Soaword to thewise. Ifyou tellanybody

anything,theywon’tbelieveyou.AndbecauseI’vebeeninsideyou,I’llknow.AndIcanmakeitsoyouneversayanythingIdon’twantyoutosaytoanybody,noteveragain.’Iwentupstairstothebedroom,andIlayonmybed.Theplaceonthesoleof

myfootwherethewormhadbeenthrobbedandached,andnowmychesthurttoo.Iwentawayinmyhead,intoabook.ThatwaswhereIwentwheneverreallifewastoohardortooinflexible.Ipulleddownahandfulofmymother’soldbooks,fromwhenshewasagirl,andIreadaboutschoolgirlshavingadventuresinthe1930sand1940s.Mostlytheywereupagainstsmugglersorspiesorfifthcolumnists,whatevertheywere,andthegirlswerealwaysbraveandtheyalwaysknewexactlywhattodo.IwasnotbraveandIhadnoideawhattodo.Ihadneverfeltsoalone.IwonderediftheHempstockswereonthetelephone.Itseemedunlikely,but

not impossible – perhaps it had been Mrs Hempstock who had reported the

abandonedMinitothepoliceinthefirstplace.Thephonebookwasdownstairs,but I knew the number to callDirectory Enquiries, and I only had to ask foranybodynamedHempstocklivingatHempstockFarm.Therewasaphoneinmyparents’bedroom.Igotoffthebed,wenttothedoorway,lookedout.Theupstairshallwaywas

empty.Asquickly,asquietlyasIcould,Iwalkedintothebedroomnexttomine.Thewallswerepalepink,myparents’bedcoveredwithabedspreadcoveredinitsturnwithhugeprintedroses.TherewereFrenchwindowstothebalconythatranalongthatsideof thehouse.Therewasacream-coloured telephoneon thecream-and-giltnightstandbesidethebed.Ipickeditup,heardthedullwhirringnoise of the dial tone, and dialled Directory Enquiries, my finger pulling theholesinthedialdown,aone,anine,atwo.Iwaitedfortheoperatortocomeontheline,andtellmethenumberoftheHempstocks’farm.Ihadapencilwithme,andIwasreadytowritethetelephonenumberdowninthebackofabluecloth-boundbookcalledPansySavestheSchool.Theoperatordidnotcomeon.Thediallingtonecontinued,andoverit,Ursula

Monkton’s voice saying, ‘Properly brought-up young people would not eventhinkaboutsneakingofftousethetelephone,wouldthey?’Ididnotsayanything,althoughIhavenodoubtshecouldhearmebreathing.

Iputthehandsetdownonthecradle,andwentbackintothebedroomIsharedwithmysister.Isatonmybed,andstaredoutofthewindow.Mybedwaspusheduphardagainstthewalljustbelowthewindow.Ilovedto

sleepwiththewindowopen.Rainynightswerethebestofall:Iwouldopenthewindowandputmyheadonmypillowandclosemyeyesandfeelthewindonmyfaceandlistentothetreesswayandcreak.Therewouldberaindropsblownontomyface,too,ifIwaslucky,andIwouldimaginethatIwasinmyboatontheoceanandthatitwasswayingwiththeswellofthesea.IdidnotimaginethatIwasapirate,orthatIwasgoinganywhere.Iwasjustonmyboat.Butnowitwasnotraining,anditwasnotnight.AllIcouldseethroughthe

windowweretrees,andclouds,andthedistantpurpleofthehorizon.Ihademergencychocolatesupplieshiddenbeneath the largeplasticBatman

figurine I had acquired on my birthday, and I ate them, and as I ate them IthoughtoflettinggoofLettieHempstock’shandtograbtheballofrottingcloth,rememberedthestabbingpaininmyfootthathadfollowed.Ibroughtherhere,Ithought,andIknewthatitwastrue.

UrsulaMonktonwasn’treal.Shewasacardboardmaskforthethingthathadtravelledinsidemeasaworm,thathadflappedandgustedintheopencountryunderthatorangesky.IwentbacktoreadingPansySavestheSchool.Thesecretplanstotheairbase

next door to the schoolwere being smuggled out to the enemy by spieswhowere teachers working on the school vegetable allotment: the plans wereconcealedinsidehollowed-outvegetablemarrows.

‘Greatheavens!’saidInspectorDavidsonofScotlandYard’srenownedSmugglersandSecretSpiesDivision(theSSSD).‘Thatisliterallythelastplacewewouldhavelooked!’‘Weoweyouanapology,Pansy,’saidthesternheadmistress,withanuncharacteristicallywarm

smile,andatwinkleinhereyesthatmadePansythinkperhapsshehadmisjudgedthewomanallthisterm.‘Youhavesavedthereputationoftheschool!Now,beforeyougettoofullofyourself–aren’ttheresomeFrenchverbsyououghttobeconjugatingforMadame?’

IcouldbehappywithPansy,insomepartofmyhead,evenwhiletherestofmyheadwas filledwith fear. Iwaited formyparents to comehome. Iwould tellthemwhatwashappening.Iwouldtellthem.Theywouldbelieveme.At that timemy fatherworked in anoffice anhour’sdrive away. Iwasnot

certainwhathedid.Hehadaverynice,prettysecretary,withatoypoodle,andwheneversheknewwechildrenwouldbecomingintoseehim,shewouldbringthepoodleinfromhome,andwewouldplaywithit.Sometimeswewouldpassbuildingsandmyfatherwouldsay,‘That’soneofours.’ButIdidnotcareaboutbuildings,soIneveraskedhowitwasoneofours,orevenwhowewere.Ilayonmybed,readingbookafterbook,untilUrsulaMonktonappearedin

thedoorwayoftheroomandsaid,‘Youcancomedownnow.’Mysisterwaswatchingtelevisiondownstairs,inthetelevisionroom.Shewas

watchingaprogrammecalledHOW,apopscience-and-how-things-workshow,whichopenedwiththehostsinNativeAmericanheaddressessaying‘How?’anddoingembarrassingwarwhoops.IwantedtoturnovertotheBBC,butmysisterlookedatmetriumphantlyand

said,‘UrsulasaysitcanstayonwhateverIwanttowatchandyouaren’tallowedtochangeit.’I satwithher foraminute, asanoldmanwithamoustache showedall the

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

went into thekitchen to seeUrsulaMonkton.She reappeared. ‘Dinnerwill be

readyassoonasDaddygetshome.Washyourhands.’Mysisterwentupstairsandwashedherhands.Isaidtomymother,‘Idon’tlikeher.Willyoumakehergoaway?’Mymothersighed.‘ItisnotgoingtobeGertrudaalloveragain,dear.Ursula’s

averynicegirl,fromaverygoodfamily.Andshepositivelyadoresthetwoofyou.’My father camehome, anddinnerwas served.A thickvegetable soup, then

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

someone had chocolate on his hands and face when he came down from hisbedroom.’‘Iwishyouwouldn’teatthatrubbish,’grumbledmyfather.‘It’sjustprocessedsugar.Anditruinsyourappetiteandyourteeth,’saidmy

mother.Iwasscaredtheywouldforcemetoeat,buttheydidn’t.Isattherehungrily,

whileUrsulaMonktonlaughedatallmyfather’sjokes.Itseemedtomethathewasmakingspecialjokes,justforher.After dinner we all watchedMission: Impossible. I usually likedMission:

Impossible, but this time itmademe feel uneasy, as people kept pulling theirfacesoff torevealnewfacesbeneath.Theywerewearingrubbermasks,anditwasalwaysourheroesunderneath,butIwonderedwhatwouldhappenifUrsulaMonktonpulledoffherface,whatwouldbeunderneaththat?Wewenttobed.Itwasmysister’snight,andthebedroomdoorwasclosed.I

missed the light in the hall. I lay in bedwith thewindow open,wide awake,listeningtothenoisesanoldhousemakesattheendofalongday,andIwishedas hard as I could, hoping my wishes could become real. I wished that myparents would send UrsulaMonkton away, and then I would go down to theHempstocks’ farm,and tellLettiewhat Ihaddone,andshewouldforgiveme,andmakeeverythingallright.Icouldnotsleep.Mysisterwasalreadyasleep.Sheseemedabletogotosleep

whenevershewantedto,askillIenviedanddidnothave.Ileftmybedroom.Iloiteredatthetopofthestairs,listeningtothenoiseofthetelevisioncoming

fromdownstairs.ThenIcreptbarefoot-silentdownthestairsandsatonthethirdstep from thebottom.Thedoor to the television roomwashalf open, and if I

wentdownanotherstep,whoeverwaswatchingthetelevisionwouldbeabletoseeme.SoIwaitedthere.I could hear the television voices punctuated by staccato bursts of TV

laughter.Andthen,overthetelevisionvoices,adultstalking.UrsulaMonktonsaid,‘So,isyourwifeawayeveryevening?’My father’s voice. ‘No. She’s gone this evening to organise tomorrow.But

fromtomorrowitwillbeweekly.She’sraisingmoneyforAfrica,inthevillagehall.Fordrillingwells,andIbelieveforcontraception.’‘Well,’saidUrsula,‘Ialreadyknowallaboutthat.’Shelaughed,ahigh,tinklinglaugh,whichsoundedfriendlyandtrueandreal,

andhadnoflappingragsinit.Thenshesaid,‘Littlepitchers…’andamomentlaterthedooropenedthewholeway,andUrsulaMonktonwaslookingstraightatme.Shehadredonehermake-up,herpalelipstickandherbigeyelashes.‘Gotobed,’shesaid.‘Now.’‘Iwanttotalktomydad,’Isaid,withouthope.Shesaidnothing,justsmiled,

withnowarmthinit,andnolove,andIwentbackupthestairs,andclimbedintomybed,andlayinthedarkenedbedroomuntilIgaveuponsleeping,andthensleepenvelopedmewhenIwasnotexpectingit,andIsleptwithoutcomfort.

Thenextdaywasbad.MyparentshadbothleftthehousebeforeIwoke.Ithadturnedcold,andtheskywasableakandcharmlessgrey.Iwentthrough

myparents’bedroomtothebalconythatranalongthelengthoftheirbedroomandmysister’sandmine,andIstoodonthelongbalconyandIprayedtotheskythatUrsulaMonktonwouldhavetiredofthisgame,andthatIwouldnotseeheragain.UrsulaMonktonwaswaitingformeat thebottomof thestairswhenIwent

down.‘Samerulesasyesterday,littlepitcher,’shesaid.‘Youcan’tleavetheproperty.

Ifyoutry,Iwilllockyouinyourbedroomfortherestoftheday,andwhenyourparentscomehomeIwilltellthemyoudidsomethingdisgusting.’‘Theywon’tbelieveyou.’She smiled sweetly. ‘Are you sure? If I tell themyou pulled out your little

willyandwiddledalloverthekitchenfloor,andIhadtomopitupanddisinfectit?Ithinkthey’llbelieveme.I’llbeveryconvincing.’Iwentoutofthehouseanddowntomylaboratory.IateallthefruitthatIhad

hidden there the day before. I read Sandie Sees it Through, another of mymother’sbooks.Sandiewasapluckybutpoorschoolgirlwhowasaccidentallysent to a posh school,where everybodyhatedher. In the end she exposed thegeography teacher as an International Bolshevik, who had tied the realgeography teacher up. The climax was in the school assembly, when Sandiebravelygotupandmadeaspeechwhichbegan,‘IknowIshouldnothavebeensenthere. Itwasonlyanerror inpaperwork that sentmehereandsentSandyspelledwithaYtothetowngrammarschool.ButIthankProvidencethatIcamehere.BecauseMissStreeblingisnotwhomsheclaimstobe.’IntheendSandiewasembracedbythepeoplewhohadhatedher.

My father came home early fromwork – earlier than I remembered seeinghimhomeinyears.Iwantedtotalktohim,buthewasneveralone.Iwatchedthemfromthebranchofmybeechtree.FirstheshowedUrsulaMonktonaroundthegardens,proudlypointingoutthe

rosebushesandtheblackcurrantbushesandthecherrytreesandtheazaleasasifhehadhadsomethingtodowiththem,asiftheyhadnotbeenputinplaceandtendedbyMrWolleryforfiftyyearsbeforewehadboughtthehouse.Shelaughedatallhisjokes.Icouldnothearwhathewassaying,butIcould

seethecrookedsmilehehadwhenheknewhewassayingsomethingfunny.Shewasstandingtooclosetohim.Sometimeshewouldresthishandonher

shoulder,inafriendlysortofway.Itworriedmethathewasstandingsoclosetoher.Hedidn’tknowwhatshewas.Shewasamonster,andhejustthoughtshewasanormalperson,andhewasbeingnice toher.Shewaswearingdifferentclothestoday:agreyskirt,ofthekindtheycalledamidi,andapinkblouse.Onanyotherday,ifIhadseenmyfatherwalkingaroundthegardenIwould

haverunovertohim.Butnotthatday.Iwasscaredthathewouldbeangry,orthatUrsulaMonktonwouldsaysomethingtomakehimangrywithme.I was terrified of him when he was angry. His face (angular and usually

affable)wouldgrowred,andhewouldshout,shoutsoloudlyandfuriouslythatitwould,literally,paralyseme.Iwouldnotbeabletothink.Heneverhitme.Hedidnotbelieveinhitting.Hewouldtellushowhisfather

hadhithim,howhismotherhadchasedhimwithabroom,howhewasbetterthan that.When he got angry enough to shout at me, he would occasionallyremindmethathedidnothitme,asiftomakemegrateful.IntheschoolstoriesI read, misbehaviour often resulted in a caning, or the slipper, and then wasforgiven and done, and I would sometimes envy those fictional children thecleannessoftheirlives.IdidnotwanttoapproachUrsulaMonkton:Ididnotwanttoriskmakingmy

fatherangrywithme.Iwonderedifthiswouldbeagoodtimetotryandleavetheproperty,tohead

downthelane,butIwascertainthatifIdid,Iwouldlookuptoseemyfather’sangryfacebesideUrsulaMonkton’s,allprettyandsmug.SoIsimplywatchedthemfromthehugebranchofthebeechtree.Whenthey

walkedoutofsight,behindtheazaleabushes,Iclambereddowntheropeladder,wentupintothehouse,uptothebalcony,andIwatchedthemfromthere.Itwasa grey day, but therewere butter-yellow daffodils everywhere, and narcissi in

profusion,withtheirpaleouterpetalsandtheirdarkorangetrumpets.Myfatherpicked a handful of narcissi and gave them toUrsulaMonkton,who laughed,and said something, then made a curtsey. He bowed in return, and saidsomethingthatmadeherlaugh.IthoughthemusthaveproclaimedhimselfherKnightinShiningArmour,orsomethinglikethat.Iwantedtoshoutdowntohim,towarnhimthathewasgivingflowerstoa

monster,butIdidnot.Ijuststoodonthebalconyandwatched,andtheydidnotlookupandtheydidnotseeme.My book ofGreekmyths had toldme that the narcissiwere named after a

beautifulyoungman,solovelythathehadfalleninlovewithhimself.Hesawhisreflectioninapoolofwater,andwouldnotleaveit,andeventuallydied,sothat thegodswere forced to transformhim intoa flower. Inmymind,when Ireadthis,Iknewthatanarcissusmustbethemostbeautifulflowerintheworld.IwasdisappointedwhenIlearnedthatitwasjustalessimpressivedaffodil.Mysistercameoutofthehouseandwentovertothem.Myfatherpickedher

up.Theyallwalkedinsidetogether,myfatherwithmysisterholdingontohisneck, and Ursula Monkton, her arms filled with yellow and white flowers. Iwatchedthem.Iwatchedasmyfather’sfreehand,theonenotholdingmysister,went down and rested, casually, proprietorially, on the swell of UrsulaMonkton’smidi-skirtedbottom.Iwouldreactdifferently to thatnow.At the time, IdonotbelieveI thought

anythingofitatall.Iwasseven.Iclimbedupintomybedroomwindow,easytoreachfromthebalcony,and

downontomybed,whereIreadabookaboutagirlwhostayedintheChannelIslandsanddefiedtheNazisbecauseshewouldnotabandonherpony.Andwhile I read, I thought,UrsulaMonktoncannotkeepmehere forever.

Soonenough–inafewdaysatthemost–someonewilltakemeintotown,orawayfromhere,andthenIwillgotothefarmatthebottomofthelane,andIwilltellLettieHempstockwhatIdid.Then I thought, supposeUrsulaMonktononlyneeds a couple of days.And

thatscaredme.UrsulaMonktonmademeatloaffordinnerthatevening,andIwouldnoteatit.

Iwasdeterminednot toeat anything shehadmadeor cookedor touched.Myfatherwasnotamused.‘ButIdon’twantit,’Itoldhim.‘I’mnothungry.’ItwasWednesday,andmymotherwasattendinghermeeting,toraisemoney

sothatpeopleinAfricawhoneededwatercoulddrillwells.Themeetingwasin

thevillagehallof thenextvillagedowntheroad.Shehadposters thatsheputup, diagramsofwells, andphotographsof smilingpeople.At thedinner tableweremysister,myfather,UrsulaMonkton,andme.‘It’sgood, it’sgood foryou, and it’s tasty,’ saidmy father. ‘Andwedonot

wastefoodinthishouse.’‘IsaidIwasn’thungry.’Ihadlied.Iwassohungryithurt.‘Then just try a little nibble,’ he said. ‘It’s your favourite. Meatloaf and

mashedpotatoesandgravy.Youlovethem.’Therewasachildren’stableinthekitchen,whereweatewhenmyparentshad

friendsover,orwouldbeeatinglate.Butthatnightwewereattheadulttable.Ipreferredthechildren’stable.Ifeltinvisiblethere.Nobodywatchedmeeat.UrsulaMonktonsatnexttomyfatherandstaredatme,withatinysmileatthe

cornerofherlips.IknewIshouldshutup,besilent,besullen.ButIcouldn’thelpmyself.Ihad

totellmyfatherwhyIdidnotwanttoeat.‘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,andshelookedat

me,andshesmiled.Idonotthinkthateitheroftheothertwopeopleatthetablenoticed that she was smiling, or that there was nothing sympathetic in herexpression,orhersmile,orherrotting-clotheyes.‘I’mafraidhedoes,’saidmyfather.Hisvoicewasjustalittlelouder,andhis

facewasjustalittleredder.‘Iwon’thavehimcheekingyoulikethat.’Then,tome,‘Givemeonegoodreason,justone,whyyouwon’tapologise,andwhyyouwon’teatthelovelyfoodthatUrsulahaspreparedforus.’Ididnotliewell.Itoldhim.‘Becauseshe’snothuman,’Isaid.‘She’samonster.She’sa…’Whathadthe

Hempstockscalledherkindofthing?‘She’saflea.’My father’s cheekswere burning red now, and his lipswere thin. He said,

‘Outside.Intothehall.Thisminute.’Myheartsankinsideme.Iclimbeddownfrommystoolandfollowedhimout

into the corridor. It was dark in the hallway: the only light came from thekitchen,asheetofclearglassabovethedoor.Helookeddownatme.‘Youwillgoback into thekitchen.Youwillapologise toMissMonkton.Youwill finish

your plate of food, then, quietly and politely, you will go straight upstairs tobed.’‘No,’Itoldhim.‘Iwon’t.’Ibolted,randownthehallway,roundthecorner,andIpoundedupthestairs.

Myfather,Ihadnodoubt,wouldcomeafterme.Hewastwicemysize,andfast,butIdidnothavetokeepgoingforlong.TherewasonlyoneroominthathousethatIcouldlock,anditwastherethatIwasheaded,leftatthetopofthestairsand along the hall to the end. I reached the bathroom ahead of my father. Islammedthedoor,andIpushedthelittlesilverboltclosed.Hehadnotchasedme.Perhapshethoughtitwasbeneathhisdignity,chasing

achild.But inafewmomentsIheardhisfistslam,andthenhisvoicesaying,‘Openthisdoor.’I didn’t say anything. I sat on the plush toilet seat cover and I hated him

almostasmuchasIhatedUrsulaMonkton.Thedoorbangedagain,harderthistime.‘Ifyoudon’topenthisdoor,’hesaid,

loudenoughtomakesureIhearditthroughthewood,‘I’mbreakingitdown.’Couldhedothat?Ididn’tknow.Thedoorwaslocked.Lockeddoorsstopped

peoplecomingin.Alockeddoormeantthatyouwereinthere,andwhenpeoplewanted tocome into thebathroom theywould jiggle thedoor, and itwouldn’topen,andtheywouldsay,‘Sorry!’orshout,‘Areyougoingtobelong?’and—Thedoorexploded inward.The littlesilverbolthungoff theframe,allbent

and broken, andmy father stood in the doorway, filling it, his eyes huge andwhite,hischeeksburningwithfury.Hesaid,‘Right.’Thatwas all he said, but his handheldmy left upper arm in a grip I could

neverhavebroken.Iwonderedwhathewoulddonow.Wouldhe,finally,hitme,orsendmetomyroom,orshoutatmesoloudlythatIwouldwishIweredead?Hedidnoneofthosethings.Hepulledmeover to the bathtub.He leanedover, pushed thewhite rubber

plug into the plughole. Then he turned on the cold tap. Water gushed out,splashingthewhiteenamel,then,steadilyandslowly,itfilledthebath.Thewaterrannoisily.My father turned to the open door. ‘I can dealwith this,’ he said toUrsula

Monkton.Shestoodinthedoorway,holdingmysister’shand,andshelookedconcerned

andgentle,buttherewastriumphinhereyes.

‘Close the door,’ said my father. My sister started whimpering, but UrsulaMonkton closed the door, as best she could, for one of the hinges did not fitproperly,andthebrokenboltstoppedthedoorshuttingalltheway.Itwasjustmeandmyfather.Hischeekshadgonefromredtowhite,andhis

lipswerepressedtogether,andIdidnotknowwhathewasgoingtodo,orwhyhewasrunningabath,butIwasscared,soscared.‘I’llapologise,’Itoldhim.‘I’llsaysorry.Ididn’tmeanwhatIsaid.She’snot

amonster.She’s…she’spretty.’Hedidn’tsayanythinginresponse.Thebathwasfull,andheturnedthecold

tapoff.Then, swiftly, he pickedme up. He put his huge hands under my armpits,

swungmeupwithease,soIfeltlikeIweighednothingatall.I looked at him, at the intent expression on his face. He had taken off his

jacketbeforehecameupstairs.Hewaswearingalightblueshirtandamaroonpaisleytie.Hepulledoffhiswatchonitsexpandablestrap,droppeditontothewindowledge.ThenIrealisedwhathewasgoingtodo,andIkickedout,andIflailedathim,

neitherofwhichactionhadanyeffectofanykindasheplungedmedownintothecoldwater.Iwashorrified,butitwasinitiallythehorrorofsomethinghappeningagainst

theestablishedorderof things. Iwasfullydressed.Thatwaswrong. Ihadmysandals on.Thatwaswrong.The bathwaterwas cold, so cold and sowrong.ThatwaswhatI thought, initially,ashepushedmeintothewater,andthenhepushedfurther,pushingmyheadandshouldersbeneaththechillywater,andthehorrorchangeditsnature.Ithought,I’mgoingtodie.And,thinkingthat,Iwasdeterminedtolive.Iflailedwithmyhands,tryingtofindsomethingtoholdonto,buttherewas

nothingtograb,onlytheslipperysidesofthebathI’dbathedinforthelasttwoyears. (Ihadreadmanybooks in thatbath. Itwasoneofmysafeplaces.Andnow,Ihadnodoubt,Iwasgoingtodiethere.)Iopenedmyeyes,beneaththewater,andIsawitdanglingthere,infrontof

myface:mychanceforlife,andIclutcheditwithbothhands:myfather’stie.Iheldit tightly,pulledmyselfupashepushedmedown,grippingitfor life

itself,pullingmy faceupandoutof that frigidwater,holdingon tohis tie sotightly thathecouldno longerpushmyheadandshouldersback into thebathwithoutgoinginhimself.

Myfacewasnowoutof thewater,andIclampedmyteeth intohis tie, justbelowtheknot.Westruggled.Iwassoaked,tooksomesmallpleasureintheknowledgethat

hewassoakedaswell,hisblueshirtclingingtohishugeform.Nowhepushedmedownagain,butfearofdeathgivesusstrength:myhands

andmyteethwereclampedtohistie,andhecouldnotbreakmygriponthemwithouthittingme.Myfatherdidnothitme.Hestraightenedup,andIwaspulledupwithhim,soakedandsplutteringand

angryandcryingandscared.Iletgoofhistiewithmyteeth,stillheldonwithmyhands.Hesaid,‘Youruinedmytie.Letgo.’Thetieknothadtightenedtopeasize;

theliningofthetiewasdanglingdamplyoutsideofit.Hesaid,‘Youshouldbegladthatyourmotherisn’there.’I let go, dropped to the soaked bathroom carpet. I took a step backward,

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

IwasshiveringconvulsivelyandIwaswetthroughandIwascold,verycold.Itfelt like all my heat had been stolen. The wet clothes clung to my flesh anddripped cold water on to the floor.With every step I took, my sandals madecomical squelching noises, and water oozed from the little diamond-shapedholesonthetopofthem.Ipulledallofmyclothesoff,andIlefttheminasoppingheaponthetilesby

the fireplace,where theybegan topuddle. I took theboxofmatches from themantelpiece,turnedonthegastapandlittheflameinthegasfire.(Iamstaringatapond,rememberingthingsthatarehardtobelieve.WhydoI

findthehardestthingformetobelieve,lookingback,isthatagirloffiveandaboyofsevenhadagasfireintheirbedroom?)Therewerenotowelsintheroom,andIstoodthere,wet,wonderinghowto

drymyselfoff. I tookthethincounterpanethatcoveredmybed,wipedmyselfoffwithit,thenputonmypyjamas.Theywererednylon,shinyandstriped,withablackplasticisedburnmarkontheleftsleeve,whereIhadleanedtooclosetothegasfireonce,andthepyjamaarmcaughtalight,althoughbysomemiracleIhadnotburnedmyarm.Therewasadressinggownthat Ialmostneverusedhangingon thebackof

thebedroomdoor,itsshadowperfectlypositionedtocastnightmareshadowsonthewallwhenthehalllightwasonandthedoorwasopen.Iputiton.Thebedroomdooropened,andmysistercameintoget thenightdressfrom

underherpillow.Shesaid,‘You’vebeensonaughtythatI’mnotevenallowedtobeintheroomwithyou.IgettosleepinMummyandDaddy’sbedtonight.AndDaddysaysIcanwatchthetelevision.’Therewasanold television inabrownwoodencabinet in thecornerofmy

parents’ bedroom that was almost never turned on. The vertical hold wasunreliable,andthefuzzyblackandwhitepicturehadatendencytostream,ina

slowribbon:people’sheadsvanishedoff thebottomof thescreenas their feetdescended,inastatelyfashion,fromthetop.‘Idon’tcare,’Itoldher.‘Daddy said you ruined his tie. And he’s all wet,’ said my sister, with

satisfactioninhervoice.UrsulaMonktonwasatthebedroomdoor.‘Wedon’ttalktohim,’shetoldmy

sister.‘Wewon’ttalktohimagainuntilhe’sallowedtorejointhefamily.’Mysisterslippedout,headingtothenextroom,myparents’room.‘Youaren’t

inmyfamily,’ItoldUrsulaMonkton.‘WhenMummycomesback,I’lltellherwhatDaddydid.’‘Shewon’tbehomeforanothertwohours,’saidUrsulaMonkton.‘Andwhat

canyousay toher thatwillmakeanydifference?Shebacksupyour father ineverything,doesn’tshe?’Shedid.Theyalwayspresentedaperfectlyunitedfront.‘Don’tcrossme,’saidUrsulaMonkton.‘Ihavethingstodohere,andyouare

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

everbeenofanything.‘It’s hot in here,’ she toldme, and smiled. Shewalked over to the gas fire,

reacheddown,turneditoff,tookthematchesfromthemantel.Isaid,‘You’restilljustaflea.’Shestoppedsmiling.Shereacheduptothelintelabovethedoor,higherthan

anychildcouldreach,andshepulleddownthekeythatrestedthere.Shewalkedoutoftheroom,andclosedthedoor.Iheardthekeyturn,heardthelockengageandclick.I could hear television voices coming from the roomnext door. I heard the

hallwaydoorclose,cuttingoffthetwobedroomsfromtherestofthehouse,andIknewthatUrsulaMonktonwasgoingdownstairs.Iwentovertothelock,andsquintedthroughit.IhadlearnedfromabookthatIcoulduseapenciltopushakeythroughakeyholeontoasheetofpaperbeneath,andfreemyselfthatway…butthekeyholewasempty.Icriedthen,coldandstilldamp, in thatbedroom,criedwithpainandanger

andterror,criedsafelyintheknowledgethatnoonewouldcomeinandseeme,thatnoonewouldteasemeforcrying,astheyteasedanyboysatmyschoolwhowereunwiseenoughtogivewaytotears.

Iheardthegentlepatterofraindropsagainsttheglassofmybedroomwindow,andeventhatbroughtmenojoy.I crieduntil Iwas all criedout.Then I breathed inhugegulpsof air, and I

thought,UrsulaMonkton, flapping canvasmonster,worm and flea,would getmeifItriedtoleavetheproperty.Iknewthat.But UrsulaMonkton had lockedme in. She would not expectme to leave

now.Andperhaps,ifIwaslucky,shemightbedistracted.Iopenedthebedroomwindow,andlistenedtothenight.Thegentlerainmade

anoisethatwasalmostarustling.Itwasacoldnight,andIwasalreadychilled.Mysisterwasintheroomnextdoor,watchingsomethingonthetelevision.Shewouldnothearme.Iwentovertothedoor,andturnedoffthelight.Iwalkedthroughthedarkbedroom,andclimbedbackonthebed.I’minmybed,Ithought.I’mlyinginmybed,thinkingabouthowupsetIam.

Soon,I’llfallasleep.I’minmybed,andIknowshe’swon,andifshechecksuponmeI’minmybed,asleep.I’minmybed,andit’stimeformetosleepnow…Ican’tevenkeepmyeyes

open.I’mfastasleep.Fastasleepinmybed…Istoodonthebed,andclimbedoutofthewindow.Ihungforamoment,then

letmyselfdrop,asquietlyasIcould,ontothebalcony.Thatwastheeasybit.Growingup,Itooksomanycuesfrombooks.TheytaughtmemostofwhatI

knewaboutwhatpeopledid,abouthowtobehave.Theyweremyteachersandmyadvisers. Inbooks,boysclimbed trees, so I climbed trees, sometimesveryhigh,alwaysscaredoffalling.Inbooks,peopleclimbedupanddowndrainpipestogetinandoutofhouses,soIclimbedupanddowndrainpipestoo.Theyweretheheavy irondrainpipesofold, clamped to thebrick,not today’s lightweightplasticaffairs.Ihadneverclimbeddownadrainpipeinthedark,orintherain,butIknew

where the footholdswere. Iknewalso that thebiggestchallengewouldnotbefalling, a twenty-foot tumble down into the wet flower bed; it was that thedrainpipe I was climbing down went past the television room, downstairs, inwhich, I had no doubt, Ursula Monkton and my father would be watchingtelevision.Itriednottothink.Iclimbedover thebrickwall thatedgedthebalcony,reachedoutuntil I felt

theirondrainpipe,coldandslickwithrain.Iheldontoit, thentookonelarge

step towards it, letting my bare feet come to rest on the metal clamp thatencircledthedrainpipe,fixingitsturdilytothebrick.Iwentdown,astepatatime,imaginingmyselfBatman,imaginingmyselfa

hundredheroesandheroinesof school romances, then, rememberingmyself, IimaginedthatIwasadropofrainonthewall,abrick,atree.Iamonmybed,Ithought.Iwasnothere,withthelightoftheTVroom,uncurtained,spillingoutbelowme,making the rain that fell past thewindow into a seriesofglitteringlinesandstreaks.Don’tlookatme,Ithought.Don’tlookoutofthewindow.I incheddown.UsuallyIwouldhavesteppedfromthedrainpipeovertothe

TV room’s outer window ledge, but that was out of the question. Warily, Iloweredmyself another few inches, leaned further back into the shadows andawayfromthelight,andstoleaterrifiedglanceintotheroom,expectingtoseemyfatherandUrsulaMonktonstaringbackatme.Theroomwasempty.Thelightswereon,thetelevisionwasonaswell,butnobodywassittingon

thesofaandthedoortothedownstairshallwaywasopen.Itookaneasystepdownontothewindowledge,hopingagainstallhopethat

neitherofthemwouldcomebackinandseeme,thenIletmyselfdropfromtheledgeintotheflowerbed.Thewetearthwassoftagainstmyfeet.Iwas going to run, just run, but therewas a light on in the drawing room,

wherewechildrenneverwent,theoak-panelledroomkeptonlyforbestandforspecialoccasions.Thecurtainsweredrawn.Theyweregreenvelvet, linedwithwhite,and the

lightthatescapedthem,wheretheyhadnotbeenclosedalltheway,wasgoldenandsoft.Iwalkedovertothewindow.Thecurtainswerenotcompletelyclosed.Icould

seeintotheroom,seewhatwasimmediatelyinfrontofme.IwasnotsurewhatIwaslookingat.MyfatherhadUrsulaMonktonpressed

upagainstthesideofthebigfireplaceinthefarwall.Hehadhisbacktome.Shedid too,herhandspressedagainst thehugehighmantelpiece.Hewashuggingherfrombehind.Hermidiskirtwashikeduparoundherwaist.Ididnotknowexactlywhattheyweredoing,andIdidnotreallycare,notat

thatmoment.All thatmatteredwas thatUrsulaMonkton had her attention onsomethingthatwasnotme,andIturnedawayfromthegapinthecurtainsandthelightandthehouse,andfled,barefoot,intotherainydark.

Itwasnotpitch-black.Itwasthekindofcloudynightwherethecloudsseemtogatheruplightfromdistantstreetlightsandhousesbelow,andthrowitbackattheearth.Icouldseeenough,oncemyeyesadjusted.Imadeittothebottomofthegarden,pastthecompostheapandthegrasscuttings,thendownthehilltothe lane. Brambles and thorns stuckmy feet and prickedmy legs, but I keptrunning.Iwentoverthelowmetalfence,intothelane.Iwasoffourpropertyanditfelt

as if a headache I had not known that I had had suddenly lifted. Iwhispered,urgently,‘Lettie?LettieHempstock?’andIthought,I’minbed.I’mdreamingallthis. Such vivid dreams. I am in my bed, but I did not believe that UrsulaMonktonwasthinkingaboutmejustthen.AsIran,Ithoughtofmyfather,hisarmsaroundthehousekeeper-who-wasn’t,

kissingherneck,andthenIsawhisfacethroughthechillybathwaterasheheldme under, and now I was no longer scared by what had happened in thebathroom; now Iwas scared bywhat itmeant thatmy fatherwas kissing theneckofUrsulaMonkton,thathishandshadliftedhermidiskirtaboveherwaist.My parents were a unit, inviolate. The future had suddenly become

unknowable: anything could happen; the train ofmy life had jumped the railsandheadedoffacrossthefieldsandwascomingdownthelanewithme,then.TheflintsofthelanehurtmyfeetasIran,butIdidnotcare.Soonenough,I

wascertain,thethingthatwasUrsulaMonktonwouldbedonewithmyfather.Perhapstheywouldgoupstairs tocheckonmetogether.ShewouldfindthatIwasgoneandshewouldcomeafterme.Ithought,iftheycomeafterme,theywillbeinacar.Ilookedforagapinthe

hedgerowoneithersideofthelane.Ispottedawoodenstileandclamberedoverit,andkeptrunningacrossthemeadow,heartpoundinglikethebiggest,loudestdrum therewasorhadeverbeen,barefoot,withmypyjamasandmydressinggownall soakedbelow theknee and clinging. I ran, not caring about the cowpats. Themeadowwas easier onmy feet than the flint lane had been. I washappier,andIfeltmorereal,runningonthegrass.Thunder rumbled behindme, although I had seen no lightning. I climbed a

fence,andmyfeetsankintothesoftearthofafreshlyploughedfield.Istumbledacrossit,fallingsometimes,butIkeptgoing.Overastileandintothenextfield,thisoneunploughed,andIcrosseditkeepingclosetothehedge,scaredofbeingtoofaroutintheopen.Thelightsofacarcamedownthelane,suddenandblinding.IfrozewhereI

was, closedmy eyes, imaginedmyself asleep in my bed. The car drove past

withoutslowing,andIcaughtaglimpseofitsredrearlightsasitmovedawayfromme:awhitevanthatIthoughtbelongedtotheAndersfamily.Still,itmadethelaneseemlesssafe,andnowIcutawayacrossthemeadow.I

reached the next field, saw itwas only divided from the one Iwas in by thinlengthsofwire,easytoduckbeneath,notevenbarbedwire,soIreachedoutmyarmandpushedabarewireuptomakeroomtosqueezeunder,and—Itwas as if I had been thumped, and thumped hard, in the chest.My arm,

where it had grasped thewire of the fence,was convulsed, andmypalmwasburningjustasifIhadjustslammedmyfunnyboneintoawall.Iletgooftheelectricfenceandstumbledback.Icouldnotrunanylonger,but

Ihurriedinthewindandtherainandthedarknessalongthesideofthefence,carefulnownottotouchit,untilIreachedafive-bargate.Iwentoverthegate,and across the field, heading to the deeper darkness at the far end – trees, Ithought,andwoodland–and Ididnotgo tooclose to theedgeof the field incasetherewasanotherelectricfencewaitingforme.I hesitated, uncertain where to go next. As if in answer, the world was

illuminated, for amoment,but I onlyneededamoment,by lightning. I sawawoodenstile,andIranforit.Over the stile. I camedown intoaclumpofnettles, Iknew,as thehot-cold

prickingburningcoveredmyexposedanklesandthetopsofmyfeet,butIranagain,now,ranasbestIcould.IhopedIwasstillheadingfortheHempstocks’farm.Ihadtobe.IcrossedonemorefieldbeforeIrealisedthatInolongerknewwhere the lane was, or, for that matter, where I was. I knew only that theHempstocks’farmwasattheendofmylane,butIwaslostinadarkfield,andthe thunderclouds had lowered, and the night was so dark, and it was stillraining,even if itwasnot raininghardyet,andnowmyimaginationfilled thedarknesswithwolvesandghosts. Iwanted tostop imagining, tostop thinking,butIcouldnot.And behind thewolves and the ghosts and the trees thatwalked, therewas

UrsulaMonkton, tellingme that the next time I disobeyed her itwould be somuchworseforme,thatshewouldlockmeintheattic.Iwasnotbrave.Iwasrunningawayfromeverything,andIwascold,andwet

andlost.Ishouted,atthetopofmyvoice.‘Lettie?LettieHempstock!Hello?’butthere

wasnoreply,andIhadnotexpectedone.Thethundergrumbledandrumbledintoalowcontinuousroar,alionpushed

into irritability, and the lightning was flashing and flickering like a

malfunctioningfluorescenttube.Intheflickersoflight,IcouldseethattheareaoffieldIwasincametoapoint,withhedgesonbothsides,andnowaythrough.Icouldseenogate,andnostileotherthantheoneIhadcomeinthrough,atthefarendofthefield.Somethingcrackled.I looked up at the sky. I had seen lightning in films on the television, long

jagged forksof light across the clouds.But the lightning Ihad seenuntil nowwith my own eyes was simply a white flash from above, like the flash of acamera,burning theworld inastrobeofvisibility.What I saw in thesky thenwasnotthat.Itwasnotforkedlightningeither.Itcameanditwent,awrithing,burningblue-whitenessinthesky.Itdiedback

andthenitflaredup,anditsflaresandflickersilluminatedthemeadow,madeitsomethingIcouldsee.The rainpatteredhard,and then itwhippedagainstmyface, moved in a moment from a drizzle to a downpour, and in seconds mydressinggownwassoakedthrough.ButinthelightIsaw–orthoughtIsaw–anopeninginthehedgerowtomyright,andIwalked,forIcouldnolongerrun,notanylonger,asfastasIcould,towardsit,hopingitwassomethingreal.Mywetgownflappedinthegustingwind,andthesoundofithorrifiedme.Ididnotlookupinthesky.Ididnotlookbehindme.ButIcouldseethefarendofthefield,andtherewasindeedaspacebetween

thehedgerows.Ihadalmostreacheditwhenavoicesaid:‘I thought I told you to stay in your room. And now I find you sneaking

aroundlikeadrownedsailor.’Iturned,lookedbehindme,sawnothingatall.Therewasnobodythere.ThenIlookedup.ThethingthatcalleditselfUrsulaMonktonhungintheair,abouttwentyfeet

aboveme,and lightningscrawledand flickered in theairbehindher.Shewasnotflying.Shewasfloating,weightlessasaballoon,althoughthesharpgustsofwinddidnotmoveher.Windhowledandwhippedatmyface.Thedistantthunderroaredandsmaller

thunderscrackledandspat,andshespokequietly,butIcouldheareverywordshesaidasdistinctlyasifshewerewhisperingintomyears.‘Oh,sweety-weety-pudding-and-pie,youareinsomuchtrouble.’Shewassmiling,thehugest, toothiestgrinIhadeverseenonahumanface,

butshedidnotlookamused.

Ihadbeenrunningfromherthroughthedarknessfor,what,halfanhour?Anhour?IwishedIhadstayedonthelaneandnottriedtocutacrossthefields.IwouldhavebeenattheHempstocks’farmbynow.Instead,IwaslostandIwastrapped.UrsulaMonktoncamelower.Herpinkblousewasopenandunbuttoned.She

woreawhitebra.Hermidiskirtflappedinthewind,revealinghercalves.Shedidnotappeartobewet,despitethestorm.Herclothes,herface,herhairwereperfectlydry.Shewasfloatingabovemenow,andshereachedoutherhands.Everymoveshemade,everythingshedid,wasstrobedbythetamelightnings

that flickered and writhed about her. Her fingers opened like flowers in aspeeded-upfilm,andIknewthatshewasplayingwithme,andIknewwhatshewantedmetodo,andIhatedmyselffornotstandingmyground,butIdidwhatshewanted:Iran.I was a little thing that amused her. She was playing, just as I had seen

Monster, the big orange tomcat, play with a mouse – letting it go, so that itwouldrun,and thenpouncing,andbatting itdownwithapaw.But themousestillran,andIhadnochoice,andIrantoo.Iranforthebreakinthehedge,asfastasIcould,stumblingandhurtingand

wet.HervoicewasinmyearsasIran.‘I told you Iwas going to lock you in the attic, didn’t I?And Iwill.Your

daddylikesmenow.He’lldowhateverIsay.Perhapsfromnowon,everynight,he’llcomeuptheladderandletyououtoftheattic.He’llmakeyouclimbdownfromtheattic.Downthe ladder.Andeverynight,he’lldrownyou in thebath,he’llplungeyou into thecold,coldwater. I’ll lethimdo iteverynightuntil itboresme,andthenI’lltellhimnottobringyouback,tosimplypushyouunderthewateruntilyoustopmovinganduntilthere’snothingbutdarknessandwaterinyour lungs. I’llhavehimleaveyouin thecoldbath,andyou’llnevermoveagain.AndeverynightI’llkisshimandkisshim…’Iwasthroughthegapinthehedgerow,andrunningonsoftgrass.Thecrackleofthelightning,andastrangesharp,metallicsmellweresoclose

they made my skin prickle. Everything around me got brighter and brighter,illuminatedbytheflickeringblue-whitelight.‘And when your daddy finally leaves you in the bath for good, you’ll be

happy,’ whispered UrsulaMonkton, and I imagined that I could feel her lipsbrushingmyears. ‘Becauseyouwon’t like it in theattic.Not justbecause it’s

darkupthere,withthespiders,andtheghosts.ButbecauseI’mgoingtobringmy friends.Youcan’t see them in thedaylight,but they’llbe in theatticwithyou, and youwon’t enjoy them at all. They don’t like little boys,my friends.They’llbespidersasbigasdogs.Oldclotheswithnothinginsidethattugatyouandnever let yougo.The inside of your head.Andnobooks, andno stories,everagain.’And I realised that Ihadnot imagined it.Her lipshadbrushedmyear.She

wasfloatingintheairbesideme,soherheadwasnext tomine,andwhenshecaughtmelookingathershesmiledherpretendsmile,andIcouldnotrunanylonger.Icouldbarelymove.Ihadastitchinmyside,andIcouldnotcatchmybreath,andIwasdone.Mylegsgavewaybeneathme,andIstumbledandfell,andthistimeIdidnot

getup.Ifeltheatonmylegs,andIlookeddowntoseeayellowstreamcomingfrom

thefrontofmypyjamatrousers.Iwassevenyearsold,nolongeralittlechild,butIwaswettingmyselfwithfear,likeababy,andtherewasnothingIcoulddoabout it, while Ursula Monkton hung in the air above me and watched,dispassionately.Thehuntwasdone.Shestoodupstraight in theair, threefeetabove theground. Iwassprawled

beneath her, on my back, in the wet grass. She began to descend, slowly,inexorably,likeapersononabrokentelevisionscreen.Something touchedmy left hand. Something soft. It nosedmy hand, and I

lookedover, fearingaspiderasbigasadog.In the lightof the lightnings thatwrithed aboutUrsulaMonkton, I saw a patch of darkness besidemy hand.Apatchofdarknesswithawhitespotoveroneear. Ipicked thekittenup inmyhand,andbroughtittomyheart,andIstrokedit.I said, ‘Iwon’tcomewithyou.Youcan’tmakeme.’ Isatup,becauseI felt

lessvulnerablesitting,andthekittencurledandmadeitselfcomfortable inmyhand.‘Pudding-and-pie boy,’ said Ursula Monkton. Her feet touched the ground,

illuminated by her own lightnings, like a painting of a woman in greys andgreensandblues,notarealwomanatall.‘You’rejustalittleboy.I’magrown-up.Iwasanadultwhenyourworldwasaballofmoltenrock.IcandowhateverIwishtoyou.Now,standup.I’mtakingyouhome.’The kitten,whichwas burrowing intomy chestwith its face,made a high-

pitchednoise,notamew.Iturned,lookingawayfromUrsulaMonkton,looking

behindme.The girl who was walking towards us, across the field, wore a shiny red

raincoat,withahood,andapairofblackwellingtonbootsthatseemedtoobigfor her. She walked out of the darkness, unafraid. She looked up at UrsulaMonkton.‘Getoffmyland,’saidLettieHempstock.UrsulaMonkton took a step backwards and rose, at the same time, so she

hungintheairaboveus.LettieHempstockreachedouttome,withoutglancingdownatwhereIsat,andshetookmyhand,twiningherfingersintomine.‘I’mnottouchingyourland,’saidUrsulaMonkton.‘Goaway,littlegirl.’‘Youareonmyland,’saidLettieHempstock.UrsulaMonkton smiled, and the lightningswreathedandwrithed abouther.

Shewaspower incarnate,standing in thecracklingair.Shewas thestorm,shewasthelightning,shewastheadultworldwithall itspowerandall itssecretsandallitsfoolishcasualcruelty.Shewinkedatme.Iwasa seven-year-oldboy,andmy feetwere scratchedandbleeding. Ihad

justwetmyself.Andthethingthatfloatedabovemewashugeandgreedy,anditwantedtotakemetotheattic,andwhenittiredofmeitwouldmakemydaddykillme.LettieHempstock’shand inmyhandmademebraver.ButLettiewas justa

girl, even if shewas a big girl, even if shewas eleven, even if she had beenelevenforaverylongtime.UrsulaMonktonwasanadult.Itdidnotmatter,atthatmoment, that shewas everymonster, everywitch, every nightmaremadeflesh.Shewasalsoanadult,andwhenadultsfightchildren,adultsalwayswin.Lettiesaid,‘Youshouldgobackwhereyoucamefrominthefirstplace.It’s

nothealthyforyoutobehere.Foryourowngood,goback.’A noise in the air, a horrible, twisted scratching noise, filledwith pain and

withwrongness,anoisethatsetmyteethonedgeandmadethekitten,itsfrontpawsrestingonmychest,stiffenanditsfurprickle.Thelittlethingtwistedandclawed up on tomy shoulder, and it hissed and it spat. I looked up atUrsulaMonkton.ItwasonlywhenIsawherfacethatIknewwhatthenoisewas.UrsulaMonktonwaslaughing.‘Goback?WhenyourpeoplerippedtheholeinForever,Iseizedmychance.I

couldhaveruledworlds,butIfollowedyou,andIwaited,andIhadpatience.Iknew that sooneror later theboundswould loosen, that Iwouldwalk the trueEarth,beneaththeSunofHeaven.’Shewasnotlaughingnow.‘Everythinghereissoweak,littlegirl.Everythingbreakssoeasily.Theywantsuchsimplethings.

IwilltakeallIwantfromthisworld,likeachildstuffingitsfatlittlefacewithblackberriesfromabush.’I did not let go of Lettie’s hand, not this time. I stroked the kitten, whose

needleclawswerediggingintomyshoulder,andwasbittenformytrouble,butthebitewasnothard,justscared.Hervoicecamefromallaroundus,as thestormwindgusted.‘Youkeptme

awayfromhereforalongtime.Butthenyoubroughtmeadoor,andIusedhimtocarrymeoutofmycell.AndwhatcanyoudonowthatIamout?’Lettiedidn’t seemangry.She thoughtabout it, thenshe said, ‘I couldmake

youanewdoor.Or,betterstill,IcouldgetGrannytosendyouacrosstheocean,allthewaytowhereveryoucamefrominthebeginning.’UrsulaMonktonspaton to thegrass, anda tinyballof flamesputteredand

fizzedontheground,wherethespithadfallen.‘Giveme the boy,’was all she said. ‘Hebelongs tome. I camehere inside

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

‘’Speciallynothim.’Lettiehelpedmetomyfeet,andshestoodbehindmeandputherarmsaroundme.Weweretwochildreninafieldinthenight.Sheheldme,andIheldthekitten,whileaboveusandallaroundusavoicesaid:‘Whatwillyoudo?Takehimhomewithyou?Thisworldisaworldofrules,

littlegirl.Hebelongstohisparents,afterall.Takehimawayandhisparentswillcometobringhimhome,andhisparentsbelongtome.’‘I’m all bored of you now,’ said Lettie Hempstock. ‘I gived you a chance.

You’reonmyland.Goaway.’As she said that,my skin felt like it didwhen I’d rubbed a balloon onmy

sweaterthentouchedittomyfaceandhair.Everythingprickledandtickled.Myhairwassoaked,butevenwet,itfeltlikeitwasstartingtostandonend.LettieHempstock heldme tightly. ‘Don’tworry,’ shewhispered, and Iwas

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

everytree.Eventhehedgeswereglowing.Itwasawarmlight.Itseemed,tomyeyes,asifthesoilbeneaththegrasshadtransmutedfrombasematterintopurelight,andinthegoldenglowofthemeadowtheblue-whitelightningsthatstillcrackledaroundUrsulaMonktonseemedmuchlessimpressive.UrsulaMonkton rose unsteadily, as if the air had just become hot andwas

carrying her upwards. Then Lettie Hempstock whispered old words into the

world and the meadow exploded into a golden light. I saw Ursula Monktonsweptupandaway,althoughIfeltnowind,buttherehadtobeawind,forshewasflailingandtippinglikeadeadleafinagale.Iwatchedhertumbleintothenight,andthenUrsulaMonktonandherlightningsweregone.‘Comeon,’saidLettieHempstock. ‘Weshouldgetyou in frontofakitchen

fire.Andahotbath.You’ll catchyourdeath.’She letgoofmyhand, stoppedhuggingme,steppedback.Thegoldenglowdimmed,soslowly,andthenitwasgone,leavingonlyvanishingglimmersandtwinklesinthebushes,likethefinalmomentsofthefireworksonBonfireNight.‘Isshedead?’Iasked.‘No.’‘Thenshe’llcomeback.Andyou’llgetintrouble.’‘That’sasmaybe,’saidLettie.‘Areyouhungry?’She askedme, and I knew that Iwas. I had forgotten, somehow, but now I

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

through.We’llneedtogetyousomethingtowear.I’llhavealookinthechestofdrawers in the green bedroom. I think Cousin Japeth left some of his clothestherewhenhewentofftofightintheMouseWars.Hewasn’tmuchbiggerthanyou.’Thekittenwaslickingmyfingerswithasmall,roughtongue.‘Ifoundakitten,’Isaid.‘Icansee that.Shemusthavefollowedyoubackfromthefieldswhereyou

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

cheered,althoughIcouldnotunderstandhowwehadgotfromthefieldwewereintothefarmhousesoquickly.‘Youwerelucky,’saidLettie.‘Fifteenfeetfurtherback,andthefieldbelongs

toColinAnders.’‘Youwouldhavecomeanyway,’Itoldher.‘Youwouldhavesavedme.’Shesqueezedmyarmwithherhandbutshesaidnothing.I said, ‘Lettie. I don’twant to go home.’Thatwas not true. Iwanted to go

homemorethananything,justnottotheplaceIhadfledthatnight.Iwantedto

gobackto thehomeIhadlivedinbefore theopalminerhadkilledhimself inourlittlewhiteMini,orbeforehehadrunovermykitten.The ball of dark fur pressed itself intomy chest, and Iwished shewasmy

kitten,andknewthatshewasnot.Therainhadbecomeadrizzleonceagain.Wesplashedthroughdeeppuddles,Lettieinherwellingtonboots,mystinging

feetbare.Thesmellofmanurewassharpintheairaswereachedthefarmyard,andthenwewalkedthroughasidedoorandintothehugefarmhousekitchen.

Lettie’s mother was prodding the huge fireplace with a poker, pushing theburninglogstogether.Old Mrs Hempstock was stirring a bulbous pot on the stove with a large

woodenspoon.Sheliftedthespoontohermouth,blewonittheatrically,sippedfrom it, pursed her lips, then added a pinch of something and a fistful ofsomethingelse.Sheturneddowntheflame.Thenshelookedatme,frommywethairtomybarefeet,whichwerebluewithcold.AsIstoodthere,apuddlebeganto appear on the flagstone floor around me, and the drips of water frommydressinggownsplashedintoit.‘Hotbath,’saidOldMrsHempstock.‘Orhe’llcatchhisdeath.’‘ThatwaswhatIsaid,’saidLettie.Lettie’smotherwasalreadyhaulingatinbathfrombeneaththekitchentable,

and filling it with steaming water from the enormous black kettle that hungabove the fireplace.Potsofcoldwaterwereaddeduntil shepronounced it theperfecttemperature.‘Right.Inyougo,’saidOldMrsHempstock.‘Spit-spot.’Ilookedather,horrified.WasIgoingtohavetoundressinfrontofpeopleI

didn’tknow?‘We’ll wash your clothes, and dry them for you, and mend that dressing

gown,’saidLettie’smother,andshe took thedressinggownfromme,andshetook the kitten, which I had barely realised I was still holding, and then shewalkedaway.As quickly as possible I shed my red nylon pyjamas – the bottoms were

soaked and the legs were now ragged and ripped and would never be wholeagain.Idippedmyfingersintothewater,thenIclimbedinandsatinthetinbathinthatreassuringkitcheninfrontofthehugefire,andIleanedbackinthehotwater.Myfeetbegantothrobastheycamebacktolife.Iknewthatnakedwaswrong, but the Hempstocks seemed indifferent to my nakedness: Lettie was

gone,andmypyjamasanddressinggownwithher;hermotherwas laying thetable,gettingoutandarrangingknives,forks,spoons,littlejugsandbiggerjugs,carvingknivesandwoodentrenchers,andarrangingthem.OldMrsHempstockpassedmeamug,filledwithsoupfromtheblackpoton

thestove.‘Getthatdownyou.Heatyouupfromtheinsidefirst.’Thesoupwasrich,andwarming.Ihadneverdrunksoupinthebathbefore.It

wasaperfectlynewexperience.WhenIfinishedthemug,Igaveitbacktoher,and in returnshepassedmea largecakeofwhite soapanda face flannelandsaid,‘Nowgetscrubbin’.Rubthelifeandthewarmthbackintoyourbones.’She sat down in a rocking chair on the other side of the fire, and rocked

gently,notlookingatme.Ifeltsafe.Itwasasiftheessenceofgrandmotherlinesshadbeencondensed

into that one place, that one time. Iwas not at all afraid ofUrsulaMonkton,whatevershewas,notthen.Notthere.YoungMrsHempstockopenedanovendoorandtookoutapie,itsshinycrust

brownandglistening,andputitonthewindowledgetocool.Idriedmyselfoffwithatoweltheybroughtme,thefire’sheatdryingmeas

much as the towel did, then Lettie Hempstock returned and gave me avoluminouswhite thing, likeagirl’snightdressbutmadeofwhitecotton,withlongarms,andaskirtthatdrapedtothefloor,andawhitecap.Ihesitatedtoputiton,until I realisedwhat itwas:anightgown. Ihadseenpicturesof them inbooks.WeeWillieWinkie ran through the townwearingone ineverybookofnurseryrhymesIhadeverowned.Islippedintoit.Thenightcapwastoobigforme,andfelldownovermyface,

andLettietookitawayoncemore.Dinnerwaswonderful.Therewasajointofbeef,withroastpotatoes,golden-

crisp on the outside and soft and white inside, buttered greens I did notrecognise, although I think now that they might have been nettles, roastedcarrots, blackened and sweet (I did not think that I liked cooked carrots, sonearly did not eat one, but Iwas brave, and I tried it, and I liked it, andwasdisappointedinboiledcarrotsfortherestofmychildhood).Fordessert,wehadthepie,stuffedwithapplesandwithswollenraisinsandcrushednuts,alltoppedwithathickyellowcustard,creamierandricherthananythingIhadevertastedatschoolorathome.Thekittensleptonacushionbesidethefire,untiltheendofthemeal,whenit

joinedafog-colouredhousecatfourtimesitssizeinamealofscrapsofmeat.

Whileweate,nothingwassaidaboutwhathadhappenedtome,orwhyIwasthere.TheHempstock ladies talkedabout thefarm– therewas thedoor to themilkingshedneededanewcoatofpaint,acownamedRhiannonwholookedtobegetting lame inher rear left leg, thepath tobe clearedon theway that leddowntothereservoir.‘Isitjustthethreeofyou?’Iasked.‘Aren’tthereanymen?’‘Men!’hootedOldMrsHempstock.‘Idunnowhatblessedgoodamanwould

be!Nothingamancoulddoaround this farm that I can’tdo twiceas fastandfivetimesaswell.’Lettiesaid,‘We’vehadmenhere,sometimes.Theycomeandtheygo.Right

now,it’sjustus.’Hermothernodded.‘Theywentofftoseektheirfateandfortune,mostly,the

maleHempstocks.There’s never anykeeping themherewhen the call comes.Theygetadistantlookintheireyesandthenwe’velostthem,goodandproper.Nextchance theygets they’reoff to townsandevencities,andnothingbutanoccasionalpostcardtoevenshowtheywerehereatall.’Old Mrs Hempstock said, ‘His parents are coming! They’re driving here.

TheyjustpassedParson’selmtree.Thebadgerssawthem.’‘Isshewiththem?’Iasked.‘UrsulaMonkton?’‘Her?’saidOldMrsHempstock,amused.‘Thatthing?Nother.’Ithoughtaboutitforamoment.‘Theywillmakemegobackwiththem,and

thenshe’ll lockmein theatticandletmydaddykillmewhenshegetsbored.Shesaidso.’‘Shemayhavetoldyouthat,ducks,’saidLettie’smother,‘butsheen’tgoing

todoit,oranythinglikeit,ormyname’snotGinnieHempstock.’I liked thenameGinnie, but I didnot believeher, and Iwasnot reassured.

Soonthedoortothekitchenwouldopen,andmyfatherwouldshoutatme,orhewouldwaituntilwegot into thecar,andhewouldshoutatme then,and theywouldtakemebackupthelanetomyhouse,andIwouldbelost.‘Let’ssee,’ saidGinnieHempstock. ‘Wecouldbeawaywhen theygethere.

TheycouldarrivelastTuesday,whenthere’snobodyhome.’‘Outof thequestion,’ said theoldwoman. ‘Just complicates things,playing

with time…Wecould turn theboy into something else, so they’dnever findhim,lookhowhardtheymight.’Iblinked.Wasthatevenpossible?Iwantedtobeturnedintosomething.The

kittenhad finished its portionofmeat scraps (indeed, it seemed tohave eatenmorethanthehousecat)andnowitleaptintomylap,andbegantowashitself.

GinnieHempstockgotup andwentoutof the room. Iwonderedwhere shewasgoing.‘Wecan’tturnhimintoanything,’saidLettie,clearingthetableofthelastof

the plates and cutlery. ‘His parents will get frantic. And if they are beingcontrolledbytheflea,she’lljustfeedthefranticness.Nextthingyouknow,we’llhavethepolicedraggingthereservoir,lookingforhim.Orworse.Theocean.’Thekittenlaydownandcurledup,wrappingarounditselfuntilitwasnothing

morethanaflattenedcircletoffluffyblackfur.Itcloseditsvividblueeyes,thecolourofanocean,anditslept,anditpurred.‘Well?’saidOldMrsHempstock.‘Whatdoyousuggest,then?’Lettiethought,pushingherlipstogether,movingthemovertooneside.Her

headtipped,andI thoughtshewasrunningthroughalternatives.Thenherfacebrightened.‘Snipandstitch?’shesaid.OldMrsHempstock sniffed. ‘You’re a goodgirl,’ she said. ‘I’mnot saying

you’renot.Butsnippage…well,youcouldn’tdothat.Notyet.You’dhavetocuttheedgesoutexactly,sewthembackwithouttheseamshowing.Andwhatwouldyoucutout?Thefleawon’tletyousnipher.She’snotinthefabric.She’soutsideofit.’GinnieHempstockreturned.Shewascarryingmyolddressinggown.‘Iputit

throughthemangle,’shesaid.‘Butit’sstilldamp.That’llmaketheedgeshardertolineup.Youdon’twanttodoneedleworkwhenit’sstilldamp.’Sheputthedressinggowndownonthetable,infrontofOldMrsHempstock.

Thenshepulledoutfromthefrontpocketofherapronapairofscissors,blackandold,alongneedle,andaspoolofredthread.‘Rowanberry and red thread, stop a witch in her speed,’ I recited. It was

somethingIhadreadinabook.‘That’dwork,andworkwell,’saidLettie,‘iftherewasanywitchesinvolved

inallthis.Butthere’snot.’Old Mrs Hempstock was examining my dressing gown. It was brown and

faded,withasortofsepiatartanacrossit.Ithadbeenapresentfrommyfather’sparents,mygrandparents,severalbirthdaysago,whenithadbeencomicallybigonme.‘Probably…’shesaid,asifshewastalkingtoherself,‘itwouldbebestifyourfatherwashappyforyoutostaythenighthere.Butforthat tohappen,theycouldn’tbeangrywithyou,orevenworried…’Theblackscissorswereinherhandandalreadysnip-snip-snippingthen,when

Iheardaknockonthefrontdoor,andGinnieHempstockgotuptoanswerit.‘Don’tletthemtakeme,’IsaidtoLettie.

‘Hush,’shesaid. ‘I’mworkinghere,whilegrandmother’ssnipping.Youjustbesleepy,andatpeace.Happy.’Iwasfarfromhappy,andnotintheslightestbitsleepy.Lettieleanedacross

thetableandtookmyhand.‘Don’tworry,’shesaid.Andwith that the door opened, andmy father andmymother were in the

kitchen. I wanted to hide, but the kitten shifted, reassuringly, onmy lap, andLettiesmiledatme,areassuringsmile.‘Weare lookingforourson,’myfatherwassaying, ‘andwehavereason to

believe…’andevenashewassayingthat,mymotherwasstridingtowardsme.‘Thereheis!Darling,wewereworriedsilly!’‘You’reinalotoftrouble,youngman,’saidmyfather.Snip!Snip!Snip!went theblack scissors, and the irregular sectionof fabric

thatOldMrsHempstockhadbeencuttingfelltothetable.Myparentsfroze.Theystoppedtalking,stoppedmoving.Myfather’smouth

wasstillopen,mymotherstoodononeleg,asunmovingasifshewereashop-windowdummy.‘What…whatdidyoudotothem?’IwasunsurewhetherornotIoughttobe

upset.Ginnie Hempstock said, ‘They’re fine. Just a little snipping, then a little

sewing,andit’llallbegoodasgold.’Shereacheddowntothetable,pointedtothescrapoffadeddressinggowntartanrestinguponit.‘That’syourdadandyouinthehallway,andthat’sthebathtub.She’ssnippedthatout.Sowithoutanyofthat,there’snoreasonforyourdaddytobeangrywithyou.’Ihadnottoldthemaboutthebathtub.Ididnotwonderhowsheknew.Nowtheoldwomanwasthreadingtheneedlewiththeredthread.Shesighed,

theatrically.‘Oldeyes,’shesaid.‘Oldeyes.’Butshelickedthetipofthethreadandpusheditthroughtheeyeoftheneedlewithoutanyapparentdifficulty.‘Lettie. You’ll need to know what his toothbrush looks like,’ said the old

woman. She began to sew the edges of the dressing gown togetherwith tiny,carefulstitches.‘What’syourtoothbrushlooklike?’askedLettie.‘Quickly.’‘It’sgreen,’Isaid.‘Brightgreen.Asortofappleygreen.It’snotverybig.Just

agreentoothbrush,mysize.’Iwasn’tdescribingitverywell,Iknew.Ipictureditinmyhead,triedtofindsomethingmoreaboutitthatIcoulddescribe,tosetitapart fromallother toothbrushes.Nogood. I imagined it, sawit inmymind’seye,with the other toothbrushes in its red-and-white-spotted beaker above thebathroomsink.

‘Gotit!’saidLettie.‘Nicejob.’‘Verynearlydonehere,’saidOldMrsHempstock.GinnieHempstocksmiledahugesmile,anditlitupherruddyroundface.Old

MrsHempstockpickedupthescissorsandsnippedafinaltime,andafragmentofredthreadfelltothetabletop.Mymother’sfootcamedown.Shetookastepandthenshestopped.Myfathersaid,‘Um.’Ginniesaid, ‘…and itmadeourLettiesohappy thatyourboywouldcome

hereandstaythenight.It’sabitold-fashionedhere,I’mafraid.’Theoldwomansaid,‘We’vegotaninsidelavvynowadays.Idon’tknowhow

muchmoremodernanybodycouldbe.Outside lavviesandchamberpotsweregoodenoughforme.’‘Heateafinemeal,’saidGinnie.‘Didn’tyou?’‘Therewaspie,’Itoldmyparents.‘Fordessert.’Myfather’sbrowwascreased.Helookedconfused.Thenheputhishandinto

thepocketofhiscarcoat,andpulledoutsomethinglongandgreen,withtoiletpaperwrappedaroundthetop.‘Youforgotyourtoothbrush,’hesaid.‘Thoughtyou’dwantit.’‘Now,ifhewantstocomehome,hecancomehome,’mymotherwassaying

toGinnieHempstock. ‘Hewent to stay the night at theKovacs’ house a fewmonthsago,andbyninehewascallingustocomeandgethim.’ChristopherKovacswas two years older and a head taller thanme, and he

livedwithhismotherinalargecottageoppositetheentrancetoourlane,bytheoldgreenwatertower.Hismotherwasdivorced.Ilikedher.Shewasfunny,anddroveaVWbeetle, thefirst Ihadeverseen.ChristopherownedmanybooksIhad not read, and was a member of the Puffin Club. I could read his Puffinbooks,butonlyifIwenttohishouse.Hewouldneverletmeborrowthem.There was a bunk bed in Christopher’s bedroom, although he was an only

child.Iwasgiventhebottombunk,thenightIstayedthere.OnceIwasinbed,andChristopherKovacs’motherhadsaidgoodnighttousandhadturnedoutthebedroomlightandclosedthedoor,heleaneddownandbegansquirtingmewithawaterpistolhehadhiddenbeneathhispillow.Ihadnotknownwhattodo.‘Thisisn’tlikewhenIwenttoChristopherKovacs’house,’Itoldmymother,

embarrassed.‘Ilikeithere.’‘Whatareyouwearing?’ShestaredatmyWeeWillieWinkienightgownin

puzzlement.

Ginniesaid,‘Hehadalittleaccident.He’swearingthatwhilehispyjamasaredrying.’‘Oh. I see,’ saidmymother. ‘Well, goodnight, dear.Have anice timewith

yournewfriend.’ShepeereddownatLettie.‘What’syournameagain,dear?’‘Lettie,’saidLettieHempstock.‘Is it short for Letitia?’ askedmymother. ‘I knew a Letitia when I was at

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

the toilet paper around the head. It was, unmistakably, my green toothbrush.Underhiscarcoatmyfatherwaswearingacleanwhiteshirt,andnotie.Isaid,‘Thankyou.’‘So,’ said my mother. ‘What time should we be by to pick him up in the

morning?’Ginniesmiledevenwider.‘Oh,Lettiewillbringhimbacktoyou.Weshould

givethemsometimetoplay, tomorrowmorning.Now,beforeyougo,Ibakedsomesconesthisafternoon…’And sheput some scones into a paper bag,whichmymother tookpolitely,

andGinnieusheredherandmyfatheroutof thedoor. Iheldmybreathuntil IheardthesoundoftheRoverbeingdrivenawaybackupthelane.‘Whatdidyoudotothem?’Iasked.Andthen,‘Isthisreallymytoothbrush?’‘That,’ saidOldMrsHempstock,with satisfaction inhervoice, ‘wasavery

respectable job of snipping and stitching, if you ask me.’ She held up mydressinggown:Icouldnotseewhereshehadremovedapiece,whereshehadstitcheditup.Itwasseamless,themendinvisible.Shepushedthescrapoffabricthatshehadcutacrossthetable.‘Here’syourevening,’shesaid.‘Youcankeepit,ifyouwish.ButifIwereyou,I’dburnit.’Therainpatteredagainstthewindow,andthewindrattledthewindowframes.Ipickedupthejagged-edgedsliverofcloth.Itwasdamp.Igotup,wakingthe

kitten, who sprang off and vanished into the shadows. I walked over to thefireplace.‘If I burn this,’ I asked them, ‘will it have reallyhappened?Willmydaddy

havepushedmedownintothebath?WillIforgetiteverhappened?’GinnieHempstockwasnolongersmiling.Nowshelookedconcerned.‘What

doyouwant?’sheasked.‘Iwanttoremember,’Isaid.‘Becauseithappenedtome.AndI’mstillme.’I

threwthelittlescrapofclothontothefire.

Therewasacrackleandtheclothsmoked,thenitbegantoburn.Iwasunder thewater. Iwasholdingon tomy father’s tie. I thoughthewas

goingtokillme…Iscreamed.IwaslyingontheflagstoneflooroftheHempstocks’kitchenandIwasrolling

and screaming.My foot felt like I had trodden, barefoot, on a burning cinder.Thepainwasintense.Therewasanotherpain,too,deepinsidemychest,moredistant,notassharp:adiscomfort,notaburning.Ginniewasbesideme.‘What’swrong?’‘Myfoot.It’sonfire.Ithurtssomuch.’Sheexaminedit,thenlickedherfinger,touchedittotheholeinmysolefrom

whichIhadpulled theworm, twodaysbefore.Therewasahissingnoise,andthepaininmyfootbegantoease.‘En’tneverseenoneofthesebefore,’saidGinnieHempstock.‘Howdidyou

getit?’‘Therewasaworminsideit,’Itoldher.‘Thatwashowitcamewithusfrom

theplacewiththeorangeysky.Inmyfoot.’AndthenIlookedatLettie,whohadcrouched besideme and was now holdingmy hand, and I said, ‘I brought itback.Itwasmyfault.I’msorry.’OldMrsHempstockwasthelasttoreachme.Sheleanedover,pulledthesole

ofmyfootupandintothelight.‘Nasty,’shesaid.‘Andveryclever.Shelefttheholeinsideyousoshecoulduseitagain.Shecouldhavehiddeninsideyou,ifsheneededto,usedyouasadoor togohome.Nowondershewantedtokeepyouintheattic.So.Let’sstrikewhiletheiron’shot,asthesoldiersaidwhenheenteredthelaundry.’Sheproddedtheholeinmyfootwithherfinger.Itstillhurt,butthepainhadfaded,alittle.Nowitfeltlikeathrobbingheadacheinsidemyfoot.Somethingflutteredinmychest,likeatinymoth,andthenwasstill.OldMrsHempstocksaid,‘Canyoubebrave?’Ididnotknow.Ididnotthinkso.ItseemedtomethatallIhaddonesofar

thatnightwas to run fromthings.Shewasholding theneedleshehadused tosewupmydressinggown,andshegraspeditnow,notas ifsheweregoingtosewwithit,butasifshewereplanningtostabme.Ipulledmyfootback.‘Whatareyougoingtodo?’Lettiesqueezedmyhand. ‘She’sgoing tomake theholegoaway,’ shesaid.

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

‘Stuffandnonsense,’saidtheoldwoman.Shepulledmyfoottowardsher,sothe sole was facing her, and stabbed the needle down… not intomy foot, Irealised,butintotheholeitself.Itdidnothurt.Then she twisted the needle and pulled it back towards her. I watched,

amazed,assomethingthatglistened–itseemedblack,atfirst,thentranslucent,then reflective likemercury–waspulledout from thesoleofmyfoot,on theendoftheneedle.Icouldfeelitleavingmyleg–itseemedtotravelupallthewayinsideme,up

myleg,throughmygroinandmystomachandintomychest.Ifeltitleavemewithrelief:theburningsensationabated,asdidmyterror.Myheartpoundedstrangely.I watched Old Mrs Hempstock reel the thing in, and I was still unable,

somehow, to entirely make sense of what I was seeing. It was a hole withnothingaroundit,overtwofeet long, thinnerthananearthworm,liketheshedskinofatranslucentsnake.Andthenshestoppedreelingitin.‘Doesn’twanttocomeout,’shesaid.‘It’s

holdingon.’Therewasacoldnessinmyheart,asifachipoficewerelodgedthere.The

oldwomangaveanexpertflickofherwrist,andthentheglisteningthingwasdangling fromherneedle (I foundmyself thinkingnownotofmercury,butofthesilveryslimetrailsthatsnailsleaveinthegarden),anditnolongerwentintomyfoot.She let go ofmy sole and I pulledmy foot back. The tiny round hole had

vanishedcompletely,asifithadneverbeenthere.Old Mrs Hempstock cackled with glee. ‘Thinks she’s so clever,’ she said,

‘leavingherwayhomeinsidetheboy.Isthatclever?Idon’tthinkthat’sclever.Iwouldn’tgivetuppenceforthelotofthem.’GinnieHempstock produced an empty jam jar, and the oldwoman put the

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

thejarthethinghadbegunlazilytouncurl.Itseemedtobefloating,asifthejarhadbeen filledwithwater. It changedcolouras it caught the light indifferentways,sometimesblack,sometimessilver.

AnexperimentthatIhadfoundinabookofthingsboyscoulddo,andwhichIhad, of course, done: if you take an egg, and blacken it completelywith sootfromacandleflame,andthenputitintoaclearcontainerfilledwithsaltwater,itwill float in thewater,anditwillseemtobesilver:apeculiar,artificialsilver,thatisonlyatrickofthelight.Ithoughtofthategg,then.Lettieseemedfascinated.‘You’reright.Sheleftherwayhomeinsidehim.No

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

sentiment. And next time, you’ll keep hold of my hand no matter what shethrowsatus.’I nodded. The ice chip inmy heart seemed to warm then, andmelt, and I

begantofeelwholeandsafeoncemore.‘So,’ said Ginnie. ‘We’ve got her way home. Andwe’ve got the boy safe.

That’sagoodnight’sworkorIdon’tknowwhatis.’‘But she’s got the boy’s parents,’ saidOldMrsHempstock. ‘And his sister.

And we can’t just leave her free as a daisy. Remember what happened inCromwell’sday?Andbeforethat?WhenRedRufuswasrunningaround?Fleasattractvarmints.’Shesaiditasifitwereanaturallaw.‘Thatcanwaituntilthemorrow,’saidGinnie.‘Now,Lettie.Taketheladand

findaroomforhimtosleepin.He’shadalongday.’Theblackkittenwascurledupontherockingchairbesidethefireplace.‘Can

Ibringthekittenwithme?’‘Ifyoudon’t,’saidLettie,‘she’lljustcomeandfindyou.’Ginnieproducedtwocandlesticks,thekindwithbigroundhandles,eachone

withashapelessblobofwhitewaxinit.Shelitawoodentaperfromthekitchenfire,thentransferredtheflamefirsttoonecandlewickandthentotheother.Shehandedacandletome,theothertoLettie.‘Don’tyouhaveelectricity?’Iasked.Therewereelectriclightsinthekitchen,

bigold-fashionedbulbshangingfromtheceiling,filamentsglowing.‘Not in that part of the house,’ saidLettie. ‘Thekitchen’s new.Sort of. Put

yourhandinfrontofyourcandleasyouwalk,soitdoesn’tblowout.’Shecuppedherownhandaroundtheflameasshesaidthis,andIcopiedher,

andwalkedbehindher.Theblackkittenfollowedus,outofthekitchen,throughawoodendoorpaintedwhite,downastep,andintothefarmhouse.Itwas dark, and our candles cast huge shadows, so it looked tome, aswe

walked, as if everythingwasmoving, pushed and shaped by the shadows: the

grandfather clock and the stuffed animals and birds (were they stuffed? Iwondered.Didthatowlmove,orwasitjustthecandleflamethatmademethinkthatithadturneditsheadaswepassed?),thehalltable,thechairs.Allofthemmoved,andallofthemstayedperfectlystill.Wewentupasetofstairs,andthenupsomesteps,andwepassedanopenwindow.Moonlightspilledontothestairs,brighterthanourcandleflames.Iglanced

upthroughthewindowandIsawthefullmoon.Thecloudlessskywassplashedwithstarsbeyondallcounting.‘That’sthemoon,’Isaid.‘Granlikesitlikethat,’saidLettieHempstock.‘Butitwasacrescentmoonyesterday.Andnowit’sfull.Anditwasraining.It

israining.Butnowit’snot.’‘Gran likes the full moon to shine on this side of the house. She says it’s

restful,anditremindsherofwhenshewasagirl,’saidLettie.‘Andyoudon’ttriponthestairs.’The kitten followed us up the stairs in a sequence of bounces. Itmademe

smile.AtthetopofthehousewasLettie’sroom,andbesideit,anotherroom,andit

wasthisroomthatweentered.Afireblazedinthehearth,illuminatingtheroomwithorangesandyellows.Theroomwaswarmandinviting.Thebedhadpostsat each corner, and it had its own curtains. I had seen something like it incartoons,butneverinreallife.‘There’sclothesalreadysetoutforyoutoputoninthemorning,’saidLettie.

‘I’llbeasleepintheroomnextdoorifyouwantme–justshoutorknockifyouneedanything,andI’llcomein.Gransaidforyoutousetheinsidelavatory,butit’salongwaythroughthehouse,andyoumightgetlost,soifyouneedtodoyour business, there’s a chamber pot under the bed, same as there’s alwaysbeen.’Iblewoutmycandle,andpushedthroughthecurtainsintothebed.Theroomwaswarm,but thesheetswerecold.Thebedshookassomething

landed on it, and then small feet padded up the blankets, and a warm, furrypresencepusheditselfintomyfaceandthekittenbegan,softly,topurr.Therewas still amonster inmyhouse, and, ina fragmentof time thathad,

perhaps, been snipped out of reality,my father had pushedme down into thewaterofthebathandtried,perhaps,todrownme.Ihadrunformilesthroughthedark.IhadseenmyfatherkissingandtouchingthethingthatcalleditselfUrsulaMonkton.Thedreadhadnotleftmysoul.

But there was a kitten on my pillow, and it was purring in my face andvibratinggentlywitheverypurr,andverysoon,Islept.

I had strangedreams in thathouse, thatnight. Iwokemyself in thedarkness,andIknewonlythatadreamhadscaredmesobadlyIhadtowakeupordie,andyet, tryas Imight, Icouldnot rememberwhat Ihaddreamed.Thedreamwashauntingme:standingbehindme,presentandinvisible,likethebackofmyhead,simultaneouslythereandnotthere.I missed my father and I missed my mother, and I missed my bed in my

house, only a mile or so away. I missed yesterday, before Ursula Monkton,beforemyfather’sanger,beforethebathtub.Iwantedthatyesterdaybackagain,andIwanteditsobadly.Itriedtopullthedreamthathadupsetmesotothefrontofmymind,butit

wouldnotcome.Therewasbetrayalinit,Iknew,andloss,andtime.Thedreamleftmescaredtogobacktosleep:thefireplacewasalmostdarknow,withonlythedeepredglowofembersinthehearthtomarkthatithadoncebeenburning,oncehadgivenlight.Iclimbeddownfromthefour-posterbed,andfeltbeneathituntilIfoundthe

heavy china chamber pot. I hitched up my nightgown and I used it. Then Iwalkedtothewindowandlookedout.Themoonwasstillfull,butnowitwaslowinthesky,andadarkorange:whatmymothercalledaharvestmoon.Butthingswereharvestedinautumn,Iknew,notinspring.In theorangemoonlight Icouldseeanoldwoman–Iwasalmostcertain it

wasOldMrsHempstock,althoughitwashardtoseeherfaceproperly–walkingupanddown.Shehadabiglongstickshewasleaningonasshewalked,likeastaff.SheremindedmeofthesoldiersonparadeIhadseenonatriptoLondon,outside Buckingham Palace, as they marched backwards and forwards onparade.Iwatchedher,andIwascomforted.Iclimbedbackintomybedinthedark,laidmyheadontheemptypillow,and

thought,I’llnevergobacktosleep,notnow,andthenIopenedmyeyesandsaw

thatitwasmorning.TherewereclothesIhadneverseenbeforeonachairbythebed.Therewere

two china jugs of water – one steaming hot, one cold – beside a bowl that Irealised was a hand basin, set into a small wooden table. There was a fluffyblackkittenon the footof thebed. It opened its eyes as I satup; theywereavivid blue-green, unnatural and odd, like the sea in summer, and it mewed ahigh-pitched,questioningnoise.Istrokedit,thenIgotoutofbed.Imixed thehotwater and the cold in thebasin, and Iwashedmy face and

hands.Icleanedmyteethwiththecoldwater.Therewasnotoothpaste,buttherewas a small round tin box on which was writtenMax Melton’s RemarkablyEfficacious Tooth Powder, in old-fashioned letters. I put some of the whitepowder onmygreen toothbrush, and cleanedmy teethwith it. It tastedmintyandlemonyinmymouth.I examined the clothes.Theywere unlike anything I had everworn before.

Therewere no underpants. Therewas awhite undershirt,with no buttons butwithalongtail.Therewerebrowntrousersthatstoppedattheknees,longwhitestockings, and a chestnut-coloured jacketwith aV cut into in theback, like aswallow’stail.Thelightbrownsocksweremorelikestockings.Iputtheclotheson as best I could, wishing there were zips or clasps, rather than hooks andbuttonsandstiff,unyieldingbuttonholes.Theshoeshadsilverbucklesinthefront,buttheshoesweretoobiganddid

not fit me, so I went out of the room in my stockinged feet, and the kittenfollowedme.ToreachmyroomthenightbeforeIhadwalkedupstairsand,atthetopofthe

stairs, turned left. Now I turned right, and walked past Lettie’s bedroom (thedoorwasajar,theroomwasempty)andmadeforthestairs.ButthestairswerenotwhereIrememberedthem.Thecorridorendedinablankwall,andawindowthatlookedoutoverwoodlandandfields.Theblackkittenwith theblue-greeneyesmewed, loudly,as if toattractmy

attention,and turnedbackdown thecorridor inaself-importantstrut, tailheldhigh. It ledmedown thehall, roundacorneranddownapassage Ihadneverseen before, to a staircase.The kitten bounced amiably down the stairs, and Ifollowed.GinnieHempstockwasstandingatthefootofthestairs.‘Yousleptlongand

well,’shesaid,‘We’vealreadymilkedthecows.Yourbreakfastisonthetable,andthere’sasaucerofcreambythefireplaceforyourfriend.’‘Where’sLettie,MrsHempstock?’

‘Offonanerrand,gettingstuffshemayneed.Ithastogo, thethingatyourhouse, or therewill be trouble, andworsewill follow. She’s already bound itonce,anditslippedthebounds,sosheneedstosendithome.’‘IjustwantUrsulaMonktontogoaway,’Isaid.‘Ihateher.’Ginnie Hempstock put out a finger, ran it across my jacket. ‘It’s not what

anyoneelsehereaboutsiswearingthesedays,’shesaid,‘butmymamputalittleglamouronit,soit’snotasifanyonewillnotice.Youcanwalkaroundinitallyouwant,andnotasoulwillthinkthere’sanythingoddaboutit.Noshoes?’‘Theydidn’tfit.’‘I’llleavesomethingthatwillfityoubythebackdoor,then.’‘Thankyou.’Shesaid,‘Idon’thateher.Shedoeswhatshedoes,accordingtohernature.

Shewasasleep,shewokeup,she’stryingtogiveeveryonewhattheywant.’‘Shehasn’t givenme anything Iwant.She says shewants toputme in the

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

door.’Shetappedmychest,abovemyheart,withherforefinger.‘Andshewasbetteroffwhereshewas.Wewouldhavesentherhomesafely–doneitbeforefor her kind a dozen times.But she’s headstrong, that one.No teaching them.Right.Yourbreakfast isonthetable.I’llbeupinthenine-acrefieldifanyoneneedsme.’Therewasabowlofporridgeonthekitchentableandbesideit,asaucerwith

alumpofgoldenhoneycombonit,andajugofrichyellowcream.Ispoonedupapieceofthehoneycombandmixeditintothethickporridge,

thenIpouredinthecream.Therewas toast, too, cookedbeneath the grill, asmy father cooked it,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, big woven bags that were almostbaskets,raffia-workoutsideandlinedwithcloth,withropehandles.Thisbasketwasalmostfull.Hercheekhadbeenscratched,andhadbled,althoughthebloodhaddried.Shelookedmiserable.‘Hello,’Isaid.

‘Well,’ shesaid. ‘Letme tellyou, ifyou think thatwas fun, thatwasn’tanyfun,notonebit.Mandrakesaresoloudwhenyoupullthemup,andIdidn’thaveearplugs,andIswappeditforashadowbottle,anold-fashionedonewithlotsofshadowsdissolvedinvinegar…’Shebutteredsometoast,thencrushedalumpofgoldenhoneycombontoitandstartedmunching.‘Andthatwasjusttogetmetothebazaar,andtheyaren’tevenmeanttobeopenyet.ButIgotmostofwhatIneededthere.’‘CanIlook?’‘Ifyouwantto.’Ilookedintothebasket.Itwasfilledwithbrokentoys:doll’seyesandheads

andhands,carswithnowheels,chippedcat’s-eyeglassmarbles.Lettiereachedup and took down the jam jar from the window ledge. Inside it, the silverytranslucent wormhole shifted and twisted and spiralled and turned. Lettiedropped it into the shopping bag, with the broken toys. The kitten slept, andignoredusentirely.Lettiesaid,‘Youdon’thavetocomewithme,forthisbit.Youcanstayhere

whileIgoandtalktoher.’Ithoughtaboutit.‘I’dfeelsaferwithyou,’Itoldher.Shedidnot lookhappyat this.She said, ‘Let’sgodown to theocean.’The

kittenopeneditstoo-blueeyesandstaredatusdisinterestedlyasweleft.Therewereblackleatherboots,likeridingboots,waitingformebytheback

door.Theylookedold,butwellcaredfor,andwerejustmysize.Iputthemon,althoughIfeltmorecomfortableinsandals.Together,LettieandIwalkeddowntoherocean,bywhichImeanthepond.Wesatontheoldbench,andlookedattheplacidbrownsurfaceofthepond,

andthelilypads,andthescumofduckweedbythewater’sedge.‘Youaren’tpeople,’Isaid.‘Aretoo.’Ishookmyhead.‘Ibetyoudon’tactuallylooklikethat,’Isaid.‘Notreally.’Lettie shrugged. ‘Nobody looks likewhat they reallyareon the inside.You

don’t. I don’t. People are much more complicated than that. It’s true ofeverybody.’Isaid,‘Areyouamonster?LikeUrsulaMonkton?’Lettie threw a pebble into the pond. ‘I don’t think so,’ she said. ‘Monsters

come in all shapes and sizes. Some of them are things people are scared of.Someofthemarethingsthatlooklikethingspeopleusedtobescaredofalong

timeago.Sometimesmonsters are thingspeople shouldbe scaredof,but theyaren’t.’Isaid,‘PeopleshouldbescaredofUrsulaMonkton.’‘P’rhaps.WhatdoyouthinkUrsulaMonktonisscaredof?’‘Dunno.Whydoyouthinkshe’sscaredofanything?She’sagrown-up,isn’t

she?Grown-upsandmonstersaren’tscaredofthings.’‘Oh,monstersarescared,’saidLettie.‘Andasforgrown-ups…’Shestopped

talking, rubbed her freckled nose with a finger. Then, ‘I’m going to tell yousomethingimportant.Grown-upsdon’tlooklikegrown-upsontheinsideeither.Outside,they’rebigandthoughtlessandtheyalwaysknowwhatthey’redoing.Inside,theylookjustliketheyalwayshave.Liketheydidwhentheywereyourage.Thetruthis,therearen’tanygrown-ups.Notone,inthewholewideworld.’Shethoughtforamoment.Thenshesmiled.‘ExceptforGranny,ofcourse.’Wesat there, sidebyside,on theoldwoodenbench,not sayinganything. I

thoughtaboutadults.Iwonderedifthatwastrue:iftheywereallreallychildrenwrappedinadultbodies,likechildren’sbookshiddeninthemiddleofdull,longbooks.Thekindwithnopicturesorconversations.‘Ilovemyocean,’Lettiesaid,intheend.‘It’s just pretending, though,’ I toldher, feeling like Iwas letting childhood

down by admitting it. ‘Your pond. It’s not an ocean. It can’t be. Oceans arebiggerthanseas.Yourpondisjustapond.’‘It’s as big as it needs to be,’ said Lettie Hempstock, nettled. She sighed.

‘We’d better get on with sending Ursula whatsername back where she camefrom.’Thenshesaid,‘Idoknowwhatshe’sscaredof.Andyouknowwhat?I’mscaredofthemtoo.’Thekittenwasnowheretobeseenwhenwereturnedtothekitchen,although

the fog-colouredcatwassittingonawindowsill, staringoutat theworld.Thebreakfast thingshadallbeen tidiedupandputaway,andmyredpyjamasandmydressinggown,neatly folded,werewaiting formeon the table, in a largebrownpaperbag,alongwithmygreentoothbrush.‘Youwon’tlethergetme,willyou?’IaskedLettie.Sheshookherhead,and togetherwewalkedup thewinding flinty lane that

led tomyhouseand to the thingwhocalledherselfUrsulaMonkton. Icarriedthebrown-paperbagwithmynightwearinit,andLettiecarriedhertoo-big-for-her raffia shopping bag, filled with broken toys, which she had obtained inexchangeforamandrakethatscreamed,andshadowsdissolvedinvinegar.

Children,asIhavesaid,usebackwaysandhiddentracks,whileadults takeroadsandofficialpaths.Wewentofftheroad,tookashortcutthatLettieknewthatledusthroughsomefields,thenintotheextensiveabandonedgardensofarichman’scrumblinghouse,and thenbackon to the laneagain.WecameoutjustbeforetheplacewhereIhadgoneoverthemetalfence.Lettiesniffedtheair.‘Novarmintsyet,’shesaid.‘That’sgood.’‘Whatarevarmints?’Shesaidonly,‘You’llknow’emwhenyousee’em.AndIhopeyou’llnever

see’em.’‘Arewegoingtosneakin?’‘Whywouldwedothat?We’llgoupthedriveandthroughthefrontdoor,like

gentry.’Westartedupthedrive.Isaid,‘Areyougoingtomakeaspellandsendher

away?’‘Wedon’tdo spells,’ she said.She soundeda littledisappointed toadmit it.

‘We’lldorecipessometimes.Butnospellsorcantrips.Grandoesn’tholdwithnoneofthat.Shesaysit’scommon.’‘Sowhat’sthestuffintheshoppingbagfor,then?’‘It’stostopthingstravellingwhenyoudon’twantthemto.Markboundaries.’Inthemorningsunlight,myhouselookedsowelcomingandfriendly.Warm

redbricks,andaredtileroof.Lettiereachedintotheshoppingbag.Shetookamarblefromit,pusheditintothestill-dampsoil.Then,insteadofgoingintothehouse, she turned left, walking the edge of the property. By Mr Wollery’svegetablepatchwestoppedandshetooksomethingelsefromhershoppingbag:aheadless,leglesspinkdoll-body,withbadlychewedhands.Sheburieditbesidethepeaplants.Wepickedsomepeapods,openedthemandatethepeasinside.Peasbaffled

me.Icouldnotunderstandwhygrown-upswouldtakethingsthattastedsogoodraw,andputthemintins,andmakethemrevolting.Lettieplacedatoywolf,thesmallplastickindyouwouldfindinachildren’s

zoo, or an ark, in the coal shed, beneath a large lump of coal. The coal shedsmelledofdampandblacknessandofold,crushedforests.‘Willthesethingsmakehergoaway?’‘No.’‘Thenwhataretheyfor?’‘Tostophergoingaway.’‘Butwewanthertogoaway.’

‘No.Wewanthertogohome.’Istaredather:athershortbrownhair,hersnubnose,herfreckles.Shelooked

threeor fouryearsolder thanme.Shemighthavebeen threeor four thousandyearsolder,orathousandtimesagain.IwouldhavetrustedhertothegatesofHellandback.Butstill…‘Iwishyou’dexplainproperly,’Isaid.‘Youtalkinmysteriesallthetime.’Iwasnotscared,though,andIcouldnothavetoldyouwhyIwasnotscared.I

trusted Lettie, just as I had trusted her when we had gone in search of theflappingthingbeneaththeorangesky.Ibelievedinher,andthatmeantIwouldcometonoharmwhileIwaswithher.IknewitinthewayIknewthatgrasswasgreen,thatroseshadsharp,woodythorns,thatbreakfastcerealwassweet.Wewentintothehousethroughthefrontdoor.Itwasnotlocked–unlesswe

wentawayonholidays,Idonoteverrememberitbeinglocked–andwewentinside.Mysisterwaspractisingthepianointhefrontroom.Wewentin.Sheheard

thenoise,stoppedplaying‘Chopsticks’andturnedaround.Shelookedatmecuriously.‘Whathappenedlastnight?’sheasked.‘Ithought

youwereintrouble,butthenMummyandDaddycamebackandyouwerejuststaying with your friends. Why would they say you were sleeping at yourfriends’? You don’t have any friends.’ She noticed Lettie Hempstock then.‘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

dropped iton to thescreeof toys thathadaccumulatedbetween thepianoandthebluetoyboxwiththedetachedlid.‘There,’shesaid.‘Nowit’stimetogoandsayhello.’Thefirstfaintstirringsoffearinsidemychest,insidemymind.‘Gouptoher

room,youmean?’‘Yup.’‘What’sshedoingupthere?’‘Stillgivingpeoplemoney,’ saidLettie. ‘Only localpeopleso far.She finds

whattheythinktheyneedandshetriestogiveittothem.She’sdoingittomaketheworldintosomethingshe’llbehappierin.Somewheremorecomfortableforher. Somewhere cleaner. And she doesn’t care so much about giving themmoney,notanymore.Nowwhatshecaresaboutmoreispeoplehurting.’

Aswewentupthestairs,Lettieplacedsomethingoneachstep:aclearglassmarblewitha twistofgreen inside it;oneof the littlemetalobjectswecalledknucklebones; a bead; a pair of bright blue doll’s eyes, connected at the backwithwhite plastic, tomake them open or close; a small horseshoemagnet; ablackpebble;abadge,thekindthatcameattachedtobirthdaycards,withIAmSeven on it; a book ofmatches; a plastic ladybirdwith a blackmagnet in thebase;atoycar,halfsquashed,itswheelsgone;andlastofall,aleadsoldier.Itwasmissingaleg.Wewereat the topof the stairs.Thebedroomdoorwasclosed.Lettie said,

‘Shewon’tputyouin theattic.’Then,withoutknocking,sheopenedthedoor,and she went into the bedroom that had once been mine, and, reluctantly, Ifollowed.UrsulaMonktonwaslyingonthebedwithhereyesclosed.Shewasthefirst

adultwomanwhowasnotmymotherthatIhadseennaked,andIglancedathercuriously.Buttheroomwasmoreinterestingtomethanshewas.It was my old bedroom, but it wasn’t. Not any more. There was the little

yellowhandbasin,justmysize,andthewallswerestillrobin’s-eggblue,astheyhadbeenwhenitwasmine.Butnowstripsofclothhungfromtheceiling,grey,raggedclothstrips,likebandages,someonlyafootlong,othersdanglingalmostallthewaytothefloor.Thewindowwasopenandthewindrustledandpushedthem,sotheyswayed,greyly,anditseemedasifperhapstheroomwasmoving,likeatentorashipatsea.‘Youhavetogonow,’saidLettie.UrsulaMonktonsatuponthebed,andthensheopenedhereyes,whichwere

thesamegreyasthehangingcloths.Shesaid,inavoicethatstillsoundedhalfasleep, ‘Iwonderedwhat Iwouldhave todo tobringyoubothhere,andnowlook,youcame.’‘Youdidn’tbringushere,’Lettiesaid.‘Wecamebecausewewantedto.AndI

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

verysmallchildwhowantedsomething.‘I’veonlyjustgothere.Ihaveahouse,now.Ihavepets–hisfatherisjustthesweetestthing.I’mmakingpeoplehappy.Thereisnothinglikemeanywhereinthiswholeworld.Iwaslooking,justnowwhen you came in. I’m the only one there is. They can’t defend themselves.Theydon’tknowhow.Sothisisthebestplaceinthewholeworld.’She smiled at us both, brightly. She really was pretty, for a grown-up, but

whenyouareseven,beautyisanabstraction,notanimperative.IwonderwhatI

wouldhavedone ifshehadsmiledatmelike thatnow:whetherIwouldhavehandedmymindormyheartormyidentitytoherfortheasking,asmyfatherdid.‘Youthinkthisworld’slikethat,’saidLettie.‘Youthinkit’seasy.Butiten’t.’‘Ofcourseitis.Whatareyousaying?Thatyouandyourfamilywilldefend

thisworldagainstme?You’retheonlyonewhoeverleavesthebordersofyourfarm – and you tried to bind me without knowing my name. Your motherwouldn’thavebeenthatfoolish.I’mnotscaredofyou,littlegirl.’Lettiereacheddeepintotheshoppingbag.Shepulledoutthejamjarwiththe

translucentwormholeinside,andhelditout.‘Here’syourwayback,’shesaid.‘I’mbeingkind,andI’mbeingnice.Trust

me.Takeit.Idon’tthinkyoucangetanynearertohomethantheplacewemetyou,with the orange sky, but that’s far enough. I can’t get you from there towhereyoucamefrominthefirstplace–IaskedGran,andshesaysitisn’teventhereanymore–butonceyou’reback,wecanfindaplaceforyou,somewheresimilar.Somewhereyou’llbehappy.Somewhereyou’llbesafe.’UrsulaMonktongotoffthebed.Shestoodupandlookeddownatus.There

wereno lightningswreathingher,notany longer,but shewas scarier standingnakedinthatbedroomthanshehadbeenfloatinginthestorm.Shewasanadult–no,morethananadult.Shewasold.AndIhaveneverfeltmorelikeachild.‘I’msohappyhere,’shesaid.‘Sovery,veryhappy.’Andthenshesaid,almost

regretfully,‘You’renot.’I heard a sound, a soft, raggedy, flapping sound. The grey cloths began to

detachthemselvesfromtheceiling,onebyone.Theyfell,butnot inastraightline.Theyfelltowardsus,fromallovertheroom,asifweweremagnets,pullingthemtowardsourbodies.Thefirststripofgreyclothlandedonthebackofmylefthand,anditstuckthere. I reachedoutmyrighthandandgrabbedit,andIpulled the cloth off; it adhered, for amoment, and as it pulled off, itmade asucking sound. There was a discoloured patch on the back of my left hand,wheretheclothhadbeen,anditwasasredasifIhadbeensuckingonitforalong,longtime,longerandharderthanIeverhadinreallife,anditwasbeadedwithblood.TherewerepinpricksofredwetnessthatsmearedasItouchedthem,and then a long bandage cloth began to attach itself tomy legs, and Imovedawayasaclothlandedonmyfaceandmyforehead,andanotherwrappeditselfovermyeyes,blindingme,soIpulledattheclothonmyeyes,butnowanotherclothcircledmywrists,bound them together, 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’dkeephimintheattic,sothe

attic itshallbe.Butyou, littlefarmgirl.Whatshall Idowithyou?Somethingappropriate.PerhapsIoughttoturnyouinsideout,soyourheartandbrainsandflesh are all on the outside, and the skin side’s inside. Then I’ll keep youwrapped up in my room here, with your eyes staring forever at the darknessinsideyourself.Icandothat.’‘No,’saidLettie.Shesoundedsad,Ithought.‘Actually,youcan’t.AndIgave

youyourchance.’‘Youthreatenedme.Emptythreats.’‘Iduntmakethreats,’saidLettie.‘Ireallywantedyoutohaveachance.’And

thenshesaid,‘Whenyoulookedaroundtheworldforthingslikeyou,didn’tyouwonder why there weren’t lots of other old things around? No, you neverwondered.Youweresohappyitwasjustyouhere,youneverstoppedtothink.‘Granalwayscallsyoursortofthingfleas,SkarthachoftheKeep.Imean,she

couldcallyouanything.Ithinkshethinksfleasisfunny…Sheduntmindyourkind.She saysyou’reharmless enough. Just abit stupid.That’s ’cos therearethingsthateatfleas,inthispartofcreation.Varmints,Grancallsthem.Sheduntlike them at all. She says they’re mean, and they’re hard to get rid of. Andthey’realwayshungry.’‘I’m not scared,’ said UrsulaMonkton. She sounded scared. And then she

said,‘Howdidyouknowmyname?’‘Went looking for it thismorning.Went looking for other things too. Some

boundarymarkers,tokeepyoufromrunningtoofar,gettingintomoretrouble.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’svoicewasclose tome,and it said, ‘Shewouldhavebeenbetteroff

stayinghereandtakingmeuponmyoffer.’Ifeltherhandstuggingattheclothsonmyface.Theycamefreewithawet,

suckingsound,buttheynolongerfeltalive,andwhentheycameofftheyfellto

thegroundandlaythere,unmoving.Thistimetherewasnobloodbeadedonmyskin.Theworstthingthathadhappenedwasthatmyarmsandlegshadgonetosleep.Lettiehelpedmetomyfeet.Shedidnotlookhappy.‘Wheredidshego?’Iasked.‘She’sfollowedthetrailoutofthehouse.Andshe’sscared.Poorthing.She’s

soscared.’‘You’rescaredtoo.’‘Abit,yes.Rightaboutnowshe’sgoingtofindthatshe’strappedinsidethe

boundsIputdown,Iexpect,’saidLettie.Wewentoutofthebedroom.Wherethetoysoldieratthetopofthestairshad

been,therewasnowarip.That’sthebestIcandescribeit:itwasasifsomeonehad taken a photograph of the stairs and then torn out the soldier from thephotograph.TherewasnothinginthespacewherethesoldierhadbeenbutadimgreynessthathurtmyeyesifIlookedatittoolong.‘What’sshescaredof?’‘Youheard.Varmints.’‘Areyouscaredofvarmints,Lettie?’Shehesitated,justamomenttoolong.Thenshesaidsimply,‘Yes.’‘Butyouaren’tscaredofher.OfUrsula.’‘Ican’tbescaredofher.It’sjustlikeGransays.She’slikeaflea,allpuffedup

withprideandpowerandlust, likeafleabloatedwithblood.Butshecouldn’thavehurtme.I’veseenoffdozenslikeher,inmytime.OneascomethroughinCromwell’sday–nowtherewassomethingtotalkabout.Hemadefolklonely,that one.They’dhurt themselves just tomake the loneliness stop–gougeouttheireyesorjumpdownwells,andallthewhilethatgreatlummockingthingsitsinthecellaroftheDuke’sHead,lookinglikeasquattoadbigasabulldog.’Wewereatthebottomofthestairs,walkingdownthehall.‘Howdoyouknowwhereshewent?’‘Oh,shecouldn’thavegoneanywherebut thewayI laidoutforher.’Inthe

frontroommysisterwasstillplaying‘Chopsticks’onthepiano.

DadaDUMdadadadaDUMdada

dadaDUMdaDUMdaDUMdada…

Wewalkedoutof the frontdoor. ‘Hewasnasty, thatone,back inCromwell’sday.Butwegothimoutoftherejustbeforethehungerbirdscame.’‘Hungerbirds?’‘WhatGrancallsvarmints.Thecleaners.’They didn’t sound bad. I knew that Ursula had been scared of them, but I

wasn’t.Whywouldyoubescaredofcleaners?

WecaughtupwithUrsulaMonktononthelawn,bytherosebushes.Shewasholdingthejamjarwiththedriftingwormholeinsideit.Shelookedstrange.Shetuggedat the lid, and then stoppedand lookedupat the sky.Then she lookedbacktothejamjaroncemore.Sheranovertomybeechtree,theonewiththeropeladder,andshethrewthe

jamjarashardasshecouldagainstthetrunk.Ifshewastryingtobreakit,shefailed.Thejarsimplybouncedoff,andlandedonthemossthathalfcoveredthetangleofroots,andlaythere,undamaged.UrsulaMonktonglaredatLettie.‘Why?’shesaid.‘Youknowwhy,’saidLettie.‘Whywouldyouletthemin?’Shehadstartedtocry,andIfeltuncomfortable.

Ididnotknowwhattodowhenadultscried.ItwassomethingIhadonlyseentwicebeforeinmylife:Ihadseenmygrandparentscry,whenmyaunthaddied,inhospital,andIhadseenmymothercry.Adultsshouldnotweep,Iknew.Theydidnothavemotherswhowouldcomfortthem.Iwondered ifUrsulaMonktonhad everhad amother.Shehadmudonher

face,andonherknees,andshewaswailing.Ihearda sound in thedistance,oddandoutlandish: a low thrumming, as if

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

wantsto.Theyusuallydon’tcomeherebecausethere’snothingforthemtoeat.Now,thereis.’‘Sendmeback,’ saidUrsulaMonkton.Andnow I did not think she looked

evenfaintlyhuman.Herfacewaswrong,somehow:anaccidentalassemblageoffeatures that simply put me in mind of a human face, like the knobbly greywhorlsandlumpsonthesideofmybeechtree,orthepatternsintheheadboardofthebedatmygrandmother’shouse,which,ifIlookedatthemwronglyinthe

moonlight, showed me an old man with his mouth open wide, as if he werescreaming.Lettiepickedupthejamjarfromthegreenmoss,andtwistedthelid.‘You’ve

goneandgot itstucktight,’shesaid.Shewalkedover to therockpath, turnedthejamjarupsidedown,holdingitatthebottom,andbangedit,lidsidedown,once,confidently,against theground.Thenshe turned it the rightsideup,andtwisted.Thistimethelidcameoffinherhand.Shepassedthejamjar toUrsulaMonkton,whoreachedinsideitandpulled

out the translucent thing that hadoncebeen a hole inmy foot. Itwrithed andwiggledandflexedseeminglyindelightathertouch.Shethrewitdown.Itfellontothegrass,anditgrew.Onlyitdidn’tgrow.It

changed:asifitwasclosertomethanIhadthought.Icouldseethroughit,fromoneendtotheother.Icouldhaverundownit,ifthefarendofthattunnelhadnotendedinabitterorangesky.AsIstaredatit,mychesttwingedagain:anice-coldfeeling,asifIhadjust

eatensomuchicecreamthatIhadchilledmyinsides.Ursula Monkton walked towards the tunnel mouth. (How could that be a

tunnel?Icouldnotunderstandit.Itwasstillaglisteningtranslucentsilver-blackwormhole,onthegrass,nomorethanafootorsolong.ItwasasifIhadzoomedinonsomethingsmall,Isuppose.Butitwasstillatunnel,andyoucouldhavetakenahousethroughit.)Thenshestopped,andshewailed.Shesaid,‘Thewayback.’Onlythat.‘Incomplete,’shesaid.‘It’sbroken.The

lastofthegateisn’tthere…’andshelookedaroundher,troubledandpuzzled.Shefocusedonme–notmyface,butmychest.Andshesmiled.Thensheshook.Onemomentshewasanadultwoman,nakedandmuddy,the

next,asifshewasaflesh-colouredumbrella,sheunfurled.Andassheunfurled,shestretchedout,andshegrabbedme,pulledmeupand

highofftheground,andIreachedoutinfearandheldherinmyturn.Iwasholdingflesh.Iwasfifteenfeetormoreabovetheground,ashighasa

tree.Iwasnotholdingflesh.Iwasholdingold fabric, aperished, rottingcanvas, and,beneath it, I could

feelwood.Notgood,solidwood,butthekindofoldwoodI’dfindwheretreeshad crumbled, the kind that always felt wet, that I could pull apart with myfingers,softwoodwithtinybeetlesinit,andwoodlice,allfilledwiththreadlikefungus.

Itcreakedandswayedasitheldme.YOUHAVEBLOCKEDTHEWAYS,itsaidtoLettieHempstock.‘Ineverblockednothing,’Lettiesaid.‘You’vegotmyfriend.Puthimdown.’

Shewasalongwaybeneathme,andIwasscaredofheightsandIwasscaredofthecreaturethatwasholdingme.THEPATHISINCOMPLETE.THEWAYSAREBLOCKED.‘Puthimdown.Now.Safely.’HECOMPLETESTHEPATH.THEPATHISINSIDEHIM.IwascertainthatIwoulddie,then.Ididnotwanttodie.MyparentshadtoldmethatIwouldnotreallydie,not

therealme:thatnobodyreallydied,whentheydied;thatmykittenandtheopalminerhad just takennewbodiesandwouldbebackagain, soonenough. Ididnotknowif itwas trueornot. Iknewonly that Iwasused tobeingme,andIliked my books and my grandparents and Lettie Hempstock, and that deathwouldtakeallthesethingsfromme.IWILLOPENHIM.THEWAYISBROKEN.ITREMAINSINSIDEHIM.Iwouldhavekicked,buttherewasnothingtokickagainst.Ipulledwithmy

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

gaveyouachoicebefore.Sendingyouhomewillbeharderwiththeendofyourtunnelinsidehim.Butwecandoit–andGrancandoitifMumandmecan’t.Soputhimdown.’ITISINSIDEHIM.ITISNOTATUNNEL.NOTANYLONGER.ITISA

DOOR. IT ISAGATE. ITCREPTUPSONOW IT IS INSIDEHIM.ALL INEED TO DO TO GET AWAY FROM HERE IS TO REACH INTO HISCHESTANDPULLOUTHISBEATINGHEARTANDFINISHTHEPATH.It was talking without words, the faceless flapping thing, talking directly

insidemyhead,andyet therewassomethingin itswords thatremindedmeofUrsulaMonkton’spretty,musicalvoice.Iknewitmeantwhatitsaid.‘Allofyourchancesareusedup,’saidLettie,asifsheweretellingusthatthe

skywasblue.Andshe raised two fingers toher lipsand, shrill and sweetandpiercingsharp,shewhistled.Theycame.

Highintheskytheywere,andblack,jetblack,soblackitseemedasiftheywerespecksonmyeyes,notrealthingsatall.Theyhadwings,buttheywerenotbirds. They were older than birds, and they flew in circles and in loops andwhorls,dozensofthem,hundredsperhaps,andeachflappingunbirdslowly,eversoslowly,descended.Ifoundmyselfimaginingavalleyfilledwithdinosaurs,millionsofyearsago,

whohaddiedinbattle,orofdisease;imaginingfirstthecarcassesoftherottingthunderlizards,biggerthanbuses,andthenthevulturesofthataeon:grey-black,naked,wingedbut featherless; faces fromnightmares – beak-like snouts filledwithneedle-sharpteeth,madeforrendingandtearinganddevouring,andhungryred eyes. These creatures would have descended on the corpses of the greatthunderlizardsandleftnothingbutbones.Huge,theywere,andsleek,andancient,andithurtmyeyestolookatthem.‘Now,’saidLettieHempstocktoUrsulaMonkton.‘Puthimdown.’Thethingthatheldmemadenomovetodropme.Itsaidnothing,justmoved

swiftly,likearaggedytallship,acrossthegrasstowardsthetunnel.IcouldseetheangerinLettieHempstock’sface,herfistsclenchedsotightly

theknuckleswerewhite.Icouldseeaboveusthehungerbirdscircling,circling…And then one of them dropped from the sky, dropped faster than themind

couldimagine.Ifeltarushofairbesideme,sawablack,blackjawfilledwithneedles and eyes that burned like gas jets, and I heard a ripping noise, like acurtainbeingtornapart.The flying thing swooped back up into the skywith a length of grey cloth

betweenitsjaws.Iheardavoicewailinginsidemyheadandoutofit,andthevoicewasUrsula

Monkton’s.They descended, then, as if they had all been waiting for the first of their

numbertomove.Theyfellfromtheskyontothethingthatheldme,nightmarestearing at a nightmare, pulling off strips of fabric, and through it all I heardUrsulaMonktoncrying.IONLYGAVETHEMWHATTHEYNEEDED,shewassaying,petulantand

afraid.IMADETHEMHAPPY.‘Youmademydaddyhurtme,’Isaid,asthethingthatwasholdingmeflailed

atthenightmaresthattoreatitsfabric.Thehungerbirdsrippedatit,eachbirdsilently tearing away strips of cloth and flappingheavily back into the sky, towheelanddescendagain.

I NEVER MADE ANY OF THEM DO ANYTHING, it told me. For amomentIthoughtitwaslaughingatme,thenthelaughterbecameascream,soloudithurtmyearsandmymind.Itwasasifthewindleftthetatteredsailsthen,andthethingthatwasholding

mecrumpledslowlytotheground.I hit the grass hard, skinningmy knees and the palms ofmy hands. Lettie

pulledmeup,helpedmeaway from the fallen,crumpled remainsofwhathadoncecalleditselfUrsulaMonkton.Therewas still greycloth,but itwasnot cloth: itwrithedand rolledon the

ground around me, blown by no wind that I could perceive, a squirmingmaggotymess.Theylandedonitlikeseagullsonabeachofstrandedfish,andtheytoreatit

asiftheyhadnoteatenforathousandyearsandneededtostuffthemselvesnow,as it might be another thousand years or longer before they would eat again.Theytoreatthegreystuff,andinmymindIcouldhearitscreamingthewholetimeastheycrammeditsrotting-canvasfleshintotheirsharpmaws.Lettieheldmyarm.Shedidn’tsayanything.Wewaited.Andwhenthescreamingstopped,IknewthatUrsulaMonktonwasgonefor

ever.Once theblackcreatureshad finisheddevouring the thingon thegrass, and

whennothingremained,noteventhetiniestscrapofgreycloth,thentheyturnedtheir attentions to the translucent tunnel, which wiggled and wriggled andtwitchedlikealivingthing.Severalofthemgraspeditintheirclaws,andtheyflew up with it, pulling it into the sky while the rest of them tore at it,demolishingitwiththeirhungrymouths.I thought thatwhen theyfinished it theywouldgoaway, return towherever

theyhadcomefrom,buttheydidnot.Theydescended.Itriedtocountthemastheylanded,andIfailed.Ihadthoughtthattherewerehundredsofthem,butImight have beenwrong.Theremight have been twenty of them.Theremighthave been a thousand. I could not explain it; perhaps theywere from a placewheresuchthingsdidn’tapply,somewhereoutsideoftimeandnumbers.Theylanded,andIstaredatthem,butsawnothingbutshadows.Somanyshadows.Andtheywerestaringatus.Lettie said, ‘You’ve donewhat you came here for.You got your prey.You

cleanedup.Youcangohomenow.’

Theshadowsdidnotmove.Shesaid,‘Go!’The shadowson thegrass stayed exactlywhere theywere. If anything they

seemeddarker,morerealthantheyhadbeenbefore.–Youhavenopoweroverus.‘PerhapsIdon’t,’saidLettie.‘ButIcalledyouhere,andnowI’mtellingyou

togohome.YoudevouredSkarthachof theKeep.You’vedoneyourbusiness.Nowclearoff.’–Wearecleaners.Wecametoclean.‘Yes,andyou’vecleanedthethingyoucamefor.Gohome.’–Noteverything,sighedthewindintherhododendronbushesandtherustle

ofthegrass.Lettie turned to me, and put her arms around me. ‘Come on,’ she said.

‘Quickly.’Wewalkedacrossthelawn,rapidly.‘I’mtakingyoudowntothefairyring,’

shesaid.‘YouhavetowaitthereuntilIcomeandgetyou.Don’tleave.Notforanything.’‘Whynot?’‘Because somethingbadcouldhappen toyou. I don’t think I couldgetyou

backtothefarmhousesafely,andIcan’tfixthisonmyown.Butyou’resafeinthe ring.Whateveryou see,whateveryouhear, don’t leave it. Just staywhereyouareandyou’llbefine.’‘It’snotarealfairyring,’Itoldher.‘That’sjustourgames.It’sagreencircle

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

stayinside.’Shesqueezedmyhand,andwalkedmeintothegreengrasscircle.Thensheranoff,intotherhododendronbushes,andshewasgone.

Theshadowsbegantogatheraroundtheedgesofthecircle.Formlessblotches,onlythere,really there,whenglimpsedfromthecornersofmyeyes.Thatwaswhentheylookedbirdlike.Thatwaswhentheylookedhungry.IhaveneverbeenasfrightenedasIwasinthatgrasscirclewiththedeadtree

in thecentre,on that afternoon.Nobirds sang,no insectshummedorbuzzed.Nothingchanged.Iheardtherustleoftheleavesandthesighofthegrassasthewindpassedoverit,butLettieHempstockwasnotthere,andIheardnovoicesinthebreeze.Therewasnothingtoscaremebutshadows,andtheshadowswerenotevenproperlyvisiblewhenIlookedatthemdirectly.Thesungotlowerinthesky,andtheshadowsblurredintothedusk,became,

ifanything,moreindistinct,sonowIwasnotcertainthatanythingwasthereatall.ButIdidnotleavethegrasscircle.‘Hey!Boy!’I turned.Hewalkedacross the lawn towardsme.Hewasdressedashehad

been the last time Ihad seenhim: adinner jacket, a frillywhite shirt, ablackbowtie.Hisfacewasstillanalarmingcherry-red,asifhehadjustspenttoolongonthebeach,buthishandswerewhite.Helookedlikeawaxwork,notaperson,somethingyouwouldexpecttoseeintheChamberofHorrors.Hegrinnedwhenhesawmelookingathim,andnowhelookedlikeawaxworkthatwassmiling,andIswallowed,andwishedthatthesunwasoutagain.‘Comeon,boy,’saidtheopalminer.‘You’rejustprolongingtheinevitable.’Ididnotsayaword.Iwatchedhim.Hisshinyblackshoeswalkeduptothe

grasscircle,buttheydidnotcrossit.MyheartwaspoundingsohardinmychestIwascertainthathemusthave

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

It’swhat theydo: they’re the carrionkind, thevulturesof thevoid.Their job.

Cleanupthelastremnantsofthemess.Niceandneat.Pullyoufromtheworldanditwillbeasifyouneverexisted.Justgowithit.Itwon’thurt.’Istaredathim.Adultsonlyeversaidthatwhenit,whateverithappenedtobe,

wasgoingtohurtsomuch.Thedeadmaninthedinnerjacketturnedhisheadslowly,untilhisfacewas

lookingatmine.Hiseyeswererolledbackinhishead,andseemedtobestaringblindlyattheskyaboveus,likeasleepwalker.‘She can’t save you, your little friend,’ he said. ‘Your fate was sealed and

decideddaysago,whentheirpreyusedyouasadoorfromitsplacetothisone,andshefastenedherpathinyourheart.’‘Ididn’tstartit!’Itoldthedeadman.‘It’snotfair.Youstartedit.’‘Yes,’saidthedeadman.‘Areyoucoming?’Isatdownwithmybacktothetreeinthecentreofthefairyring,andIclosed

my eyes, and I did notmove. I remembered poems to distractmyself, recitedthemsilentlyundermybreath,mouthingthewordsbutmakingnosound.Furysaid to themouse thathemet in thehouse letusbothgo to lawIwill

prosecuteyou…Ihadlearnedthatpoembyheartatmyschool.Itwastoldbythemousefrom

AliceinWonderland,themouseshemetswimminginthepoolofherowntears.InmycopyofAlice,thewordsofthepoemcurledandshranklikeamouse’stail.Icouldsayallof thepoeminone longbreath,and Idid,all theway to the

inevitableend.I’ll be judge I’ll be jury saidcunningoldFury I’ll try thewholecauseand

condemnyoutodeath.WhenIopenedmyeyesandlookedup,theopalminerwasnolongerthere.The skywas goinggrey and theworldwas losingdepth and flattening into

twilight. If the shadows were still there I could no longer perceive them; orrather,thewholeworldhadbecomeshadows.Mylittlesisterrandownfromthehouse,callingmyname.Shestoppedbefore

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

Ididnotknowifthiswasmysisterornot,butIwasontheinsideofthegrasscircle,andshewasontheoutside.IwishedIhadbroughtabookwithme,eventhoughitwasalmosttoodarkto

read.IsaidtheMouse’spooloftearspoemagain,inmyhead.ComeI’lltakenodenialwemusthaveatrialforreallythismorningI’venothingtodo…‘Where’sUrsula?’ askedmy sister. ‘Shewent up to her room, but she isn’t

thereanymore.She’snotinthekitchenandshe’snotintheloo-lahs.Iwantmytea.I’mhungry.’‘Youcanmakeyourselfsomethingtoeat,’Itoldher.‘You’renotababy.’‘Where’sUrsula?’Shewasrippedtoshredsbyalienvulture-monstersandhonestlyIthinkyou’re

oneofthemorbeingcontrolledbythemorsomething.‘Don’tknow.’‘I’mtellingMummyandDaddywhentheygethomethatyouwerehorribleto

me today.You’llget into trouble.’ Iwondered if thiswasactuallymysisterornot.Itdefinitelysoundedlikeher.Butshedidnottakeastepoverthecircleofgreener grass, into the ring. She stuck her tongue out at me, and ran backtowardsthehouse.Saidthemousetothecursuchatrialdearsirwithnojuryorjudgewouldbe

wastingourbreath…Deep twilit dusk, all colourless and strained.Mosquitoes whined aboutmy

ears and landed, one by one, onmy cheeks andmy hands. I was glad I waswearing Lettie Hempstock’s cousin’s strange old-fashioned clothing then,becauseIhadlessbareskinexposed.Islappedattheinsectsastheylanded,andsomeofthemflewoff.Onethatdidn’tflyaway,gorgingitselfontheinsideofmywrist, burst when I hit it, leaving a smeared teardrop ofmy blood to rundowntheinsideofmyarm.Therewerebatsflyingaboveme.Ilikedbats,alwayshad,butthatnightthere

were so many of them, and they made me think of the hunger birds, and Ishuddered.Twilightbecame,imperceptibly,night,andnowIwassittinginacirclethatI

couldnolongersee,atthebottomofthegarden.Lights,friendlyelectriclights,wentoninthehouse.Ididnotwant tobescaredof thedark.Iwasnotscaredofanyreal thing.I

justdidnotwant tobe thereany longer,waiting in thedarkness formyfriendwhohadrunawayfrommeanddidnotseemtobecomingback.

I’ll be judge I’ll be jury saidcunningoldFury I’ll try thewholecauseandcondemnyoutodeath.IstayedjustwhereIwas.IhadseenUrsulaMonktontorntoshreds,andthe

shreds devoured by scavengers from outside the universe of things that Iunderstood.IfIwentoutofthecircle,Iwascertain,theywoulddothesametome.ImovedfromLewisCarrolltoGilbertandSullivan.When you’re lyingawakewithadismal headacheand repose is taboo’dby

anxiety,Iconceiveyoumayuseanylanguageyouchoosetoindulgeinwithoutimpropriety…Ilovedthesoundofthewords,evenifIwasnotentirelysurewhatallofthem

meant.Ineededtowee.Iturnedmybackonthehouse,tookafewstepsawayfrom

the tree, scared that Iwould takeone step too far and findmyself outside thecircle.Iurinatedintothedarkness.IhadjustfinishedwhenIwasblindedbyatorch beam, and my father’s voice said, ‘What on earth are you doing downhere?’‘I…I’mjustdownhere,’Isaid.‘Yes.Yoursistersaid.Well,timetocomebacktothehouse.Yourdinner’son

thetable.’IstayedwhereIwas.‘No,’Isaid,andshookmyhead.‘Don’tbesilly.’‘I’mnotbeingsilly.I’mstayinghere.’‘Come on.’And then,more cheerful, ‘Come on,HandsomeGeorge.’ It had

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

edgestartingtocreepintohisvoice.‘You’retoobigforthat.’Yes,Ithought.Andyou’dhavetocrossintothefairyringtopickmeup.Butthefairyringseemedfoolishnow.Thiswasmyfather,notsomewaxwork

thingthatthehungerbirdshadmadetoluremeout.Itwasnight.Myfatherhadcomehomefromwork.Itwastime.Isaid,‘UrsulaMonkton’sgoneaway.Andshe’snotevercomingback.’Hesoundedirritated,then.‘Whatdidyoudo?Didyousaysomethinghorrible

toher?Wereyourude?’

‘No.’He shone the torchbeamon tomy face.The lightwas almostblinding.He

seemedtobefightingtokeephistemperundercontrol.Hesaid,‘Tellmewhatyousaidtoher.’‘Ididn’tsayanythingtoher.Shejustwentaway.’Itwastrue,oralmost.‘Comebacktothehouse,now.’‘Please,Daddy.Ihavetostayhere.’‘Youcomebacktothehousethisminute!’shoutedmyfather,atthetopofhis

voice,andIcouldnothelpit:mylowerlipshook,mynosestartedtorun,andtearssprangtomyeyes.Thetearsblurredmyvisionandstung,buttheydidnotfall,andIblinkedthemaway.IdidnotknowifIwastalkingtomyownfatherornot.Isaid,‘Idon’tlikeitwhenyoushoutatme.’‘Well,Idon’tlikeitwhenyouactlikealittleanimal!’heshouted,andnowI

wascrying,andthetearswererunningdownmyface,andIwishedthatIwasanywhereelsebuttherethatnight.Ihadstooduptoworsethingsthanhiminthelastfewhours.Andsuddenly,I

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

lookedshocked.Heopenedhismouthtospeak,thenhecloseditagain.Icouldnot remembermy father ever being at a loss forwords, before or after. Onlythen.Ifeltterrible.Ithought,Iwilldieheresoon.Idonotwanttodiewiththosewordsonmylips.Butthetorchbeamwasturningawayfromme.Myfathersaidonly,‘We’llbe

upatthehouse.I’llputyourdinnerintheoven.’Iwatchedthetorchlightmovebackacrossthelawn,pasttherosebushesand

uptowards thehouse,until itwentout,andwas lost tosight. Iheard thebackdooropenandcloseagain.Thenyouget somerepose in the formofadozewithhoteyeballsandhead

ever aching, but your slumbering teemswith such horrible dreams that you’dverymuchbetterbewaking…Somebodylaughed.Istoppedsinging,andlookedaround,butsawnobody.‘“TheNightmareSong”,’avoicesaid.‘Howappropriate.’

Shewalkedcloser,until Icouldseeher face.Shewasstillquitenaked,andshewassmiling.Ihadseenhertorntopiecesafewhoursbefore,butnowshewaswhole.Evenso,shelookedlesssolidthananyoftheotherpeopleIhadseenthatnight;Icouldseethelightsofthehouseglimmeringbehindher,throughher.Hersmilehadnotchanged.‘You’redead,’Itoldher.‘Yes.Iwaseaten,’saidUrsulaMonkton.‘You’redead.Youaren’treal.’‘Iwaseaten,’sherepeated.‘Iamnothing.Andtheyhaveletmeout,justfora

littlewhile, fromtheplace inside them.It’scold in there,andveryempty.Buttheyhavepromisedyoutome,soIwillhavesomethingtoplaywith;somethingtokeepmecompanyinthedark.Andafteryouhavebeeneaten,youtoowillbenothing.Butwhatever remainsof thatnothingwillbemine tokeep,eatenandtogether,mytoyandmydistraction,untiltheendoftime.We’llhavesuchfun.’Aghost of a handwas raised, and it touched the smile, and it blewme the

ghostofUrsulaMonkton’skiss.‘I’llbewaitingforyou,’itsaid.Arustleintherhododendronsbehindmeandavoice,cheerfulandfemaleand

young,saying,‘It’sokay.Granfixedit.Everything’stakencareof.Comeon.’Themoon was visible now above the azalea bush, a bright crescent like a

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

stretchedandsheshook,andshewasonlyanothershadow:ashadowthatfilledthenight.‘You are hungry,’ said the voice in the night, and it was no longer Lettie’s

voice,notanylonger. Itmighthavebeenthevoice insidemyownhead,but itwasspeakingaloud.‘Youaretired.Yourfamilyhatesyou.Youhavenofriends.AndLettieHempstock,Iregrettotellyou,isnevercomingback.’Iwished Icouldhaveseenwhowas talking. Ifyouhavesomething to fear,

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

circleandcome tous.Onestep is all itwill take. Justputone footacross thethresholdandwewillmakeallthepaingoawayforever:thepainyoufeelnowandthepainthatisstilltocome.Itwillneverhappen.’

Itwasnotonevoice,notanylonger.Itwastwopeopletalkinginunison.Orahundredpeople.Icouldnottell.Somanyvoices.‘How can you be happy in thisworld?You have a hole in your heart.You

haveagatewayinsideyoutolandsbeyondtheworldyouknow.Theywillcallyou,asyougrow.Therecanneverbea timewhenyouforget them,whenyouarenot,inyourheart,questingaftersomethingyoucannothave,somethingyoucannotevenproperlyimagine,thelackofwhichwillspoilyoursleepandyourdayandyourlife,untilyoucloseyoureyesforthefinaltime,untilyourlovedonesgiveyoupoisonandsellyoutoanatomy,andeventhenyouwilldiewithahole inside you, and youwillwail and curse at a life ill-lived.But youwon’tgrow.Youcancomeout,andwewillendit,cleanly,oryoucandieinthere,ofhungerandoffear.Andwhenyouaredead,yourcirclewillmeannothing,andwewilltearoutyourheartandtakeyoursoulforakeepsake.’‘P’raps it will be like that,’ I said, to the darkness and the shadows, ‘and

p’rapsitwon’t.Andp’rapsifitis,itwouldhavebeenlikethatanyway.Idon’tcare.I’mstillgoingtowaithereforLettieHempstock,andshe’sgoingtocomebacktome.AndifIdiehere,thenIstilldiewaitingforher,andthat’sabetterwaytogothanyouandallyoustupidhorriblethingstearingmetobitsbecauseI’vegotsomethinginsidemethatIdon’tevenwant!’Therewassilence.Theshadowsseemedtohavebecomepartofthenightonce

again.IthoughtoverwhatI’dsaid,andIknewthatitwastrue.Atthatmoment,for once in my childhood, I was not scared of the dark, and Iwas perfectlywilling todie (aswillingasanyseven-year-old,certainofhis immortality,canbe)ifIdiedwaitingforLettie.Becauseshewasmyfriend.Timepassed.Iwaitedforthenighttobegintotalktomeagain,forpeopleto

come, for all the ghosts andmonsters ofmy imagination to stand beyond thecircleandcallmeout,butnothingmorehappened.Notthen.Isimplywaited.Themoonrosehigher.Myeyeshadadjustedtothedarkness.Isang,undermy

breath,mouthingthewordsoverandover.

You’rearegularwreckwithacrickinyourneckandnowonderyousnoreforyourhead’sonthefloorandyou’veneedlesandpinsfromyoursoletoyourshinsandyourfleshisa-creepforyourleftleg’sasleepandyou’vecrampinyourtoesandaflyonyournoseyou’vegotfluffinyourlungandafeverishtongue

andathirstthat’sintenseandageneralsensethatyouhaven’tbeensleepinginclover…

Isangittomyself,thewholesong,allthewaythrough,twoorthreetimes,andIwasrelievedthatIrememberedthewords,evenifIdidnotalwaysunderstandthem.

When Lettie arrived, the real Lettie, this time, she was carrying a bucket ofwater.Itmusthavebeenheavyjudgingfromthewayshecarriedit.Shesteppedover where the edge of the ring in the grass must have been and she camestraighttome.‘Sorry,’ she said. ‘That took a lot longer than I expected. It didn’t want to

cooperate,neither,andintheendittookmeandGrantodoit,andshedidmostoftheheavylifting.Itwasn’tgoingtoarguewithher,butitdidn’thelp,andit’snoteasy…’‘What?’Iasked.‘Whatareyoutalkingabout?’Sheputthemetalbucketdownonthegrassbesidemewithoutspillingadrop.

‘Theocean,’shesaid.‘Itdidn’twanttogo.ItgaveGransuchastrugglethatshesaidshewasgoingtohavetogoandhavealie-downafterwards.Butwestillgotitintothebucketintheend.’Thewater in thebucketwasglowing,emittingagreenish-bluelight.Icould

seeLettie’s faceby it. I could see thewavesand rippleson the surfaceof thewater,watchthemcrestandsplashagainstthesideofthebucket.‘Idon’tunderstand.’‘Icouldn’tgetyoutotheocean,’shesaid.‘Buttherewasnothingstoppingme

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

longer.Wereyouscared,uphereonyourown?’‘Yes.’‘Didtheytryandgetyououtofthecircle?’‘Yes.’Shetookmyhandsinhers,then,andsqueezedthem.‘Butyoustayedwhere

youweremeanttobe,andyoudidn’tlistentothem.Welldone.That’squality,

thatis,’andshesoundedproud.InthatmomentIforgotmyhungerandIforgotmyfear.‘WhatdoIdonow?’Iaskedher.‘Now,’shesaid,‘youstepintothebucket.Youdon’thavetotakeyourshoes

offoranything.Juststepin.’Itdidnotevenseemastrange request.She letgoofoneofmyhands,kept

holdoftheother.Ithought,Iwillneverletgoofyourhand,notunlessyoutellmeto.Iputonefootintotheglimmeringwater,raisingthewaterlevelalmosttotheedge.Myfootrestedonthe tinfloorof thebucket.Thewaterwascoolonmyfoot,notcold. Iput theother foot into thewaterand Iwentdownwith it,down like amarble statue, and thewavesofLettieHempstock’s ocean closedovermyhead.I felt thesameshockyouwouldfeel ifyouhadsteppedbackwards,without

looking,andhadfallen intoaswimmingpool. Iclosedmyeyesat thewater’sstingandkeptthemtightlyshut,sotightly.I couldnot swim. Ididnotknowwhere Iwas,orwhatwashappening,but

evenunderthewaterIcouldfeelthatLettiewasstillholdingmyhand.Iwasholdingmybreath.IheldituntilIcouldholditnolonger,andthenIgulpedabreathin,expecting

tochoke,tosplutter,todie.Ididnotchoke.Ifeltthecoldnessofthewater–ifitwaswater–pourintomy

noseandmythroat,feltitfillmylungs,butthatwasallitdid.Itdidnothurtme.Ithought,thisisthekindofwateryoucanbreathe.Ithought,perhapsthereis

justasecrettobreathingwater,somethingsimplethateveryonecoulddo,ifonlytheyknew.ThatwaswhatIthought.ThatwasthefirstthingIthought.The second thing I thoughtwas that I kneweverything.LettieHempstock’s

ocean flowed insideme, and it filled the entire universe, fromEgg toRose. Iknew that. I knewwhatEggwas–where theuniversebegan, to the soundofuncreatedvoicessinginginthevoid–andIknewwhereRosewas–thepeculiarcrinklingofspaceonspaceintodimensionsthatfoldlikeorigamiandblossomlike strange orchids, and which would mark the last good time before theeventualendofeverythingandthenextBigBang,whichwouldbe,Iknewnow,nothingofthekind.IknewthatOldMrsHempstockwouldbehereforthatone,asshehadbeen

forthelast.

IsawtheworldIhadwalkedsincemybirthandIunderstoodhowfragileitwas, that the reality I knewwas a thin layerof icingon agreat darkbirthdaycake writhing with grubs and nightmares and hunger. I saw the world fromaboveandbelow.Isawthattherewerepatternsandgatesandpathsbeyondthereal. Isawall these thingsandunderstoodthemand theyfilledme, justas thewatersoftheoceanfilledme.Everythingwhisperedinsideme.Everythingspoketoeverything,andIknew

itall.Iopenedmyeyes,curioustolearnwhatIwouldseeintheworldoutsideme,

ifitwouldbeanythingliketheworldinside.Iwashangingdeepbeneaththewater.Ilookeddown,andtheblueworldbelowmerecededintodarkness.Ilooked

upandtheworldabovemedidthesame.Nothingwaspullingmedowndeeper,nothingwasforcingmetowardsthesurface.And then I turned my head, a little, to look at her, because she was still

holdingmyhand,shehadneverletgoofmyhand,andIsawLettieHempstock.Atfirst,IdonotthinkIknewwhatIwaslookingat.Icouldmakenosenseof

it.WhereUrsulaMonktonhadbeenmadeofgreycloththatflappedandsnappedandgustedinthestormwinds,LettieHempstockwasmadeofsilkensheets,thecolourofice,filledwithtinyflickeringcandleflames,ahundredhundredcandleflames.Could therebecandle flamesburningunder thewater?Therecould. Iknew

that,when Iwas in the ocean, and I evenknewhow. I understood it just as IunderstoodDarkMatter, thematerialof theuniverse thatmakesupeverythingthat must be there but we cannot find. I found myself thinking of an oceanrunningbeneaththewholeuniverse,likethedarkseawaterthatlapsbeneaththewoodenboardsofanoldpier:anoceanthatstretchesfromforevertoforeverandis still smallenough to fit insideabucket, ifyouhaveOldMrsHempstock tohelpyou,andyouasknicely.LettieHempstocklookedlikepalesilkandcandleflames.IwonderedhowI

lookedtoher,inthatplace,andknewthateveninaplacethatwasnothingbutknowledge, thatwas theone thingIcouldnotknow.That if I looked inwardIwouldseeonlyinfinitemirrors,staringintomyselfforeternity.The silk filledwith candle flamesmoved then, a slow, graceful, under-the-

watersortofamovement.Thecurrentpulledatit,andnowithadarmsandthehand that had never let go ofmine, and a body and a freckled face that was

familiar,anditopeneditsmouthand,inLettieHempstock’svoice,itsaid,‘I’mreallysorry.’‘Whatfor?’Shedidnotreply.Thecurrentsoftheoceanpulledatmyhairandmyclothes

likesummerbreezes.IwasnolongercoldandIkneweverythingandIwasnothungryandthewholebig,complicatedworldwassimpleandgraspableandeasyto unlock. I would stay here for the rest of time in the ocean which was theuniversewhichwasthesoulwhichwasallthatmattered.Iwouldstayhereforever.‘Youcan’t,’saidLettie.‘Itwoulddestroyyou.’I openedmymouth to tell her that nothing could killme, not now, but she

said,‘Notkillyou.Destroyyou.Dissolveyou.Youwouldn’tdieinhere,nothingeverdiesinhere,butifyoustayedherefortoolong,justalittleofyouwouldexisteverywhere,allspreadout.Andthat’snotagoodthing.Neverenoughofyoualltogetherinoneplace,sotherewouldn’tbeanythingleftthatwouldthinkof itself as an “I”.No point of view any longer, because you’d be an infinitesequenceofviewsandofpoints…’Iwas going to arguewith her. Shewaswrong, she had to be; I loved that

place,thatstate,thatfeeling,andIwasnevergoingtoleaveit.Andthenmyheadbrokewater,andIblinkedandcoughed,andIwasstanding

thigh deep in the pond at the back of the Hempstocks’ farm, and LettieHempstockwasstandingbesideme,holdingmyhand.Icoughedagain,anditfeltlikethewaterfledmynose,mythroat,mylungs.I

pulled clean air intomychest, in the lightof thehuge, full harvestmoon thatshoneontheHempstocks’red-tiledroof,andforonefinalperfectmoment,Istillkneweverything:IrememberthatIknewhowtomakeitsothemoonwouldbefullwhenyouneededittobe,andshiningjustonthebackofthehouse,everynight.Ikneweverything,butLettieHempstockwaspullingmeupoutofthepond.I was still wearing the strange old-fashioned clothes I had been given that

morning, and as I stepped out of the pond, up on to the grass that edged it, Idiscoveredthatmyclothesandmyskinwerenowperfectlydry.Theoceanwasbackinthepond,andalltheknowledgeIwasleftwith,asifIhadwokenfromadreamonasummer’sday,wasthatithadnotbeenlongagosinceIhadknowneverything.IlookedatLettieinthemoonlight.‘Isthathowitisforyou?’Iasked.‘Iswhathowitisforme?’

‘Doyoustillknoweverything,allthetime?’She shook her head. She didn’t smile. She said, ‘Be boring, knowing

everything. You have to give all that stuff up if you’re going to muck abouthere.’‘Soyouusedtoknoweverything?’She wrinkled her nose. ‘Everybody did. I told you. It’s nothing special,

knowinghowthingswork.Andyoureallydohavetogiveitallupifyouwanttoplay.’‘Toplaywhat?’‘This,’shesaid.Shewavedat thehouseand theskyand the impossiblefull

moonandtheskeinsandshawlsandclustersofbrightstars.IwishedIknewwhatshemeant.Itwasasifshewastalkingaboutadreamwe

hadshared.ForamomentitwassocloseinmymindthatIcouldalmosttouchit.‘Youmustbesohungry,’saidLettie,andthemomentwasbroken,andyes,I

was so hungry, and the hunger took my head and swallowed my lingeringdreams.Therewasaplateinmyplaceatthetableinthefarmhouse’shugekitchen.On

it was a portion of shepherd’s pie, themashed potato a crusty brown on top,mincedmeat andvegetablesandgravybeneath it. Iwas scaredof eating foodoutsidemyhome,scared that Imightwant to leave food Ididnot likeandbetoldoff,orbeforcedtositandeatitinminusculeportionsuntilitwasgone,asIwas at school, but the food at theHempstocks’was always perfect. It did notscareme.Ginnie Hempstock was there, bustling about in her apron, rounded and

welcoming.Iatewithouttalking,headdown,shovellingthewelcomefoodintomymouth.Thewomanandthegirlspokeinlow,urgenttones.‘They’ll be here soon enough,’ said Lettie. ‘They aren’t stupid. And they

won’tleaveuntilthey’vetakenthelastlittlebitofwhattheycameherefor.’Hermothersniffed.Herredcheekswereflushedfromtheheatofthekitchen

fire.‘Stuffandnonsense,’shesaid.‘They’reallmouth,theyare.’Ihadneverheardthatexpressionbefore,andIthoughtshewastellingusthat

thecreatureswere justmouthsandnothingmore. Itdidnotseemunlikely thattheshadowswereindeedallmouths.IhadseenthemdevourthegreythingthathadcalleditselfUrsulaMonkton.Mymother’smother would tell me off for eating like a wild animal. ‘You

must essen, eat,’ she would say, ‘like a person, not a chazzer, a pig. When

animalseat, they fress.Peopleessen.Eat likeaperson.’Fressen: thatwashowthehungerbirdshadtakenUrsulaMonkton,anditwasalso,Ihadnodoubt,howtheywouldconsumeme.‘I’veneverseensomanyofthem,’saidLettie.‘Whentheycamehereinthe

olddays,therewasonlyahandfulofthem.’Ginnie pouredme a glass ofwater. ‘That’s your own fault,’ she toldLettie.

‘Youput up signals, and called them.Likebanging thedinnerbell, youwere.Notsurprisingtheyallcame.’‘Ijustwantedtomakesurethatsheleft,’saidLettie.‘Her kind. They’re like chickenswho get out of the hen-house, and are so

proudof themselves and sopuffedup forbeing able to eat all thewormsandbeetlesandcaterpillarstheywantthattheyneverthinkaboutfoxes,’saidGinnie.‘Anyway,nowwe’vegotfoxes.Andwe’llsendthemallhome,sameaswedidthelasttimestheyweresniffingaround.Wediditbefore,didn’twe?’‘Notreally,’saidLettie.‘Eitherwesent thefleahome,andthevarmintshad

nothingtohangaroundfor,likethefleainthecellarinCromwell’stime,ortheycameand tookwhat theycamehere forand then theywentaway.Like thefatfleawhomadepeople’sdreamscome true inRedRufus’sday.They tookhimandtheyuppedandleft.We’veneverhadtogetridofthembefore.’Hermother shrugged. ‘It’s all the same sort of thing.We’ll just send them

backwheretheycamefrom.’‘Andwheredotheycomefrom?’askedLettie.Ihadsloweddownnow,andwasmakingthefinalfragmentsofmyshepherd’s

pielastaslongasIcould,proddingthemaroundtheplateslowlywithmyfork.‘Thatduntmatter,’saidGinnie.‘Theyallgobackeventually.Probablyjustget

boredofwaiting.’‘Itriedpushingthem,’saidLettieHempstock,matter-of-factly.‘Couldn’tget

anytraction.Iheldthemwithadomeofprotection,butthatwouldn’thavelastedmuch longer.We’re good here – nothing’s coming into this farmwithout oursay-so.’‘Inorout,’saidGinnie.Sheremovedmyemptyplate,replaceditwithabowl

containingasteamingsliceofspotteddickwiththickyellowcustarddrizzledalloverit.Iateitwithjoy.Idonotmisschildhood,but Imiss theway I tookpleasure in small things,

evenasgreaterthingscrumbled.IcouldnotcontroltheworldIwasin,couldnotwalk away from things or people ormoments that hurt, but I took joy in the

thingsthatmademehappy.Thecustardwassweetandcreamyinmymouth,thedark swollen currants in the spotted dickwere tangy in the cake-thick chewyblandnessofthepudding,andperhapsIwasgoingtodiethatnightandperhapsIwouldnevergohomeagain,butitwasagooddinner,andIhadfaithinLettieHempstock.The world outside the kitchen was still waiting. The Hempstocks’ fog-

colouredhousecat–IdonotbelieveIeverknewhername–paddedthroughthekitchen.Thatremindedme…‘MrsHempstock?Isthekittenstillhere?Theblackonewiththewhiteear?’‘Not tonight,’ saidGinnieHempstock. ‘She’soutandabout.Shewasasleep

onthechairinthehallallthisafternoon.’IwishedIcouldstrokehersoftfur.Iwanted,Irealised,tosaygoodbye.‘Um. I suppose. If Ido.Have to die. Tonight,’ I started, haltingly, not sure

whereIwasgoing.Iwasgoingtoaskforsomething,Iimagine–forthemtosaygoodbye tomymummyand daddy, or to tellmy sister that itwasn’t fair thatnothing bad ever happened to her; that her life was charmed and safe andprotected,whileIwasforeverstumblingintodisaster.Butnothingseemedright,andIwasrelievedwhenGinnieinterruptedme.‘Nobody isgoing todie tonight,’ she said, firmly.She tookmyemptybowl

andwasheditoutinthesink,thenshedriedherhandsonherapron.Shetooktheapronoff,wentoutintothehallwayandreturnedafewmomentslaterwearingaplainbrowncoatandapairoflargedarkgreenwellingtonboots.Lettie seemed less confident than Ginnie. But Lettie, with all her age and

wisdom,wasagirl,whileGinniewasanadult,andherconfidencereassuredme.Ihadfaithinthemboth.‘Where’sOldMrsHempstock?’Iasked.‘Havingalie-down,’saidGinnie.‘She’snotasyoungassheusedtobe.’‘Howoldisshe?’Iasked,notexpectingtogetananswer.Ginniejustsmiled,

andLettieshrugged.IheldLettie’shandasweleftthefarmhouse,promisingmyselfthatthistimeI

wouldnotletitgo.

WhenIenteredthefarmhouse,throughthebackdoor,themoonhadbeenfull,anditwasaperfectsummer’snight.WhenIleft,IwentwithLettieHempstockandhermotheroutof the frontdoor,and themoonwasacurvedwhitesmile,high in a cloudy sky, and the nightwas gustywith sudden, undecided springbreezescomingfirstfromonedirectionthenfromanother;everynowandagaina gust of wind would contain a sprinkling of rain that never amounted toanythingmorethanthat.Wewalkedthroughthemanure-stinkingfarmyardandupthelane.Wepassed

abend in theroad.Althoughitwasdark, Iknewexactlywherewewere.Thiswaswhereithadallbegun.Itwasthecornerwheretheopalminerhadparkedmyfamily’swhiteMini,theplacehehaddiedallalone,withafacethecolourofpomegranatejuice,achingforhislostmoney,ontheedgeoftheHempstocklandwherethebarriersbetweenlifeanddeathwerethin.Isaid,‘IthinkweshouldwakeupOldMrsHempstock.’‘Itdoesn’twork like that,’saidLettie. ‘Whenshegets tired,shesleepsuntil

shewakesup,onherown.Afewminutesorahundredyears.There’snowakingher.Mightaswelltryandwakeupanatombomb.’GinnieHempstockstopped,andsheplantedherselfinthemiddleofthelane,

facingawayfromthefarmhouse.‘Right!’sheshoutedtothenight.‘Let’sbehavingyou.’Nothing.Awetwindthatgustedandwasgone.Lettiesaid,‘P’rapsthey’veallgonehome…’‘Beniceiftheyhad,’saidGinnie.‘Allthispalaverandnonsense.’Ifeltguilty.Itwas,Iknew,myfault.IfIhadkeptholdofLettie’shand,none

of thiswould have happened.UrsulaMonkton, the hunger birds, these thingswere undoubtedly my responsibility. Even what had happened – or now hadperhapsnolongerhappened–inthecoldbath,thepreviousnight.Ihadathought.

‘Can’tyoujustsnipitout?Thethinginmyheart,thattheywant?Maybeyoucouldsnipitoutlikeyourgrannysnippedthingslastnight?’Lettiesqueezedmyhandinthedark.‘MaybeGrancoulddo that if shewashere,’ shesaid. ‘Ican’t. Idon’t think

Mumcouldeither.It’sreallyhard,snippingthingsoutoftime:youhavetomakesure that theedgesall lineup,andevenGrandoesn’talwaysget it right.Andthiswouldbeharder than that. It’s a real thing. Idon’t thinkevenGrancouldtakeitoutofyouwithouthurtingyourheart.Andyouneedyourheart.’Thenshesaid.‘They’recoming.’ButIknewsomethingwashappening,knewitbeforeshesaidanything.For

thesecondtimeIsawthegroundbegintoglowgolden;Iwatchedthetreesandthegrass,thehedgerowsandthewillowclumpsandthelaststraydaffodilsbeginto shine with a burnished half-light. I looked around, half fearful, half withwonder,andIobservedthatthelightwasbrightestbehindthehouseandovertothewest,wherethepondwas.Iheardthebeatingofmightywings,andaseriesoflowthumps.IturnedandI

sawthem:thevulturesofthevoid,thecarrionkind,thehungerbirds.Theywerenotshadowsanylonger,nothere,notinthisplace.Theywereall

too real, and they landed in the darkness, just beyond the golden glow of theground.Theylandedintheairandintrees,andtheyshuffledforward,ascloseastheycouldgettothegoldengroundoftheHempstocks’farm.Theywerehuge–eachofthemwasmuchbiggerthanIwas.Iwould have been hard pressed to describe their faces, though. I could see

them, lookat them, take inevery feature,but themoment I lookedaway, theyweregone,andtherewasnothinginmymindwherethehungerbirdshadbeenbut tearing beaks and talons, or wriggling tentacles, or hairy, chitinousmandibles.Icouldnotkeeptheirtruefacesinmyhead.WhenIturnedaway,theonlyknowledge I retainedwas that theyhadbeen lookingdirectly atme, andthattheywereravenous.‘Right,myproudbeauties,’ saidGinnieHempstock, loudly.Herhandswere

onthehipsofherbrowncoat.‘Youcan’tstayhere.Youknowthat.Timetogetamoveon.’Andthenshesaidsimply,‘Hopit.’Theyshiftedbut theydidnotmove, the innumerablehungerbirds,and they

begantomakeanoise.Ithoughtthattheywerewhisperingamongstthemselves,and then it seemed to me that the noise they were making was an amusedchuckling.

I heard their voices, distinct but twining together, so I could not tellwhichcreaturewasspeaking.–Wearehungerbirds.Wehavedevouredpalacesandworldsandkingsand

stars.Wecanstaywhereverwewishtostay.–Weperformourfunction.–Wearenecessary.And they laughed so loudly it sounded like a train approaching. I squeezed

Lettie’shand,andshesqueezedmine.–Giveustheboy.Ginniesaid,‘You’rewastingyourtime,andyou’rewastingmine.Gohome.’–Weweresummonedhere.Wedonotneedtoleaveuntilwehavedonewhat

wecameherefor.Werestorethingstothewaytheyaremeanttobe.Wouldyoudepriveusofourfunction?‘’Course I will,’ said Ginnie. ‘You’ve had your dinner. Now you’re just

makingnuisancesofyourselves.Beoffwithyou.Blinkingvarmints.Iwouldn’tgivetuppenceha’pennyforthelotofyou.Gohome!’andsheshookherhandinaflickinggesture.Oneofthecreaturesletoutalong,wailingscreamofappetiteandfrustration.Lettie’sholdonmyhandwasfirm.Shesaid,‘He’sunderourprotection.He’s

onourland.Andonestepontoourlandandthat’stheendofyou.Sogoaway.’Thecreaturesseemedtohuddlecloser.TherewassilenceintheSussexnight:

onlytherustleofleavesinthewind,onlythecallofadistantowl,onlythesighof the breeze as it passed; but in that silence I could hear the hunger birdsconferring,weighinguptheiroptions,plottingtheircourse.AndinthatsilenceIfelttheireyesuponme.Somethinginatreeflappeditshugewingsandcriedout,ashriekthatmingled

triumphanddelight,anaffirmativeshoutofhungerandjoy.Ifeltsomethinginmychestreacttothescream,likethetiniestsplinteroficeinsidemyheart.–Wecannotcrosstheborder.Thisistrue.Wecannottakethechildfromyour

land.Thisalsoistrue.Wecannothurtyourfarmoryourcreatures…‘That’sright.Youcan’t.Sogetalongwithyou!Gohome.Haven’tyougota

wartobegettingbackto?’–Wecannothurtyourworld,true.–Butwecanhurtthisone.Oneofthehungerbirdsreachedasharpbeakdowntothegroundatitsfeet,

andbegan to tearat it–notasacreature thateatsearthandgrass,butas if itwereeatingacurtainorapieceofscenerywiththeworldpaintedonit.Whereit

devoured the grass, nothing remained – a perfect nothing, only a colour thatremindedmeofgrey,butaformless,pulsinggreyliketheshiftingstaticofourtelevision screenwhenyoudislodged the aerial cord and thepicturehadgonecompletely.Thiswasthevoid.Notblackness,notnothingness.Thiswaswhatlaybeneath

thethinlypaintedscrimofreality.Andthehungerbirdsbegantoflapandtoflock.Theylandedonahugeoaktreeandtheytoreat itandtheywolfeditdown,

andinmomentsthetreewasgone,alongwitheverythingthathadbeenbehindit.Afoxslippedoutofahedgerowandslunkdownthelane,itseyesandmask

andbrush illuminatedgoldenby the farm light.Before ithadmade ithalfwayacross the road, it had been ripped from the world, and there was only voidbehindit.Lettiesaid,‘Whathesaidbefore.WehavetowakeGran.’‘Shewon’tlikethat,’saidGinnie.‘Mightaswelltryandwakea—’‘Dunt matter. If we can’t wake her up, they’ll destroy the whole of this

creation.’Ginniesaidonly,‘Idon’tknowhow.’Aclumpofhungerbirdsflewuptoapatchofthenightskywherestarscould

be seen through the breaks in the clouds, and they tore at a kite-shapedconstellation I could never have named, and they scratched and they rent andthey gulped and they swallowed. In a handful of heartbeats, where theconstellationandskyhadbeen, therewasnowonlyapulsingnothingness thathurtmyeyesifIlookedatitdirectly.Iwas a normal child.Which is to say, Iwas selfish and Iwas not entirely

convincedoftheexistenceofthingsthatwerenotme,andIwascertain,rock-solid,unshakeablycertain,thatIwasthemostimportantthingincreation.TherewasnothingthatwasmoreimportanttomethanIwas.Evenso,IunderstoodwhatIwasseeing.Thehungerbirdswould–no,they

wererippingtheworldaway,tearingitintonothing.Soonenough,therewouldbenoworld.Mymother,myfather,mysister,myhouse,myschoolfriends,mytown, my grandparents, London, the Natural History Museum, France,television,books,ancientEgypt–becauseofme,allthesethingswouldbegone,andtherewouldbenothingintheirplace.Ididnotwanttodie.Morethanthat,IdidnotwanttodieasUrsulaMonkton

had died, beneath the rending talons and beaks of things thatmight not evenhavehadlegsorfaces.Ididnotwanttodieatall.Understandthat.

IletgoofLettieHempstock’shandandIran,asfastasIcould,knowingthattohesitate,even toslowdown,wouldbe tochangemymind,whichwouldbethewrongthing,whichwouldbetosavemylife.Howfardid I run?Not far, I suppose,as these thingsgo.LettieHempstock

was shoutingatme to stop,but still I ran, crossing the farmland,where everyblade of grass, every pebble on the lane, every willow tree and hazel hedgeglowed golden, and I ran towards the darkness. I ran and I hated myself forrunning,asIhadhatedmyselfthetimeIhadjumpedfromthehighboardattheswimmingpool,knowing therewasnogoingback, that therewasnoway thatthiscouldendinanythingbutpain.Theytookoffintotheair,thehungerbirds,asIrantowardsthem,aspigeons

willrisewhenyourunatthem.Iknewtheywerecircling.I stood there in thedarknessand Iwaited for them todescend. Iwaited for

theirbeakstotearatmychest,forthemtodevourmyheart.Istoodthereforperhapstwoheartbeats,anditfeltlikeforever.Ithappened.Somethingslammedintomefrombehindandknockedmedown

intothemudonthesideofthelane,facefirst.Isawburstsoflightthatwerenotthere.Thegroundhitmystomach,andthewindwasknockedoutofme.(Aghostmemoryriseshere:aphantommoment,ashakyreflectioninthepool

ofremembrance.Iknowhowitwouldhavefeltwhentheytookmyheart.Howit felt as the hunger birds, allmouth, tore intomy chest and snatched outmyheart,stillpumping,anddevouredittogetatwhatwashiddeninsideit.Iknowhow that feels, as if itwas truly a part ofmy life, ofmydeath.And then thememorysnipsandrips,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.Ifeltthemcrashintoher.Shewasholdingmedown,makingherselfabarrier

betweenmeandtheworld.IheardLettie’svoicewailinpain.Ifelthershudderandtwitch.Avoicesaid,‘Thisisunacceptable.’Itwasafamiliarvoice,butstill,Icouldnotplaceit,ormovetoseewhowas

talking.

Lettiewas on top ofme, still shaking, but as the voice spoke, she stoppedmoving.Thevoicecontinued,‘Onwhatauthoritydoyouharmmychild?’Apause.Then,–Shewasbetweenusandourlawfulprey.‘You’re scavengers.Eaters of offal, of rubbish, of garbage.You’re cleaners.

Doyouthinkthatyoucanharmmyfamily?’Iknewwhowas talking.ThevoicesoundedlikeLettie’sgran, likeOldMrs

Hempstock.Likeher,Iknew,andyetsounlike.IfOldMrsHempstockhadbeenanempress, shemighthave talked like that,hervoicemore stiltedand formalandyetmoremusicalthantheold-ladyvoiceIknew.Somethingwetandwarmwassoakingmyback.–No…No,lady.ThatwasthefirsttimeIheardfearordoubtinthevoiceofoneofthehunger

birds.‘There are pacts, and there are laws and there are treaties, and you have

violatedallofthem.’Silencethen,anditwaslouderthanwordscouldhavebeen.Theyhadnothing

tosay.I felt Lettie’s body being rolled off mine, and I looked up to see Ginnie

Hempstock’ssensibleface.Shesatonthegroundontheedgeoftheroad,andIburiedmyfaceinherbosom.Shetookmeinonearm,Lettieintheother.Fromtheshadows,ahungerbirdspoke,withavoicethatwasnotavoice,and

itsaidonly,–Wearesorryforyourloss.‘Sorry?’Thewordwasspat,notsaid.GinnieHempstockswayedfromsidetoside,crooninglowandwordlesslyto

meandtoherdaughter.Herarmswerearoundme.IliftedmyheadandIlookedbackatthepersonspeaking,myvisionblurredbytears.Istaredather.ItwasOldMrsHempstock,Isuppose.Butitwasn’t.ItwasLettie’sgraninthe

samewaythat…Imean…She shone silver. Her hair was still long, still white, but now she stood as

straightasateenager.Myeyeshadbecomeusedtothedarkness,andIcouldnotlookather face tosee if itwas thefaceIwasfamiliarwith: itwas toobright.Magnesium-flare bright. Fireworks Night bright. Midday sun reflecting off asilvercoinbright.

I looked at her as long as I could bear to look, and then I turnedmyhead,screwing my eyes tightly shut, unable to see anything but a pulsating after-image.Thevoice thatwas likeOldMrsHempstock’s said, ‘Shall Ibindyou in the

heart of a dark star, to feel your pain in a place where every fragment of amoment lasts a thousand years? Shall I invoke the compacts ofCreation, andhaveyou all removed from the list of created things, so there neverwill havebeenanyhungerbirds,andanythingthatwishestotraipsefromworldtoworldcandosowithimpunity?’Ilistenedforareply,butheardnothing.Onlyawhimper,amewlofpainorof

frustration.‘I’mdonewithyou.Iwilldealwithyouinmyowntimeandinmyownway.

FornowImusttendtothechildren.’–Yes,lady.–Thankyou,lady.‘Notso fast.Nobody’sgoinganywherebeforeyouputall those thingsback

like theywas.There’sBoötesmissing from the sky.There’s anoak treegone,and a fox. You put them all back, the way they were.’ And then the silveryempress added, in a voice that was now also unmistakably Old MrsHempstock’s,‘Varmints.’Somebodywashummingatune.Irealised,asiffromalongwayaway,thatit

wasme,atthesamemomentthatIrememberedwhatthetunewas:

Girlsandboyscomeouttoplay,themoondothshineasbrightasday.Leaveyoursupperandleaveyourmeat,andjoinyourplayfellowsinthestreet.Comewithawhoopandcomewithacall.Comewithawholeheartornotatall…

IheldontoGinnieHempstock.Shesmelledlikeafarmandlikeakitchen,likeanimalsandlikefood.Shesmelledveryreal,andtherealnesswaswhatIneededatthatmoment.Ireachedoutahand,tentativelytouchedLettie’sshoulder.Shedidnotmove

orrespond.Ginniestartedspeaking,then,butatfirstIdidnotknowifshewastalkingto

herselfor toLettieor tome. ‘Theyoverstepped theirbounds,’ she said. ‘They

couldhavehurtyou,child,anditwouldhavemeantnothing.Theycouldhavehurt thisworldwithout anything being said – it’s only aworld, after all, andthey’re just sandgrains in thedesert,worlds.ButLettie’s aHempstock.She’soutsideoftheirdominion,mylittleone.Andtheyhurtedher.’IlookedatLettie.Herheadhadfloppeddown,hidingherface.Hereyeswere

closed.‘Isshegoingtobeallright?’Iasked.Ginniedidn’treply,justhuggedusboththetightertoherbosom,androcked,

andcroonedawordlesssong.Thefarmand its landno longerglowedgolden. Icouldnot feelanything in

theshadowswatchingme,notanylonger.‘Don’tyouworry,’saidanoldvoice,nowfamiliaroncemore.‘You’resafeas

houses.Safer’nmosthousesI’veseen.They’vegone.’‘They’llcomebackagain,’Isaid.‘Theywantmyheart.’‘They’dnotcomebacktothisworldagainforalltheteainChina,’saidOld

MrsHempstock.‘Notthatthey’vegotanyusefortea–orforChina–nomorethanacarrioncrowdoes.’Why had I thought her dressed in silver? She wore a much-patched grey

dressinggownoverwhathadtohavebeenanightie,butanightieofakindthathadnotbeenfashionableforseveralhundredyears.Theoldwomanputahandonhergranddaughter’spaleforehead,lifteditup,

thenletitgo.Lettie’smothershookherhead.‘It’sover,’shesaid.Iunderstooditthen,atthelast,andfeltfoolishfornotunderstandingitsooner.

Thegirlbesideme,onhermother’slap,athermother’sbreast,hadgivenherlifeformine.‘Theyweremeanttohurtme,nother,’Isaid.‘Noreasontheyshould’vetakeneitherofyou,’saidtheoldlady,withasniff.I

feltguiltthen,guiltbeyondanythingIhadeverfeltbefore.‘We should get her to a hospital,’ I said, hopefully. ‘We can call a doctor.

Maybetheycanmakeherbetter.’Ginnieshookherhead.‘Isshedead?’Iasked.‘Dead?’repeatedtheoldwomaninthedressinggown.Shesoundedoffended.

‘Hashif,’shesaid,grandlyaspiratingeachaitchasifthatweretheonlywaytoconvey the gravity of her words. ‘Has hif han ’Empstock would hever dohanythingso…common…’

‘She’shurt,’saidGinnieHempstock,cuddlingmeclose.‘Hurtasbadlyasshecanbehurt.She’ssoclosetodeathasmakesnooddsifwedon’tdosomethingabout it, and quickly.’ A final hug, then, ‘Off with you, now.’ I clamberedreluctantlyfromherlap,andstoodup.Ginnie Hempstock rose to her feet, her daughter’s body limp in her arms.

Lettielolledandwasjoggedlikearagdollashermothergotup,andIstaredather,shockedbeyondmeasure.Isaid,‘Itwasmyfault.I’msorry.I’mreallysorry.’Old Mrs Hempstock said, ‘You meant well,’ but Ginnie Hempstock said

nothingatall.Shewalkeddownthelanetowardsthefarm,andthensheturnedoffbehindthemilkingshed.IthoughtthatLettiewastoobigtobecarried,butGinniecarriedherasifsheweighednomorethanakitten,herheadandupperbodyrestingonGinnie’sshoulder,likeasleepinginfantbeingtakenupstairstobed. Ginnie carried her down that path, and beside the hedge, and back, andback,untilwereachedthepond.Therewerenobreezesbackthere,andthenightwasperfectlystill;ourpath

waslitbymoonlightandnothingmore;thepond,whenwegotthere,wasjustapond.Nogolden,glimmeringlight.Nomagicalfullmoon.Itwasblackanddull,withthemoon,thetruemoon,thequarter-moon,reflectedinit.Istoppedattheedgeofthepond,andOldMrsHempstockstoppedbesideme.ButGinnieHempstockkeptwalking.Shestaggereddownintothepond,untilshewaswadingthighdeep,hercoat

andskirt floatingon thewateras shewaded,breaking the reflectedmoon intodozensoftinymoonsthatscatteredandre-formedaroundher.At thecentreof thepond,with theblackwateraboveherhips,shestopped.

ShetookLettiefromhershoulder,sothegirl’sbodywassupportedattheheadand at the knees byGinnieHempstock’s practical hands; then slowly, so veryslowly,shelaidLettiedowninthewater.Thegirl’sbodyfloatedonthesurfaceofthepond.Ginnie took a step back, and then another, never looking away from her

daughter.Iheardarushingnoise,asifofanenormouswindcomingtowardsus.

Lettie’sbodyshook.There was no breeze, but now there were whitecaps on the surface of the

pond. I sawwaves, gentle, lappingwaves at first, and then biggerwaves thatbrokeandslappedattheedgeofthepond.Onewavecrestedandcrasheddown

closetome,splashingmyclothesandface.Icouldtastethewater’swetnessonmylips,anditwassalt.Iwhispered,‘I’msorry,Lettie.’Ishouldhavebeenabletoseetheothersideofthepond.Ihadseenitafew

moments before. But the crashing waves had taken it away, and I could seenothingbeyondLettie’sfloatingbodybutthevastnessofthelonelyocean,andthedark.Thewavesgrewbigger.Thewaterbegantoglowinthemoonlight,asithad

glowedwhenitwasinthebucket,apale,perfectblue.Theblackshapeonthesurfaceofthewaterwasthebodyofthegirlwhohadsavedmylife.Bonyfingersrestedonmyshoulder.‘Whatareyouapologisingfor,boy?For

killingher?’Inodded,nottrustingmyselftospeak.‘She’snotdead.Youdidn’tkillher,nordid thehungerbirds, although they

didtheirbesttogettoyouthroughher.She’sbeengiventoherocean.Oneday,initsowntime,theoceanwillgiveherback.’I thought of corpses and of skeletons with pearls for eyes. I thought of

mermaidswith tails that flickedwhen theymoved, likemygoldfish’s tail hadflickedbeforemygoldfishhadstoppedmoving, tolie,bellyup, likeLettie,onthetopofthewater.Isaid,‘Willshebethesame?’Theoldwomanguffawed,asifIhadsaidthefunniest thingintheuniverse.

‘Nothing’severthesame,’shesaid.‘Beitasecondlaterorahundredyears.It’salwayschurningandroiling.Andpeoplechangeasmuchasoceans.’Ginnieclamberedoutof thewater,andshestoodat thewater’sedgebeside

me, her head bowed. The waves crashed and smacked and splashed andretreated.Therewasadistant rumble thatbecamea louderand louder rumble:something was coming towards us, across the ocean. Frommiles away, fromhundreds and hundreds ofmiles away it came: a thinwhite line etched in theglowingblue,anditgrewasitapproached.Thegreatwavecame,and theworldrumbled,andI lookedupas it reached

us:itwastallerthantrees,thanhouses,thanmindoreyescouldhold,thanheartcouldfollow.Only when it reached Lettie Hempstock’s floating body did the enormous

wavecrashdown. Iexpected tobesoaked,orworse, tobesweptawayby theangryoceanwater,andIraisedmyarmtocovermyface.Therewasnosplashofbreakers,nodeafeningcrash,andwhenIloweredmy

arm I could see nothing but the still black water of a pond in the night, and

nothing on the surface of the pond but a smattering of lily pads and thethoughtful,incompletereflectionofthemoon.OldMrsHempstockwasgonetoo.Ihadthoughtthatshewasstandingbeside

me,butonlyGinniestoodthere,nexttome,staringdownsilentlyintothedarkmirrorofthelittlepond.‘Right,’shesaid.‘I’lltakeyouhome.’

TherewasaLandRoverparkedbehindthecowshed.Thedoorswereopenandtheignitionkeywasinthelock.Isatonthenewspaper-coveredpassengerseatandwatchedGinnieHempstockturnthekey.Theenginesputteredafewtimesbeforeitstarted.IhadnotimaginedanyoftheHempstocksdriving.Isaid,‘Ididn’tknowyou

hadacar.’‘Lotsofthingsyoudon’tknow,’saidMrsHempstock,tartly.Thensheglanced

atmemoregentlyandsaid,‘Youcan’tknoweverything.’ShebackedtheLandRoverupanditbumpeditswayforwardacrosstherutsandthepuddlesofthebackofthefarmyard.Therewassomethingonmymind.‘OldMrsHempstocksaysthatLettieisn’tdead,’Isaid.‘Butshelookeddead.

Ithinksheisactuallydead.Idon’tthinkit’struethatshe’snotdead.’Ginnielookedlikeshewasgoingtosaysomethingaboutthenatureoftruth,

but all she said was, ‘She’s hurt. Very badly hurt. The ocean has taken her.Honestly,Idon’tknowifitwillevergiveherback.Butwecanhope,can’twe?’‘Yes.’Isqueezedmyhandsintofists,andIhopedashardasIknewhow.Webumpedandjoltedupthelaneatfifteenmilesperhour.Isaid, ‘Wasshe– isshe–reallyyourdaughter?’ Ididn’tknow,Istilldon’t

know,whyIaskedherthat.PerhapsIjustwantedtoknowmoreaboutthegirlwho had saved my life, who had rescuedmemore than once. I didn’t knowanythingabouther.‘Moreorless,’saidGinnie.‘ThemenHempstocks,mybrothers,theywentout

into theworld, and they had babieswho’ve had babies.There areHempstockwomenoutthereinyourworld,andI’llwagereachofthemisawonderinherownway.ButonlyGranandmeandLettiearethepurething.’‘Shedidn’thaveadaddy?’Iasked.‘No.’

‘Didyouhaveadaddy?’‘You’reallquestions,aren’tyou?No,love.Weneverwentinforthatsortof

thing.Youonlyneedmenifyouwanttobreedmoremen.’Isaid,‘Youdon’thavetotakemehome.Icouldstaywithyou.Icouldwait

untilLettiecomesback from theocean. I couldworkonyour farm,andcarrystuff,andlearntodriveatractor.’Shesaid,‘No,’butshesaiditkindly.‘Yougetonwithyourownlife.Lettie

gaveittoyou.Youjusthavetogrowupandtryandbeworthit.’A flashof resentment. It’s hard enoughbeing alive, trying to survive in the

worldandfindyourplaceinit,todothethingsyouneedtodotogetby,withoutwonderingifthethingyoujustdid,whateveritwas,wasworthsomeonehaving,ifnotdied,thenhavinggivenupherlife.Itwasn’tfair.‘Life’snotfair,’saidGinnie,asifIhadspokenaloud.Sheturnedintoourdriveway,pulledupoutsidethefrontdoor.Igotoutand

shedidtoo.‘Bettermakeiteasierforyoutogohome,’shesaid.MrsHempstock rang thedoorbell, although thedoorwasnever locked, and

industriouslyscrapedthesolesofherwellingtonbootsonthedoormatuntilmymotheropenedthedoor.Shewasdressedforbed,andwearingherquiltedpinkdressinggown.‘Hereheis,’saidGinnie.‘Safeandsound,thesoldierbackfromthewars.He

had a lovely time at our Lettie’s going-away party, but now it’s time for thisyoungmantogethisrest.’My mother looked blank – almost confused – and then the confusion was

replacedbyasmile,asiftheworldhadjustreconfigureditselfintoaformthatmadesense.‘Oh,youdidn’thave tobringhimback,’saidmymother. ‘Oneofuswould

havecomeandpickedhimup.’Thenshelookeddownatme.‘WhatdoyousaytoMrsHempstock,darling?’Isaiditautomatically.‘Thank-you-for-having-me.’Mymothersaid,‘Verygood,dear.’Then,‘Lettie’sgoingaway?’‘ToAustralia,’saidGinnie.‘Tobewithherfather.We’llmisshavingthislittle

fellowover toplay,but,well,we’ll letyouknowwhenLettiecomesback.Hecancomeandplaythen.’Iwasgetting tired.Thepartyhadbeen fun, although I couldnot remember

muchaboutit.IknewthatIwouldnotvisittheHempstockfarmagain,though.NotunlessLettiewasthere.

Australiawasalong,longwayaway.IwonderedhowlongitwouldbeuntilshecamebackfromAustraliawithherfather.Years,Isupposed.Australiawasontheothersideoftheworld,acrosstheocean…A small part ofmymind remembered an alternative pattern of events, and

then lost it, as if I had woken from a comfortable sleep, and looked around,pulledthebedclothesovermeandreturnedtomydream.MrsHempstock got back into her ancient Land Rover, so bespatteredwith

mud(Icouldnowsee,inthelightabovethefrontdoor)thattherewasalmostnotrace of the original paintwork visible, and she backed it up, down the drive,towardsthelane.MymotherseemedunbotheredthatIhadreturnedhomeinfancydressclothes

atalmostelevenatnight.Shesaid,‘Ihavesomebadnews,dear.’‘What’sthat?’‘Ursula’shadtoleave.Familymatters.Pressingfamilymatters.She’salready

left.Iknowhowmuchyouchildrenlikedher.’IknewthatIdidn’tlikeher,butIsaidnothing.Therewasnownobodysleeping inmybedroomat the topof thestairs.My

motheraskedifIwouldlikemyroombackforawhile.Isaidno,unsureofwhyIwassayingno.IcouldnotrememberwhyIdislikedUrsulaMonktonsomuch–indeed,Ifeltfaintlyguiltyfordislikinghersoabsolutelyandsoirrationally–butIhadnodesiretoreturntothatbedroom,despitethelittleyellowhandbasinjustmysize,andIremainedinthesharedbedroomuntilourfamilymovedoutof thathousehalfadecadelater(wechildrenprotesting, theadultsI thinkjustrelievedthattheirfinancialdifficultieswereover).The house was demolished after wemoved out. I would not go and see it

standingempty,andrefused towitness thedemolition.Therewas toomuchofmylifeboundupinthosebricksandtiles,thosedrainpipesandwalls.Yearslater,mysister,nowanadultherself,confidedinmethatshebelieved

thatourmotherhadfiredUrsulaMonkton(whomsheremembered,sofondly,asthe nice one in a sequence of grumpy childminders) because our father washavinganaffairwithher. Itwaspossible,Iagreed.Ourparentswerebothstillalivethen,andIcouldhaveaskedthem,butIdidn’t.Myfatherdidnotmentiontheeventsofthosenights,notthen,notlater.IfItookanythingfromhimandmychildhood,itwastheresolvenottoshout

atpeople,andespeciallynottoshoutatchildren.IfinallymadefriendswithmyfatherwhenIenteredmytwenties.Wehadso

littleincommonwhenIwasaboy,andIamcertainIhadbeenadisappointment

tohim.Hedidnotaskforachildwithabook,offinitsownworld.Hewantedasonwhodidwhathehaddone:swamandboxedandplayedrugby,anddrovecarsatspeedwithabandonandjoy,butthatwasnotwhathehadwoundupwith.Ididnotevergodownthelaneallthewaytotheend.Ididnotthinkofthe

whiteMini.WhenIthoughtoftheopalminer,itwasinthecontextofthetworoughrawopalrocksthatsatonourmantelpiece,andinmymemoryhealwaysworeacheckedshirtandjeans.Hisfaceandarmsweretan,notthecherry-redofmonoxidepoisoning,andhehadnobowtie.Monster,thegingertomcattheopalminerhadleftus,hadwanderedofftobe

fedbyotherfamilies,andalthoughwesawhim,fromtimetotime,prowlingtheditchesandtreesattheendofthelane,hewouldnotevercomewhenwecalled.Iwasrelievedbythis,Ithink.Hehadneverbeenourcat.Weknewit,andsodidhe.A story only matters, I suspect, to the extent that the people in the story

change.ButIwassevenwhenallofthesethingshappened,andIwasthesamepersonat theendof it that Iwasat thebeginning,wasn’t I?Sowaseveryoneelse.Peopledon’tchange.Somethingschanged,though.Amonth or so after the events here, and five years before the ramshackle

world I lived in was demolished and replaced by trim, squat, regular housescontaining smart youngpeoplewhoworked in theCitybut lived inmy town,whomademoneybymovingmoneyfromplacetoplacebutwhodidnotbuildor dig or farm or weave, and nine years before I would kiss smiling CallieAnders…Icamehome fromschool.ThemonthwasMay,orperhaps early June.She

waswaitingbythebackdoorasifsheknewpreciselywhereshewasandwhoshewas looking for: ayoungblackcat, larger thanakittennow,withawhitesplodgeoveroneear,andwitheyesofanintenseandunusualgreenish-blue.Shefollowedmeintothehouse.I fed her with an unused can ofMonster’s cat food, which I spooned into

Monster’sdustybowl.Myparents,whohadnever noticed the ginger tom’s disappearance, did not

initially notice the arrival of the new kitten-cat, and by the time my fathercommented on her existence, she had been living with us for several weeks,exploringthegardenuntilIcamehomefromschool,thenstayingnearmewhileIreadorplayed.Atnightshewouldwaitbeneaththebeduntil thelightswere

turned out, then she would accommodate herself on the pillow beside me,groomingmyhair,andpurring,soquietlyasnevertodisturbmysister.Iwouldfallasleepwithmyfacepressedintoherfur,whileherdeepelectrical

purrvibratedsoftlyagainstmycheek.Shehadsuchunusualeyes.Theymademethinkoftheseaside,andsoIcalled

herOcean,andcouldnothavetoldyouwhy.

Isatonthedilapidatedgreenbenchbesidetheduckpond,atthebackofthered-brickfarmhouse,andIthoughtaboutmykitten.IonlyrememberedthatOceanhadgrownintoacat,andthatIhadadoredher

foryears. Iwonderedwhathadhappened toher,and thenI thought, itdoesn’tmatterthatIcan’trememberthedetailsanylonger:deathhappenedtoher.Deathhappenstoallofus.Adooropened in the farmhouse,and Iheard feeton thepath.Soon theold

womansatdownbesideme.‘Ibrungyouacupoftea,’shesaid.‘Andacheeseand tomatosandwich.You’vebeenouthere forquiteawhile. I thoughtyou’dprobablyfallenin.’‘Isortofdid,’Itoldher.And,‘Thankyou.’Ithadbecomedusk,withoutmy

noticing,whileIhadbeensittingthere.I took the tea,andsipped it,andI lookedat thewoman,morecarefully this

time. I compared her to mymemories of forty years ago. I said, ‘You aren’tLettie’s mother. You’re her grandmother, aren’t you? You’re Old MrsHempstock.’‘That’sright,’shesaid,unperturbed.‘Eatyoursandwich.’Itookabiteofmysandwich.Itwasgood,reallygood.Freshlybakedbread,

sharp,saltycheese,thekindoftomatoesthatactuallytastelikesomething.I was awash in memory, and I wanted to know what it meant, what it all

meant. I said, ‘Is it true?’ and felt foolish. Of all the questions I could haveasked,Ihadaskedthat.OldMrsHempstock shrugged. ‘What you remembered? Probably.More or

less.Different people remember things differently, and you’ll not get any twopeople to remember anything the same, whether they were there or not. Youstandtwoofyoulotnexttoeachother,andtheycouldbecontinentsawayforallitmeansanything.’

TherewasanotherquestionIneededanswered.Isaid,‘WhydidIcomehere?’Shelookedatmeas if itwerea trickquestion.‘Thefuneral,’shesaid.‘You

wantedtogetawayfromeveryoneandbeonyourown.Sofirstofallyoudrovebacktotheplaceyou’dlivedinasaboy,andwhenthatdidn’tgiveyouwhatyoumissed,youcamehere,likeyoualwaysdo.’‘LikeIalwaysdo?’Idranksomemoretea.Itwasstillhot,andstrongenough:

aperfectcupofbuilder’s tea.Youcouldstandaspoonstraightupin it,asmyfatheralwayssaidofacupofteaofwhichheapproved.‘Likeyoualwaysdo,’sherepeated.‘No,’ I said. ‘Ihaven’tbeenheresince,well, sinceLettiewent toAustralia.

Hergoing-awayparty.’AndthenIsaid,‘Whichneverhappened.YouknowwhatImean.’‘Youcomeback sometimes,’ she said. ‘Youwerehereoncewhenyouwere

twenty-four,Iremember.Youhadtwoyoungchildren,andyouweresoscared.Youcameherebeforeyoulefttheseparts;youwere,what,inyourthirtiesthen?Ifedyouagoodmealinthekitchen,andyoutoldmeaboutyourdreamsandtheartyouweremaking.’‘Idon’tremember.’Shepushedthehairfromhereyes.‘It’seasierthatway.’Isippedmytea,andfinishedthesandwich.Themugwaswhite,andsowas

theplate.Theendlesssummereveningwascomingtoanend.Iaskedheragain,‘WhydidIcomehere?’‘Lettiewantedyouto,’saidsomebody.Thepersonwhosaidthatwaswalkingaroundthepond:awomaninabrown

coat,wearingwellingtonboots.Ilookedatherinconfusion.ShelookedyoungerthanIwasnow.Irememberedherasvast,asadult,butnowIsawshewasonlyinherlatethirties.Irememberedherasstout,butshewasbuxom,andattractivein an apple-cheeked sort of a way. She was still Ginnie Hempstock, Lettie’smother, and she looked, Iwas certain, just as she had looked forty-somethingyearsago.She sat down on the bench on the other side of me, so I was flanked by

Hempstockwomen.Shesaid,‘IthinkLettiejustwantstoknowifitwasworthit.’‘Ifwhatwasworthit?’‘You,’saidtheoldwoman,tartly.‘Lettiedidaverybigthingforyou,’saidGinnie.‘Ithinkshemostlywantsto

findoutwhathappenednext,andwhetheritwaswortheverythingshedid.’

‘She…sacrificedherselfforme.’‘Afterafashion,dear,’saidGinnie.‘Thehungerbirdstoreoutyourheart.You

screamed so piteously as you died. She couldn’t abide that. She had to dosomething.’Itriedtorememberthis.Isaid,‘Thatisn’thowIrememberit.’The old lady sniffed. ‘Didn’t I just say you’ll never get any two people to

rememberanythingthesame?’sheasked.‘CanItalktoher?’‘She’ssleeping,’saidLettie’smother.‘She’shealing.She’snottalkingyet.’‘Notuntilshe’sdonewheresheis,’saidLettie’sgrandmother,gesturing,butI

couldnottellifshewaspointingtotheduckpondortothesky.‘Whenwillthatbe?’‘When she’s good and ready,’ said the old woman, as her daughter said,

‘Soon.’‘Well,’Isaid.‘Ifshebroughtmeheretolookatme,letherlookatme,’andas

Isaidit,Iknewthatithadalreadyhappened.HowlonghadIbeensittingonthatbench?AsIhadbeenrememberingher,shehadbeenexaminingme.‘Oh.Shedidalready,didn’tshe?’‘Yes,dear.’‘AnddidIpass?’Thefaceoftheoldwomanonmyrightwasunreadableinthegatheringdusk.

Onmyleft theyoungerwomansaid,‘Youdon’tpassorfailatbeingaperson,dear.’Iputtheemptycupandplatedownontheground.GinnieHempstock said, ‘I think you’re doing better than youwere the last

timewesawyou.You’regrowinganewheart,forastart.’In my memory she was a mountain, this woman, and I had sobbed and

shiveredonherbosom.NowshewassmallerthanIwas,andIcouldnotimaginehercomfortingme,notinthatway.Themoonwasfull,intheskyabovethepond.Icouldnotforthelifeofme

rememberwhatphasethemoonhadbeeninthelasttimeIhadnoticedit.IcouldnotactuallyrememberthelasttimeIhaddonemorethanglanceatthemoon.‘Sowhatwillhappennow?’‘Same thing as happens every other time you’ve come here,’ said the old

woman.‘Yougohome.’‘Idon’tknowwherethatisanymore,’Itoldthem.‘Youalwayssaythat,’saidGinnie.

InmymemoryLettieHempstockwasstilla fullhead taller thanIwas.Shewaseleven,afterall. IwonderedwhatIwouldsee–whoIwouldsee– ifshestoodbeforemenow.Themoon in the duckpondwas full aswell, and I foundmyself, unbidden,

thinkingoftheholyfoolsintheoldstory,theoneswhowentfishinginalakeforthemoon,withnets, convinced that the reflection in thewaterwasnearerandeasiertocatchthantheglobethathunginthesky.And,ofcourse,itis.Igotupandwalkedafewstepstotheedgeofthepond.‘Lettie,’Isaid,trying

toignorethetwowomenbehindme.‘Thankyouforsavingmylife.’‘Sheshouldnever’vetakenyouwithherinthefirstplace,whenshewentoff

to find the start of it all,’ sniffed Old Mrs Hempstock. ‘Nothing to stop hersorting italloutonherown.Didn’tneed to takeyoualongforcompany,sillything.Well,that’lllearnherfornexttime.’I turnedand lookedatOldMrsHempstock. ‘Doyoureally rememberwhen

themoonwasmade?’Iasked.‘Irememberlotsofthings,’shesaid.‘WillIcomebackhereagain?’Iasked.‘That’snotforyoutoknow,’saidtheoldwoman.‘Get along now,’ said Ginnie Hempstock, gently. ‘There’s people who are

wonderingwhereyou’vegotto.’Andwhenshementioned them, I realised,withanawkwardhorror, thatmy

sister,herhusband,herchildrenandmyown,allthewell-wishersandmournersandvisitors,wouldbepuzzlingoverwhathadbecomeofme.Still,iftherewasaday that theywould findmyabsentways easy to forgive, itwas today. It hadbeenalongdayandahardone.Iwasgladthatitwasover.Isaid,‘IhopethatIhaven’tbeenabother.’‘No,dear,’saidtheoldwoman.‘Nobotheratall.’Iheardacatmiaow.Amomentlater,itsaunteredoutoftheshadowsandinto

a patch of bright moonlight. It approached me confidently, pushed its headagainstmyshoe.I crouched beside it and scratched its forehead, stroked its back. It was a

beautiful cat, black, or so I imagined, the moonlight having swallowed thecolourofthings.Ithadawhitespotoveroneear.I said, ‘I used to have a cat like this. She was beautiful. I don’t actually

rememberwhathappenedtoher.’

‘Youbroughtherbacktous,’saidGinnieHempstock.Andthenshetouchedmyshoulderwithherhand,squeezingitforaheartbeat,andshewalkedaway.Ipickedupmyplateandmymug,andIcarriedthemalongthepathwithme

aswemadeourwaybacktothehouse,theoldwomanandI.‘Themoondoesshineasbrightasday,’Isaid.‘Likeinthesong.’‘It’sgoodtohaveafullmoon,’sheagreed.Isaid,‘It’sfunny.Foramoment,I thought thereweretwoofyou.Isn’t that

odd?’‘It’sjustme,’saidtheoldwoman.‘It’sonlyeverjustme.’‘Iknow,’Isaid.‘Ofcourseitis.’Iwasgoingtotaketheplateandmugintothekitchen,butshestoppedmeat

the farmhouse door. ‘You ought to get back to your family now,’ she said.‘They’llbesendingoutasearchparty.’‘They’ll forgive me,’ I said. I hoped that they would. My sister would be

concerned, and therewouldbepeople I barelyknewdisappointednot to havetold me how very, very sorry they were for my loss. ‘You’ve been so kind.Lettingmesitandthinkhere.Bythepond.I’mverygrateful.’‘Stuffandnonsense,’shesaid.‘Nothingkindaboutit.’‘NexttimeLettiewritesfromAustralia,’Isaid,‘pleasetellherIsaidhello.’‘Iwill,’shesaid.‘She’llbegladyouthoughtofher.’Igotintothecarandstartedtheengine.Theoldwomanstoodinthedoorway,

watchingme,politely,untilIhadturnedthecararoundandwasonmywayupthelane.Ilookedbackatthefarmhouseinmyrear-viewmirror,andatrickofthelight

made it seem as if two moons hung in the sky above it, like a pair of eyeswatchingmefromabove:onemoonperfectlyfullandround,theother,itstwinontheothersideofthesky,ahalf-moon.CuriouslyIturnedinmyseatandlookedback:asinglehalf-moonhungover

thefarmhouse,peacefulandpaleandperfect.Iwonderedwheretheillusionofthesecondmoonhadcomefrom,butIonly

wondered for amoment, and then Idismissed it frommy thoughts.Perhaps itwasanafter-image,Idecided,oraghost:somethingthathadstirredinmymindforamoment,sopowerfullythatIbelievedittobereal,butnowwasgone,andfadedintothepastlikeamemoryforgotten,orashadowintothedusk.

This book is the book you have just read. It’s done. Now we’re in theacknowledgements.Thisisnotreallypartofthebook.Youdonothavetoreadit.It’smostlyjustnames.The family in this book is notmy own family, who have been gracious in

letting me plunder the landscape of my childhood and watched as I liberallyreshaped those places into a story. I’m grateful to them all, especially to myyoungestsister,Lizzy,whoencouragedmeandsentmelong-forgottenmemory-joggingphotographs.(IwishI’drememberedtheoldgreenhouseintimetoputitintothebook.)Iowethankstosomanypeople, theoneswhowerethereinmylifewhenI

neededthem,theoneswhobroughtmetea,theoneswhowrotethebooksthatbroughtmeup.Tosingleanyofthemoutisfoolish,buthereIgo…WhenI finished thisbook, Isent it tomanyofmyfriends toread,and they

readitwithwiseeyesandtheytoldmewhatworkedforthemandwhatneededwork. I’m grateful to all of them, but particular thanks must go to MariaDahvanaHeadley,OlgaNunes,AlinaSimone(queenoftitles),GaryK.Wolfe,Kat Howard, Kelly McCullough, Eric Sussman, Hayley Campbell, ValyaDudycz Lupescu, Melissa Marr, Elyse Marshall, Anthony Martignetti, PeterStraub,KatDennings,GeneWolfe,GwendaBond,AnneBobby,Lee‘Budgie’Barnett,MorrisShamah,FarahMendelsohn,HenrySelick,ClareConey,GraceMonkandCorneliaFunke.Thisnovelbegan,althoughIdidnotknowitwasgoingtobeanovelat the

time,whenJonathanStrahanaskedmetowritehimashortstory.Istartedtotellthe story of the opalminer and theHempstock family (who have lived in thefarm inmy head for such a long time), and Jonathanwas forgiving and kindwhenIfinallyadmittedtomyselfandtohimthatthiswasn’tashortstory,andIletitbecomeanovelinstead.

In Sarasota, Florida, Stephen King reminded me of the joy of just writingeveryday.Wordssaveourlives,sometimes.Torigavemeasafehousetowriteitin,andIcannotthankherenough.ArtSpiegelmangavemehiskindpermissiontouseawordballoonfromhis

collaborative conversation with Maurice Sendak in the New Yorker as theopeningepigraph.Asthisbookentereditsseconddraft,asIwastypingoutmyhandwrittenfirst

draft, Iwould read the day’swork tomywifeAmanda at night in bed, and IlearnedmoreaboutthewordsI’dwrittenwhenreadingitaloudtoherthanIeverhavelearnedaboutanythingI’vewritten.Shewasthebook’sfirstreader,andherpuzzlement, herquestions andherdelightweremyguides through subsequentdrafts.(IwrotethisbookforAmanda,whenshewasfarawayandImissedherverymuch.Mylifewouldbegreyeranddullerwithouther.)Mydaughters,HollyandMaddy,andmyson,Michael,weremywisestand

gentlestcriticsofall.IhavewonderfuleditorsonbothsidesoftheAtlantic:JenniferBrehlandJane

Morpeth, and Rosemary Brosnan, who all read the book in first draft and allsuggested different things I needed to change and fix and rebuild. Jane andJenniferhavealsobothcopedextremelywellwiththearrivalofabookthatnoneofuswasexpecting,notevenme.I would very much like to thank the committee for the Zena Sutherland

Lectures, held at the Chicago Public Library: the Zena Sutherland Lecture Idelivered in 2012was, in retrospect,mostly a conversationwithmyself aboutthisbookwhile Iwaswriting it, to tryandunderstandwhat Iwaswritingandwhoitwasfor.MerrileeHeifetz has beenmy literary agent for twenty-five years now.Her

supportonthisbook,aswitheverythingoverthelastquarterofacentury,wasinvaluable.JonLevin,myagentforfilmsandsuch,isafinereaderanddoesameanRingoStarrimpression.The good folk of Twitterwere extremely helpfulwhen I needed to double-

check howmuch blackjacks and fruit salad sweets cost in the 1960s.WithoutthemImighthavewrittenmybooktwiceasfast.Andlastly,mythankstotheHempstockfamily,who,inoneformoranother,

havealwaysbeentherewhenIneededthem.

NeilGaimanIsleofSkye

July2012