Kit's Wilderness Read Online Free PDF Page B

fifteen; Dorothy Gullane, aged twelve; Alison Keenan, aged thirteen; Daniel Sharkey, aged fourteen; Louise McCall, aged thirteen . . .
    Below them was the wide space for the names to come, and I saw my own name there, as if I was dreaming.
    Christopher Watson, aged thirteen.
    All around us were paintings of demons and monsters, of bright beings with great white wings, of the gates of Heaven and the snapping jaws of Hell. The water came to me and I sipped it. The cigarette came to me and I drew on it. I looked at Allie again. She was steely, blank, just returning my gaze. I saw it in her eyes: You’re on your own down here, Mr. Watson. I wanted to shout across to her, to tell her that she was right, that we should get away from the bunch of louts and no-hopers and find other things to do, but I just sat there and sat there, and the more I sat the more I trembled, the more I was terrified that the knife would point at me that day. But I also wanted it. I was driven to it like Grandpa had been driven to the darkness of the pit. I wanted to know something of what the children on the monument had known, something of what my grandma had known. I stared down at the knife as Askew laid it on the glass.
    “Whose turn is it to die?” he whispered.
    “Death,” we all chanted. “Death Death Death Death . . .”
    The knife shimmered, spinning. It spun on and on.
    Me
, I thought, as it spun to me and then away again. Me, not me, me, not me, me, not me . . .
    And then it slowed and came to rest.
    Me.
    I caught my breath, my trembling quickened. I looked across at Allie. On your own, her eyes said. You’re on your own.
    Askew smiled. He reached out to me. I took his hand. He drew me to the center. He laid his hand across my head for a moment. I felt the tears in my eyes.
    “Calm down, Kit,” he whispered in my ear, but I couldn’t stop the trembling. “Calm down, Kit Watson.”
    I heard Louise: “He’s chicken. He’s a chicken.”
    I heard the giggles of the others.
    “Silence,” whispered Askew. “There will be a death this day.”
    I knelt as I had seen others kneel. I crouched on all fours.
    This is nothing,
I told myself.
It’s just a game, nothing but a game.
    “Breathe deeply and slowly, Kit,” he whispered.
    I breathed deeply and slowly.
    “Breathe quickly and more quickly.”
    I breathed quickly and more quickly.
    “Look into my eyes.”
    I looked into his eyes. It was like looking into a tunnel of endless dark. I felt myself staring deeper, deeper. I felt myself driven to the dark.
    Just a game,
I tried to tell myself.
It’s nothing, just a game.
    I told myself that I could play this game, that I could pretend, just like Allie had pretended.
    Askew held the shining knife blade before me.
    “Do you abandon life?”
    “I abandon life.”
    “Do you truly wish to die?”
    “I truly wish to die.”
    He rested his hand on my shoulder. He drew me closer. I saw nothing but his eyes, heard nothing but his voice.
    “This is no game,” he whispered, soft, soft.
    “You will truly die,” he whispered. “All you see and all you know will disappear. It is the end. You will be no more.”
    He closed my eyes.
    “This is Death,” he said.
    And I knew no more.
     
    I came to on the damp clay floor. My cheek was cold, icy. My limbs were stiff and sore. Only one of the candles still burned, a cold, meager light. A demon from the wall glared down at me. I heard nothing. I twisted, turned, sat up, pressed my eyes, shook my head. I remembered nothing, just darkness, emptiness. Pain and stiffness in my bones. Frail muscles. Crawled on all fours to the steps, reached up to draw the door aside. Then I heard the voices: little high-pitched whispers, little giggles. I stared into the darkness of the den, saw nothing but the bones, the paintings, the carvings.
    I rubbed my eyes.
    “Who’s there?” I whispered.
    The giggling intensified.
    I rubbed my eyes again, squinted, and then I saw them, skinny bodies in the