Counting Stars
David Almond
Language: English
Pages: 224
ISBN: 0385729464
Format: PDF / Kindle (mobi) / ePub
David Almond’s extraordinary novels have established him as an author of unique insight and skill. These stories encapsulate his endless sense of mystery and wonderment, as they weave a tangible tapestry of growing up in a large, loving family. Here are the kernels of his novels—joy and fear, darkness and light, the
healing power of love and imagination in overcoming the wounds of ignorance and prejudice. These stories merge memory and dream, the real and the imagined, in a collection of exquisite tenderness.
I was a boy.” We lean close together, above the eggs. “You’ll have to take me,” he says. “It won’t stay long. You’ll have to show me.” He laughs, touches us all, kisses us all. He ponders. “Larky?” he says. “Blackbird, starling and wren?” I dream that God clambers through the hawthorn at Felling Shore. He balances on thin boughs, gazes into the nests, carefully takes eggs from clutches of more than three. He holds them on His tongue for a moment, then swallows them. Little Kitten watches
starts blabbering to Our Lady till Tash points the knife at his throat. “Shut up, Coot. The dog’ll hear you. It’ll smell your fear.” I feel how I’m trembling, how my heart’s racing. My palms are slippery with sweat. I watch the knife point digging into Coot’s white skin as Stoker and the dog pass by the gap. Coot’s prayer starts running through my head. Hail Mary, full of . . . Coot’s a bastard. We didn’t know what the word meant till we found out the truth about Coot. His mother was young
to come with me if I want to join.” Each of us looked down and thought of Mam, who hadn’t been out for weeks because of her legs. “And she can’t do that!” said Mary, lifting her broom handle and getting up to join us. “She can’t do that.” The buses drove away, the parents left the field. “Maybe I could come with you,” I said reluctantly. “Or Colin. Or . . .” But she just looked at me, and we knew it was hopeless, that none of us had any understanding of her fascination, that it was only Mam
Esther? Esther Conroy, Who made you? Carmel Bright, Why did God make you? Jack Law, In whose image did God make you?” She poured more water into the teapot, poured more tea into her own and my grandmother’s cup. Jack Law stared down into his rich sweet Horlicks. “Jack was a pretty little scrawny little thing. Eyes like saucers and bones like twigs. Lived on Carlisle Street just outside the school. One of eight or nine, who knows? One of lots of them. Dad worked on the river, humping coal from
I told you not to hit the little sod?” Then there was Adrian’s voice, yelling in pain and cursing, too, and Valentine looking out at us through his tears. “Poor little Valentine,” we murmured as he was dragged from our sight. “We’ll see him again,” said Catherine. “We’ll take him to see Mam,” said Mary. “Yes. Someday. Poor little soul.” We turned away and Margaret sighed: she was so tired and hot, the way back was so steep. Mam would be so worried if we weren’t there on time. The distant