Chris Riddell

‘Silas. What’s a Macabray?’

Silas’s eyebrows raised and his head tipped to one side. ‘Where did you hear about that?’

‘Everyone in the graveyard is talking about it. I think it’s something that happens tomorrow night. What’s a Macabray?’

‘It’s a dance,’ said Silas.

‘All must dance the Macabray,’ said Bod, remembering. ‘Have you danced it? What kind of dance is it?’

His guardian looked at him with eyes like black pools and said, ‘I do not know. I know many things, Bod, for I have been walking this earth at night for a very long time, but I do not know what it is like to dance the Macabray. You must be alive or you must be dead to dance it – and I am neither.’

Bod shivered. He wanted to embrace his guardian, to hold him and tell him that he would never desert him, but the action was unthinkable. He could no more hug Silas than he could hold a

moonbeam, not because his guardian was insubstantial, but because it would be wrong. There were people you could hug, and then there was Silas.

His guardian inspected Bod thoughtfully, a boy in his new clothes. ‘You’ll do,’ he said. ‘Now you look like you’ve lived outside the graveyard all your life.’

Bod smiled proudly. Then the smile stopped and he looked grave once again. He said, ‘But you’ll always be here, Silas, won’t you? And I won’t ever have to leave, if I don’t want to?’

‘Everything in its season,’ said Silas, and he said no more that night.

And there are always people who find their lives have become so unsupportable they believe the best thing they could do would be to hasten their transition to another plane of existence.’
‘They kill themselves, you mean?’ said Bod. He was about eight years old, wide-eyed and inquisitive, and he was not stupid.
‘Indeed.’
‘Does it work? Are they happier dead?’
‘Sometimes. Mostly, no. It’s like the