Free Perry Scrimshaw's Rite of Passage by Chris Hannon Page A

soggy clothes.
Drowsy, he hung the clothes over the shelves and finally lay down.
His skin was hot and fiery and he rested his hands on his chest.
With the pantry door open, a gentle breeze drifted over him. If he
lifted his head he could see a small triangle of sky, his
destination perhaps.

    Perry came to. Head hot as
fire. He staggered through the darkness and found the water butt,
dunked his head into its depths, gulped and drank. The water was
oddly warm and bubbling around him. He yanked his head out. Some
creature breathing in its depths?
    The water rumbled, then bubbles
sizzled and popped. Steam rose into the night air. He dipped his
finger in.
    ‘ Argh!’ he
quickly drew it out and sucked but it wasn’t burnt. He staggered
back to bed, the hissing water seethed behind him. Sleep came, some
friend.

    Birds woke him. Crows cawing.
Perry felt too tired to open his eyes and see how close they were.
On the back of his eyelids he imagined a beak on the other side,
about to strike.

    Bright sun in the window. Too
weak even to brush away flies crawling around his lips.
     
    Cold. Stars. Pin pricks of
light.
    Bells.

    He was cold now. Freezing. His
clothes were dry and crisp. He tugged them down from the shelves
and pulled them on. In the yard. It was dusk. Or dawn. It didn’t
matter. The water butt was still and calm again and he drank,
though he could barely swallow. His fingers ran over his throat,
raw and swollen. Everything went black.
    He woke again, slumped against
the water butt. The sky was pitch black, like the house itself.
Drizzle, feather light and gentle, spotted down around him. He took
another drink and returned to the pantry. He was hungry and tired
and had no energy. He tried to think, to focus on something good.
The littleuns. Joel. Good, kind-hearted Joel. How pointless it had
all been. Then his mind rested upon Eva, the girl with the yellow
hair. It warmed him like an inner sun.

     
     
     

8
     
    Light leaked in to the pantry,
lancing his eyes. He was exhausted and weak, how long had he been
asleep? Two whole days? Three? He could explore the grooves of his
ribs with his fingers. God he was thin. At least he was hungry and
that had to be a good sign.
    There was no point checking the
dusty shelves, he already knew there was no food. If he could make
any grub in the world magically appear, what would it be? Mutton
stew and fresh bread. Leek and Potato soup perhaps. No, it would
have to be a fry-up stacked with burnt bacon, fried bread,
mushrooms, tomatoes, black pud and three fried eggs.
    His stomach gurgled, oh God.
Fantasising about food did him no good when he hadn’t the strength
to stand. Something stirred in him though, a faint memory. It was
something important, in the periphery, so close he could almost
grip onto it. What had made the memory resurface in the first
place? All he’d done was daydream about food.
    ‘ Oh my giddy
aunt!’ he yelled, ‘It’s the bloody eggs!’
    His clumsy fingers scrambled
for purchase around the floorboard, up it came and there, unmarked
by the smoke of fire was the jar of pickled eggs. He let out a
gasp. How could he have forgotten? He hugged the jar to his body
and kissed the dusty glass.
    He gave the lid a go, but it
was stuck fast. He cursed his own diligence; he’d obviously been
concerned the jar might have leaked while stored on its side and
automatically over-tightened it. No matter.
    Perry
half-crawled, half-clawed his way into the kitchen. A squirrel
scampered along the windowsill. Outside, the sky was bright and
blue. Come on, you can do this, just a bit
further.
    He made it to
the water butt. He let the sun’s rays cascade upon his face and
then, using both hands, launched the jar against the wall. The
glass smashed with a satisfying crack. Vinegar glugged to the
ground and five eggs rolled freely in the dirt. Perry cleaned the first egg in the water butt and popped it in
whole. Nothing had ever tasted so good.
    An hour later,
thirst quenched