A Monster Calls Part 14

But she was too weak, much too weaka"

And the fists rushed down together in a violent pounce and grabbed her, pulling her over the edge of the cliff.

And at last, Conor could run. With a shout, he broke across the clearing, running so fast he nearly toppled over, and he threw himself towards her, towards her out-reaching hands as the dark fists pulled her over the edge.

And his hands caught hers.

This was the nightmare. This was the nightmare that woke him up screaming every night. This was it happening, right now, right here.

He was on the cliff edge, bracing himself, holding onto his mother's hands with all his strength, trying to keep her from being pulled down into the blackness, pulled down by the creature below the cliff.

Who he could see all of now.

The real monster, the one he was properly afraid of, the one he'd expected to see when the yew tree first showed up, the real, nightmare monster, formed of cloud and ash and dark flames, but with real muscle, real strength, real red eyes that glared back at him and flas.h.i.+ng teeth that would eat his mother alive. I've seen worse, Conor had told the yew tree that first night.

And here was the worse thing.

"Help me, Conor!" his mum yelled. "Don't let go!"

"I won't!" Conor yelled back. "I promise!"

The nightmare monster gave a roar and pulled harder, its fists straining around his mother's body.

And she began to slip from Conor's grasp.

"No!" he called.

His mum screamed in terror. "Please, Conor! Hold on to me!"

"I will!" Conor yelled. He turned back to the yew tree, standing there, not moving. "Help me! I can't hold on to her!"

But it just stood there, watching.

"Conor!" his mum yelled.

And her hands were slipping.

"Conor!" she yelled again.

"Mum!" he cried, gripping tighter.

But they were slipping from his grasp, and she was getting heavier and heavier, the nightmare monster pulling harder and harder.

"I'm slipping!" his mum yelled.

"NO!" he cried.

He fell forward onto his chest from the weight of her and the nightmare's fists pulling on her.

She screamed again.

And again.

And she was so heavy, impossibly so.

"Please," Conor whispered to himself. "Please."

And here, he heard the yew tree say behind him, is the fourth tale.

"Shut up!" Conor shouted. "Help me!"

Here is the truth of Conor O'Malley.

And his mother was screaming.

And she was slipping.

It was so hard to hold on to her.

It is now or never, the yew tree said. You must speak the truth.

"No!" Conor said, his voice breaking.

You must.

"No!" Conor said again, looking down into his mother's facea"

As the truth came all of a suddena"

As the nightmare reached its most perfect momenta"

"No!" Conor screamed one more timea"

And his mother fell.

THE REST OF THE FOURTH TALE.

This was the moment when he usually woke up. When she fell, screaming, out of his grasp, into the abyss, taken by the nightmare, lost forever, this was where he usually sat up in his bed, covered in sweat, his heart beating so fast he thought he might die.

But he didn't wake up.

The nightmare still surrounded him. The yew tree still stood behind him.

The tale is not yet told, it said.

"Take me out of here," Conor said, getting shakily to his feet. "I need to see my mum."

She is no longer here, Conor, his original monster said. You let her go.

"This is just a nightmare," Conor said, panting hard. "This isn't the truth."

It is the truth, said the monster. You know it is. You let her go.

"She fell," Conor said. "I couldn't hold on to her any more. She got so heavy."

And so you let her go.

"She fell!" Conor said, his voice rising, almost in desperation. The filth and ash that had taken his mum was returning up the cliff face in tendrils of smoke, smoke that he couldn't help but breathe in. It entered his mouth and his nose like air, filling him up, choking him. He had to fight to even breathe.

You let her go, said the monster.

"I didn't let her go!" Conor shouted, his voice cracking. "She fell!"

You must tell the truth or you will never leave this nightmare, the monster said, looming dangerously over him now, its voice scarier than Conor had ever heard it. You will be trapped here alone for the rest of your life.

"Please let me go!" Conor yelled, trying to back away. He called out in terror when he saw that the tendrils of the nightmare had wrapped themselves around his legs. They tripped him to the ground and started wrapping themselves around his arms, too. "Help me!"

Speak the truth! the monster said, its voice stern and terrifying now. Speak the truth or stay here forever.

"What truth?" Conor yelled, desperately fighting the tendrils. "I don't know what you mean!"

The monster's face suddenly surged out of the blackness, inches away from Conor's.

You do know, it said, low and threatening.

And there was a sudden quiet.

Because, yes, Conor knew.

He had always known.

The truth.

The real truth. The truth from the nightmare.

"No," he said, quietly, as the blackness started wrapping itself around his neck. "No, I can't."

You must.

"I can't," Conor said again.

You can, said the monster, and there was a change in its voice. A note of something.

Of kindness.

Conor's eyes were filling now. Tears were tumbling down his cheeks and he couldn't stop them, couldn't even wipe them away because the nightmare's tendrils were binding him now, had nearly taken him over completely.

"Please don't make me," Conor said. "Please don't make me say it."

You let her go, the monster said.

Conor shook his head. "Pleasea""

You let her go, the monster said again.

Conor closed his eyes tightly.

But then he nodded.

You could have held on for longer, the monster said, but you let her fall. You loosened your grip and let the nightmare take her.

Conor nodded again, his face scrunched up with pain and weeping.

You wanted her to fall.

"No," Conor said through thick tears.

You wanted her to go.

"No!"

You must speak the truth and you must speak it now, Conor O'Malley. Say it. You must.

Conor shook his head again, his mouth clamped shut tight, but he could feel a burning in his chest, like a fire someone had lit there, a miniature sun, blazing away and burning him from the inside.

"It'll kill me if I do," he gasped.

It will kill you if you do not, the monster said. You must say it.

"I can't."

You let her go. Why?

The blackness was wrapping itself around Conor's eyes now, plugging his nose and overwhelming his mouth. He was gasping for breath and not getting it. It was suffocating him. It was killing hima"

Why, Conor? the monster said fiercely. Tell me WHY! Before it is too late!

And the fire in Conor's chest suddenly blazed, suddenly burned like it would eat him alive. It was the truth, he knew it was. A moan started in his throat, a moan that rose into a cry and then a loud wordless yell and he opened his mouth and the fire came blazing out, blazing out to consume everything, bursting over the blackness, over the yew tree, too, setting it ablaze along with the rest of the world, burning it back as Conor yelled and yelled and yelled, in pain and griefa"

And he spoke the words.

He spoke the truth.

He told the rest of the fourth tale.

"I can't stand it any more!" he cried out as the fire raged around him. "I can't stand knowing that she'll go! I just want it to be over! I want it to be finished!"

And then the fire ate the world, wiping away everything, wiping him away with it.