she smiled her pretend smile, and I could not run any longer. I could barely move. I had a stitch in my side, and I could not catch my breath, and I was done.
My legs gave way beneath me, and I stumbled and fell, and this time I did not get up.
I felt heat on my legs, and I looked down to see a yellow stream coming from the front of my pyjama trousers. I was seven years old, no longer a little child, but I was wetting myself with fear, like a baby, and there was nothing I could do about it, while Ursula Monkton hung in the air above me and watched, dispassionately.
The hunt was done.
She stood up straight in the air, three feet above the ground. I was sprawled beneath her, on my back, in the wet grass. She began to descend, slowly, inexorably, like a person on a broken television screen.
Something touched my left hand. Something soft. It nosed my hand, and I looked over, fearing a spider as big as a dog. In the light of the lightnings that writhed about Ursula Monkton, I saw a patch of darkness beside my hand. A patch of darkness with a white spot over one ear. I picked the kitten up in my hand, and brought it to my heart, and I stroked it.
I said, ‘I won’t come with you. You can’t make me.’ I sat up, because I felt less vulnerable sitting, and the kitten curled and made itself comfortable in my hand.
‘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 and greens and blues, not a real woman at all. ‘You’re just a little boy. I’m a grown-up. I was an adult when your world was a ball of molten rock. I can do whatever I wish to you. Now, stand up. I’m taking you home.’
The kitten, which was burrowing into my chest with its face, made a high-pitched noise, not a mew. I turned, looking away from Ursula Monkton, looking behind me.
The girl who was walking towards us, across the field, wore a shiny red raincoat, with a hood, and a pair of black wellington boots that seemed too big for her. She walked out of the darkness, unafraid. She looked up at Ursula Monkton.
‘Get off my land,’ said Lettie Hempstock.
Ursula Monkton took a step backwards and rose, at the same time, so she hung in the air above us. Lettie Hempstock reached out to me, without glancing down at where I sat, and she took my hand, twining her fingers into mine.
‘I’m not touching your land,’ said Ursula Monkton. ‘Go away, little girl.’
‘You are on my land,’ said Lettie Hempstock.
Ursula Monkton smiled, and the lightnings wreathed and writhed about her. She was power incarnate, standing in the crackling air. She was the storm, she was the lightning, she was the adult world with all its power and all its secrets and all its foolish casual cruelty. She winked at me.
I was a seven-year-old boy, and my feet were scratched and bleeding. I had just wet myself. And the thing that floated above me was huge and greedy, and it wanted to take me to the attic, and when it tired of me it would make my daddy kill me.
Lettie Hempstock’s hand in my hand made me braver. But Lettie was just a girl, even if she was a big girl, even if she was eleven, even if she had been eleven for a very long time. Ursula Monkton was an adult. It did not matter, at that moment, that she was every monster, every witch, every nightmare made flesh. She was also an adult, and when adults fight children, adults always win.
Lettie said, ‘You should go back where you came from in the first place. It’s not healthy for you to be here. For your own good, go back.’
A noise in the air, a horrible, twisted scratching noise, filled with pain and with wrongness, a noise that set my teeth on edge and made the kitten, its front paws resting on my chest, stiffen and its fur prickle. The little thing twisted and clawed up on to my shoulder, and it hissed and it spat. I looked up at Ursula Monkton. It was only when I saw her face that I knew what the noise was.
Ursula
My legs gave way beneath me, and I stumbled and fell, and this time I did not get up.
I felt heat on my legs, and I looked down to see a yellow stream coming from the front of my pyjama trousers. I was seven years old, no longer a little child, but I was wetting myself with fear, like a baby, and there was nothing I could do about it, while Ursula Monkton hung in the air above me and watched, dispassionately.
The hunt was done.
She stood up straight in the air, three feet above the ground. I was sprawled beneath her, on my back, in the wet grass. She began to descend, slowly, inexorably, like a person on a broken television screen.
Something touched my left hand. Something soft. It nosed my hand, and I looked over, fearing a spider as big as a dog. In the light of the lightnings that writhed about Ursula Monkton, I saw a patch of darkness beside my hand. A patch of darkness with a white spot over one ear. I picked the kitten up in my hand, and brought it to my heart, and I stroked it.
I said, ‘I won’t come with you. You can’t make me.’ I sat up, because I felt less vulnerable sitting, and the kitten curled and made itself comfortable in my hand.
‘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 and greens and blues, not a real woman at all. ‘You’re just a little boy. I’m a grown-up. I was an adult when your world was a ball of molten rock. I can do whatever I wish to you. Now, stand up. I’m taking you home.’
The kitten, which was burrowing into my chest with its face, made a high-pitched noise, not a mew. I turned, looking away from Ursula Monkton, looking behind me.
The girl who was walking towards us, across the field, wore a shiny red raincoat, with a hood, and a pair of black wellington boots that seemed too big for her. She walked out of the darkness, unafraid. She looked up at Ursula Monkton.
‘Get off my land,’ said Lettie Hempstock.
Ursula Monkton took a step backwards and rose, at the same time, so she hung in the air above us. Lettie Hempstock reached out to me, without glancing down at where I sat, and she took my hand, twining her fingers into mine.
‘I’m not touching your land,’ said Ursula Monkton. ‘Go away, little girl.’
‘You are on my land,’ said Lettie Hempstock.
Ursula Monkton smiled, and the lightnings wreathed and writhed about her. She was power incarnate, standing in the crackling air. She was the storm, she was the lightning, she was the adult world with all its power and all its secrets and all its foolish casual cruelty. She winked at me.
I was a seven-year-old boy, and my feet were scratched and bleeding. I had just wet myself. And the thing that floated above me was huge and greedy, and it wanted to take me to the attic, and when it tired of me it would make my daddy kill me.
Lettie Hempstock’s hand in my hand made me braver. But Lettie was just a girl, even if she was a big girl, even if she was eleven, even if she had been eleven for a very long time. Ursula Monkton was an adult. It did not matter, at that moment, that she was every monster, every witch, every nightmare made flesh. She was also an adult, and when adults fight children, adults always win.
Lettie said, ‘You should go back where you came from in the first place. It’s not healthy for you to be here. For your own good, go back.’
A noise in the air, a horrible, twisted scratching noise, filled with pain and with wrongness, a noise that set my teeth on edge and made the kitten, its front paws resting on my chest, stiffen and its fur prickle. The little thing twisted and clawed up on to my shoulder, and it hissed and it spat. I looked up at Ursula Monkton. It was only when I saw her face that I knew what the noise was.
Ursula
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