Читать книгу Boneland - Alan Garner, Alan Garner - Страница 6

‘Listen. I’ll tell you. I’ve got to tell you.’

‘A scratch, Colin.’

‘I must tell you.’

‘Just a scratch.’

‘I will.’

‘There.’

‘I shall.’

‘Done.’

He cut the veil of the rock; the hooves clattered the bellowing waters below him in the dark. The lamp brought the moon from the blade, and the blade the bull from the rock. The ice rang.

He took life in his mouth, spat red over hand on the cave wall. The bull roared. Around, above him, the trample of the beasts answered; the stags, the hinds, the horses, the bulls, and the trace of old dreams. The ice rang. He held the lamp and climbed among antlers necks ears eyes horns haunches, the limbs, the nostrils, the rutting, the dancers; from the cave to the crack. He pushed the lamp at the dark and followed his shoulder, his head twisted, through the hill along the seam of grit, by the nooks of the dead. He slipped out; pinched the lamp, and crawled between slabs into the gash of Ludcruck on snow.

The colours and webs faded and he saw the world. The ice had dropped from the two cliffs flat in the gap. He braced himself against each side of stone, and moved over the fall.

He found them lying together. He tried to touch her and the child through the ice. He saw his echo, but they had no echo. Though the eyes met, they did not speak. They were not him. Where the crag had shed, spirit faces looked down from the scar, rough, knuckled, green; and grass hung over the ledges.

He passed where the cleft opened more than a spear length. The sky was blue, icicles shone; the sun played, but could not reach the floor. He went along, up, around, and left Ludcruck hole by the arch to the hill.

He met the footsteps, woman and child, and walked against them, back above the river, cobbles banging in the melt of summer flood, until a fold of land shut off the sound and he came to the lodge. He opened the hide and went in.

He lay for one day. He lay for two days. He lay for three days.

‘Colin. Colin?’

A face was leaning over him, concentrated, checking. He heard and saw, but did not wake.

Next, he was in the ward, and a panel in the ceiling rattled.

‘Cup of tea, diddums?’

‘No. Thanks.’

‘Coffee, my love?’

‘No. Thanks.’

‘Water, pet?’

‘Please. Yes.’

‘Chin up, chicken.’

A hand lifted his head, and another put the hard glass between his teeth.

‘Thanks.’

Someone wiped his beard. The colours and webs faded. He saw the world.

‘Hello, Colin.’ A doctor looked down at him.

‘Hello.’

‘Well, all seems to be fine. You can go home tomorrow.’

‘Why not now? Now. Please. That was the agreement.’

‘I don’t advise it.’ The doctor went to the desk and spoke to the sister. Colin worked a finger under the plastic strip around his wrist that showed his name and number and date of birth and tugged to snap it. It did not move. He tried to force it over his hand. The plastic bit into the skin. He managed to get another finger through and lodged the plastic in the crease of each first joint, and pulled again. The white band did not slacken. He blocked his mind against it, shut his eyes and willed the hands apart. He held the pain as ecstasy. It could not feel, and he would not give. He would not give. It could not feel. He would not give. He would not. The band broke, and he fell back, triumphant.

‘There we are, cherub.’

He opened his eyes. A nurse had snipped the band with scissors.

He reached behind the locker for his backpack, took off the gown and dragged on his clothes; no more a thing.

‘You’re discharging yourself, Colin. I’d be happier if you stayed until after breakfast tomorrow. You do understand?’

‘I understand, sister. But I’d like to have a taxi, please.’

‘It’s in your interest to stay.’

‘I know it is. But I want to go. I want to go home. I need to. I want to go now.’

‘Avoid alcohol until you’ve seen your own doctor. Remember.’

‘I’ll remember.’

A porter wheeled him to the main hall. With each passage from the ward to the air he felt himself return. The taxi was waiting.

‘Where are we for, squire?’ said the driver.

‘Church Quarry, please.’

‘Where’s that?’

‘I’ll show you.’

‘Best sit at the front, then.’

Colin got in and held the backpack on his knee.

‘Done your seat belt?’

‘Sorry.’

The driver reached over and ran the belt across Colin’s chest between his arms and the backpack and locked it. They drove round the car park to the road.

‘Which way?’ said the driver.

Colin’s cheek was on the backpack.

‘Don’t nod off, mate, else we’ll never get home.’

‘Sorry. Go by Trugs.’

‘Got you.’

They left the town into the falling sun, away from the straight walls, the corridors without shadow, the flatnesses, along roads and lanes that bent, dipped and lifted, copying the land. Colin’s head drooped.

‘What line of business are you in, then?’ said the driver.

‘Sorry?’

‘What’s your job?’

‘Ah. Survey. M45. At the moment.’

‘It wants widening.’

‘I’m measuring it.’

‘Comes in handy sometimes.’

‘Yes?’

‘M6, M42, M45, M1.’

‘How do you mean?’

‘It misses the worst of the traffic.’

‘May I have a little air?’

‘Sure. So what’s this survey you’re doing?’

‘Plotting dwarfs.’

The driver looked at him.

‘Only the anomalous. Bear right at The Black Greyhound,’ said Colin.

‘Bloody Norah.’

‘The main work is MERLIN.’

‘What’s that?’

‘Acronym.’

‘Oh. To keep them bridges up.’

‘Turn right here,’ said Colin. The taxi wove between potholes along a farm track beside the wood. ‘At the next tree will do fine.’

‘You all right, mate?’

‘Perfect,’ said Colin. ‘Thank you very much.’

He walked into the silence of the wood and the quarry and his Bergli hut. He put the key to the door but he could not feel the lock. Sweat ran and his mouth was dry. Light shone on the log planks. He turned his head towards it in the dusk. It was a torch, dazzling him.

‘You sure you’re all right, mate?’ said the driver.

‘Perhaps a little help,’ said Colin. He slid down the doorframe. ‘How remiss of me.’

‘Come here. Let’s be having you.’ The driver took the key, unlocked the door and opened it. ‘Where’s the switch?’

‘For what?’

‘The electric.’

‘I don’t use it.’

‘By the cringe.’

The driver put his arms under Colin’s shoulders and lifted him across the threshold. He swung his torch to see the room, then hefted Colin along the floor and laid him down on a bunk that was against the wall.

‘The lamp’s on the table,’ said Colin. ‘Matches in the drawer.’

The driver looked. ‘And what’s this effort?’

‘Tilley. Loosen the pump to release any pressure.’

‘What pump?’

‘The knurled projection on the top of the reservoir. Give it a quarter turn to the left and retighten. Open the jar of meths and dip the preheater in. When it’s soaked, clip the preheater around the vaporiser stem, light it with a match and slide it up under the glass. When the meths begins to expire, give four full firm rhythmic strokes on the pump, like so: “Here comes a candle to light you to bed”; then as the flame dies, turn on the lamp and the mantle will ignite audibly and burn yellow. After thirty seconds give several strokes on the pump until the mantle is white and the lamp is making a steady hiss. What’s the matter?’

The driver was laughing. ‘Stone the crows! You’re summat else, you are!’

‘What? Where? How many?’ Colin got himself to the table. He pulled a chair across, sat heavily, and lit the Tilley lamp. His hands shook but his pumping brought the hissing white.

‘How many?’

‘How many what?’ said the driver.

‘Crows.’

The driver’s phone rang. ‘Hi, Fay. I’m with a customer. The job from the hospital. Eh? You’re breaking up.’

‘A figure of speech,’ said Colin. ‘Of course.’

‘I’ll ring you back. Cheers.’

‘So selfish of me to detain you,’ said Colin.

‘You’re all right, mate. Part of the service.’

‘Thank you. Thank you. That’s generous. Most generous. Should I need a taxi in the future, will you be able to drive me?’

‘Sure. Here’s our card. Give us a bell.’

‘But I’d like you to do it, personally. What’s your name?’

‘Call me Bert.’

‘I mean your full name.’

‘Bert Forster. But ask for Bert.’ He wrote on the card.

‘Thank you. Bert.’ Colin held out his hand. ‘Whisterfield. Colin Whisterfield.’

‘Pleased to meet you, Colin. Now, how are we going to sort you?’

‘I’m feeling better; much better. I’ll be fine.’

‘Can I get you owt?’

‘No. No. I’ll sit here a while and then go to bed. If you’ll pass me a glass, there’s a rather good malt over there. I only wish I could invite you to join me.’

The driver put the glass and the bottle on the table and Colin poured the whisky with a steady hand.

‘Right then, Colin. I’ll be off.’

‘Yes. Thanks for all you’ve done, Bert. Good night. If you could close the curtains …’

‘No problem.’

‘I hadn’t finished answering your question.’

‘What question?’

‘I was saying. Multi-element-radio-linked-interferometer-network.’

‘So you were. Cheers, mate.’

Colin made a fire and sat at the table through the night until the day showed. Then he put out the lamp, sprawled on his bunk; and he slept.

He woke, drank, blew a fire heap, ate meat, and left the lodge. He took smouldering moss and the lamp and went into Ludcruck from the Bearstone so that he did not cross the icefall.

He lit the lamp and worked through the grit past the nooks of the dead. The beasts trampled, but he did not stay. He lowered himself over the lip of the cliff inside the hill and climbed in the flicker, seeing nothing outside the globe in which he hung, hearing only the waters below, down to the great cave that was night, and the Stone that was its being, though it could be held in a fist.

The Stone was the womb of things. Nothing before it was made, and with it the spirits had chopped the marrow from the rock. It lay among the glint of its making; and the shining river ran beneath.

He put the lamp aside and sat a while, moving his thought. Then he stood and he stamped and he danced on the flakes and he sang. The chinking filled the cave, answering between the walls and the sky of the roof. He turned about the black Stone. He became the sounds, and was with the voices of the old, and the voices of the old were with him.

His step pressed the flakes; and from them under him rose moonlight, which grew with the dance, until it quelled the lamp. The moon lifted into him and flowed from bone to bone; along his spine and every rib, gleamed at his fingers, filled his skull, broke through his eyes, and brought pictures to his tongue.

Wolf! Wolf! Grey Wolf! I am calling for you!

Far away the Grey Wolf heard, and came.

Here am I, the Grey Wolf.

The woman. The child.

That is not Trouble. The Trouble is yet to come. Sit up on me, the Grey Wolf.

He sat up on the shoulder. The Grey Wolf struck the damp earth and ran, higher than the trees, lower than the clouds, and each leap measured a mile; from his feet flint flew, spring spouted, lake surged and mixed with gravel dirt, and birch bent to the ground. Hare crouched, boar bristled, crow called, owl woke, and stag began to bell. And the Grey Wolf stopped.

They were at the Hill of Death and Life.

Get down from me, the Grey Wolf, and gather the red rock, the white rock, the green rock, the blue rock, the brown rock, the black rock, and bring them here.

He got down from the Grey Wolf and went about the Hill of Death and Life. He gathered the red rock, the white rock, the green rock, the blue rock, the brown rock, the black rock, and brought them to where the Grey Wolf was.

He sat up on the shoulder, and the Grey Wolf struck the damp earth and ran, higher than the trees, lower than the clouds, and each leap measured a mile; from his feet flint flew, spring spouted, lake surged and mixed with gravel dirt, and birch bent to the ground. Hare crouched, boar bristled, crow called, owl woke, and stag began to bell. The Grey Wolf came to the great cave above the waters.

Hold the Stone. Grind thunder.

No one, not the living, not the dead, has touched the Stone. It is a spirit thing.

Long hair, short wit. I, the Grey Wolf, am speaking. Do it.

He got down and held the Stone in his fist. He put the rocks in among the flakes and bore on them with the Stone’s point; twisting their roughness, grating, churning. The rocks crumbled to sand beneath the weight. There was no moon but the cry of the grains of every hue, swirling, streaming about him, in him, through him, which became wind and thunder that picked him so that all that kept him was his hand on the Stone, his body tossed by the wind, until he could hold no more, and the thunder took him through the hill in a ball of rainbow and set him on the ground, by the river, under the sky.

He tasted lightning. He smelt it. The air was jags and spots. The Stone came as a cloud with flame from the Tor of Ghosts. The sky was riven in noise enough to break the hills. The land changed colours, and what was flat was black and what was steep was white; and the Stone flared and rent the slot of Ludcruck.

He dropped, his eyes shut, seeing only the wind. He sang, and with each song the earth shook. He lay, and was quiet; the earth stilled. His breath sounded in the great cave. Yet he lay a while, until the last quake died and his hands felt only the grasp of snow.

He opened his eyes. He was lying on the floor and the lamp shone. His hands bled from clutched shards. The Stone was in its place among the powdered rocks and had not moved.

Wolf. Wolf. Grey Wolf.

There was no answer.

He cupped the lamp in his palm and climbed, not feeling the pain as he pulled on the cliff.

Ludcruck was filled with summer. The ice had gone and the green mist of growing lit the spirit faces that looked out from the walls among fern, grass and holly along the twisting length.

The woman and the child lay in beds of eight-petalled white avens flower. He touched their faces and held their hands. The bodies were soft. He carried them out of Ludcruck to the hill. Here was snow and knars of grit stood draped.

He went to where a stack rose on ground above the valley and laid the bodies down. He snapped the icicles, clearing the way. He took the woman and climbed, and rested her on the snow at the stack top and opened her clothing.

She was lovely. Her cheeks were sunken, but had been so before when meat was late. Her nose was pinched, but he had seen that in winter. Only the hollow middle of her eye, the jaw and the stain on her shoulders her buttocks and behind her legs said that she would not come back. He loosed her hair, and laid it to either side of the sweet face.

Then he brought the child, wrapped in hare skin, and unbound it.

He left them together on the stack, where no beast would reach and steal, but birds could take them to the circle of life in air and earth, and he turned to the lodge. At the end of day, he looked out and saw that they were safe under ravens.

‘Risselty-rosselty, hey pomposity,

Knickerty-knackerty

Now, now, now.’

Colin took his bicycle and pedalled along the track to the road, adjusted his helmet, and crossed into Artists Lane. He stopped, lifted his feet and let the gradient take him down the dip slope of the Edge.

‘Risselty-rosselty, hey donny-dossity,

Knickerty-knackerty, rustical quality,

Willow tree wallowty

Now, now, now.’

He swept round the blind corner at Brynlow, past The Topps and The Butts to the Cross.

‘Risselty-rosselty, hey bombossity,

Knickerty-knackerty, rustical quality,

Willow tree wallowty, hey donny-dossity,

Risselty-rosselty

Now, now, now.’

He reached the main road and without looking right or left or touching the brakes went straight over from Artists Lane to Welsh Row. He coasted past Nut Tree and New House as far as Gatley Green until he came to the bypass and the railway bridge and had to pedal, after two point seven eight four three kilometres of free energy; approximately. Then it was Soss Moss, Chelford and Dingle Bank, to the telescope.

He punched the door code and went into the control room.

‘Afternoon, Owen.’

‘Hi, Colin.’ The duty controller turned in his chair away from the encompassing desk, the monitors and computers and the clocks of other time. ‘What are you doing?’

‘I want to check the data.’

‘You’re a liability. You know that?’

‘Have you got the printouts?’

‘And R.T.’s after your head.’

‘Wellaway.’

‘He’s found you’re spending time on M45. Says you’re wasting the budget.’

‘Am I, now?’

‘Don’t push it. He thinks you’re not here.’

‘I can change that.’

‘Colin. You’re off sick.’

‘So I don’t feel sick.’

‘Listen. We worry about you. You’re irrational.’

‘Perhaps.’

‘M45 is not a priority.’

‘Not for you.’

‘Listen, Colin. I don’t give a corkscrew chuff box for the budget. It’s you I’m bothered about, my friend.’

‘Thanks, Owen. I appreciate that. Is R.T. in?’

‘Yes.’

‘Right. I’ll see whether he wants my head on a charger or as it comes.’

Colin left the control room and went to the Director’s office. He knocked on the door.

‘R.T.?’

‘Whisterfield. Come in; you already have. Take a seat. Aren’t you on sick leave?’

The Director was his calm self. He turned a stone paperweight under his hand: the only sign; and the blue of his eyes.

‘You’re not happy,’ said Colin.

‘Correct.’

‘M45.’

‘Precisely.’

‘Why?’

‘Look here, Whisterfield. You are an able fellow. You have the potential to expand our understanding of the cosmos. Yet you fritter the budget on a cluster of adjacent stellar trinkets that is more the stuff of students.’

‘And if it isn’t?’

‘What are you saying?’

‘The fact that M45 is a local phenomenon may be irrelevant.’

‘But it is science that others less creative could do.’

‘“Creative”? R.T. You built your contraption outside to look for something you never have found. Now it finds what wasn’t even guessed at and wouldn’t have been discovered without you. Was that only science?’

The Director’s hand on the paperweight was still.

‘All I ask is a chance,’ said Colin.

‘I hear you, my boy,’ said the Director. ‘Watch your back.’

‘Thanks,’ said Colin, and closed the door behind him.

‘And?’ said Owen.

‘He’s fine,’ said Colin. ‘He understood when I explained what I was doing.’

‘Well, I’d not have put money on it, choose what you say,’ said Owen. ‘Here are the printouts. And you’re still sick, lad. Go home.’

‘I shall. Oh, and by the bye. The chough, Pyrrhocorux pyrrhocorux, builds its nest of twigs, roots and plant stems, lined with grass on cliffs or in old buildings; Slater, Williams and Whisterfield, page 102. It would not, and could not, use a box.’

Colin wheeled his bicycle across the grass to the security fence and looked up at the white dish. It was parked in the zenith. He heard the wind among the struts. A klaxon sounded. The hum of the drive motors started, and the amber warning lights on the bogies flashed. The three thousand tonnes of steel began to move in azimuth and elevation and the red eye of the central focus mast tilted into view. The two towers that held the dish crept along their rails. The note of the wind changed, the stresses of the girders and of the dish made their own music as the telescope tracked, slowed to the measure of the Earth’s turning, and the motors died near to silence.

Colin checked. 15.15. He squinted. Azimuth 157·6°; Elevation 58° 20´; Right Ascension 3h. 46´; Declination +24° 11´. Good old Owen.

So the day shrank and night stretched. The clonter of the cobbles in the river was silent, and the river fell to sleep.

Then was the time when day and night were the same, and the sun tipped towards death. He went to the stack. The bones were clean and the wind had taken the hair to be found when birds built nests again; and the woman and the child were gone into life.

He brought the bones to Ludcruck. He eased them through the grit so they would not break. He reached to the nooks of the dead and lifted aside the old to make way for the new. And when they were quiet he left them.

The sun was dying, but hope would come. He counted as the cold gripped. If hope did not come, the sun would not turn, and there would be nothing but the wanderers, the curving of the stars, winter, and the moon.

At each clear dark he went above Ludcruck to the Bearstone and watched as the Stone Spirit, riding on the Bull’s back, the Bull that he had made new with the blade and with his hand, climbed the wall of the night cave. He watched the ring of stars that sat upon the Spirit’s brow, and watched until the Bull dropped below the hills.

And at the next dark he watched; and the next. If the Stone Spirit should see there was no one to care that the sun was weak it would not give the fire of its brow and the stars would end. Then where would be beasts to hunt? Where the hunters? Where the Hunter in the sky?

Once, when the world was full, the Hunter walked the sky. Above him was the Bull, and through the nights of winter it went before him with lowered horns. But when the world grew empty the Hunter left to follow the herds; yet the Bull stayed. And every night he rose above the hills. He hooked his red eye over, watching to see that there was life, and the Stone Spirit looked to send out eagles from its head to feed the stars. Then, when they had seen that the world was well and the stars were fed, the Bull and the Stone Spirit rested until night came again.

And each dancer in Ludcruck made new the Bull and the beasts on the wall of the cave sky for the time when all would be again, with the Hunter striding. But if the dancer did not dance and sing and make new the Bull on the sky wall, the Stone Spirit would not send eagles.

Yet there was a greater than the Bull, a greater than the Stone Spirit; for they kept the world and the stars through winter, but Crane kept through all Time.

Crane flew never resting along the River above the sky. It flew the highmost heavens and drove down upon the night. At deepest winter, when the sun could die, it thrust its beak to the dark above the Tor of Ghosts that lay under the star that did not turn. Then, when it seemed that it must strike the Tor, at the midpoint of the night, Crane skimmed the crest and rose to dive again in everlasting life. So the Bull cared for the world, the Stone Spirit for the stars, Crane for world, stars and the round of Time.

With the woman and the child gone into Ludcruck, he made a snow hole at the Bearstone and sat as the Bull lifted, to show that he kept watch and worked that the world would not be lost. And, as he sat, hope came.

Above the Bull’s back the Stone Spirit put up its hand and plucked eagles from the ring about its brow and sent them out. They flew as sparks across the night, gliding on their feathered fire about the cave, and the stars were fed. Every night he watched, until every eagle had flown and the sky was new though the sun sank.

Each year the sun went to die; and each year the Stone Spirit and the eagles fetched it back, though it had its trick to play.

With every setting, the sun drew nearer to death, the point of Moel, the Hill of Night, the hill from which there was no return. And at last it sank, big, into Moel and was gone. Then, if the Stone Spirit had not fed the stars, the sun had died. But now it crept behind the ridge of Moel until it came to the Nick in the hill, and blinked.

For three nights the sun played with the world, dying into Moel, and blinking at the Nick. Then it stopped its play, and climbed from Moel and death, so that night shrank and day stretched once more.

Colin locked his bicycle at the Health Centre and twirled the combination. He rubbed disinfectant gel into his hands from the dispenser before tapping his details on the screen. He saw that he was expected and was invited to the waiting area.

He sat and watched the red LED dots cycle their information: welcome, statistics, chiding of appointments missed, a clinic for infant eczema, monitoring of blood pressure, electronic beeps of the summoning of patients to their doctors, please ask a member of staff if you need help.

A woman was reading a book to a child on her knee.

‘“So the little boy went into the wood, and he met a witch.” Don’t pick your nose. “And the witch said, ‘You come home with me and I’ll give you a good dinner.’” Now you wouldn’t go home with a witch, would you?’

‘I wouldn’t, Nan.’

‘But this little boy does. “The witch’s house stood on hens’ legs.” Isn’t that daft?’

He nodded.

‘“And the witch said, ‘Come in, and I’ll give you some dinner.”’ Would you go in?’

He shook his head.

‘Well, the little boy, see, he’s going in. “The witch said, ‘Come upstairs.’” Would you go upstairs with a witch?’

‘Don’t go,’ said Colin.

The woman looked at him.

‘“So the boy went upstairs.” If you went upstairs in a witch’s house, what would you do?’

‘I’d wee.’

Colin stood. ‘Young man. Do not go into the witch’s house. Do not. And whatever you do, do not go upstairs. You must not go upstairs. Do not go! You are not to go!’

The woman put her arm around the child.

‘You must not go upstairs!’

A receptionist came from her desk.

‘Professor Whisterfield.’

‘You must not go!’

‘Professor Whisterfield.’

‘He must not go upstairs! I have been upstairs! They are not hens’ legs! They are not the legs of hens!’

‘Professor Whisterfield. Please.’

‘He must not.’

Beep. The LEDs flashed. Colin Whisterfield. Room 5.

‘You mustn’t. They are not Gallus gallus domesticus,’ said Colin as he left the waiting area.

‘That man’s funny,’ said the boy. ‘He makes me laugh.’

Colin knocked on the open door.

‘Hi,’ said the doctor. ‘How was the hospital?’

‘Farce.’

‘Do you want to continue?’

‘If you like. Don’t let that boy go in.’

‘Boy?’ said the doctor.

‘The one outside.’

‘Go in where?’

‘The witch’s house.’

The doctor linked his hands behind his neck, pushed his chair backwards, and spun until it came to rest.

Colin leaned forward and turned the computer screen. ‘So what have we here? Well, these cocktails didn’t work, did they? That. And that. And that. Oh, I remember that. How I remember that. And that. And that. And as for that! I didn’t care. Chemically poleaxed. I’d rather be mad. Give me a healthy psychosis any day.’

‘All I can do is offer advice,’ said the doctor. ‘It’s up to you whether you take it. We’ve exhausted the pharmacopoeia. ECT isn’t ideal, but that’s where we’re at.’

Colin held the screen frame at arm’s length and shut his eyes against the facts. He swung his head one way, then the other, and began to shake. The doctor loosened the fingers from the computer. Colin clapped his palms to his face and slouched on the desk.

‘Help me.’

The doctor waited.

‘There’s nowhere. Nowhere to go. I’ve nowhere. Else.’

‘You had to admit it yourself, Colin. It had to come from you. If people get too close you act the goat; and you’re so damned clever and devious you run rings round any argument you don’t want to hear. You’d run rings round me, if I let you.’

‘I can’t manage any more.’

‘If you mean that, there is somebody you wouldn’t con.’

‘Alone. Inside. I am so alone.’

‘Did you hear what I said?’

‘Yes. All right. Yes. Anything. Whatever you want.’

‘She’s not to everyone’s taste; but she gets results.’

Colin looked up. ‘“She”?’

‘Is that a problem for you?’

‘Is she a witch?’

‘What on earth do you mean? Don’t talk such rubbish, man. Of course she isn’t a witch. She’s a highly qualified psychiatrist and, in my opinion, if you’re the least bit concerned, an even better psychotherapist. Colin, sometimes you say the strangest things.’

‘She could still be a witch,’ said Colin. ‘Does she like crows? Carrion crows? Corvus corone corone?’

‘I’ve no idea. I haven’t asked her.’

‘OK,’ said Colin. ‘OK.’

‘What are you talking about?’ said the doctor. ‘What’s bothering you?’

‘Nothing. Nothing. It’s all right.’

‘It clearly is not all right. You’ve got a tremor.’

‘It’s nothing. I concur. Just let’s stop. This. Please.’

‘Leave it with me, then. I’ll cancel the hospital.’

‘As you wish. Whatever you want.’

‘It’ll be rough.’

‘I understand the implication.’

Colin got up to go.

‘Eric.’

‘Yes?’

‘You were spinning the chair anti-clockwise. That’s unlucky. Always turn with the sun.’

The sun worked, and the cold gripped more; but it would pass. He had to travel the White Rocks before the clonter of spring began and the waters blocked his return.

The time came when day and night moved the world from winter. He took a bag of skin and went in the dark to the Bearstone and smelt the wind. It was in the Flatlands, where the sun now set. He watched Crane climb the sky, pulling the day up from below the hills, and as it reached above his head, night became empty of black, Crane faded into the light, and the coming sun hardened the edges of the hills as it rose behind him.

He took the leg bone of a crane from the bag and he went down into Ludcruck and faced the wall of the bird spirits. He danced the day and put the bone to his lips and played. He played the cranes from their sleep. The bone made their cry, and the cry answered from the spirit wall and joined with the sound, growing, back and to, back and to, so that his playing was lost in the greater cry. He stopped, but the sound went on, until all Ludcruck was a waking of cranes.

Over the Flatlands black lines and dabs rose in the sky cave, swirling, bulls, shifting, hinds, horses, antlers, horns, haunches as the cranes rose, wheeled and firmed into heads of spears.

He danced in the sound, and the sound of Ludcruck was loud and louder as the cranes flew above. He danced and he danced. He danced to join them. The spear shadows darkened. He danced. He danced his spirit wings, and lifted out of the rock into the company of the birds.

The cranes flew beyond the Bearstone, and he with them. His legs lay behind, his head stretched before, and his throat called. He flew in the spearheads over the Black Peaks towards the White Rocks, and across the White Rocks, by ridges and ice and down to the Lower Lands where the pines grew; on and on, calling, calling in the gale of feathers, through the day, until the Valley of Life showed.

Strength left him. The Valley was his journey. The cranes flew above, but he sank beneath, and his voice lost the music of the greater cry; and with the last beat of his wings he came to the edge of a crag and was a man.

Colin built momentum to above Beacon Lodge so that he freewheeled from there. The gradient as far as the lay-by at Castle Rock could be cancelled by the wind. It depended on the camber, and cars blared at him as he wobbled to the crest of the Front Hill; but he made it and began the drop past Armstrong Farm.

‘Down in Pennsyltucky where the pencils grow

There’s a little spot I think you ought to know.

’Tis a place, no doubt, you’ve never heard about;

It isn’t on the map, I do declare.

It’s a spot they call the Imazaz,

Nestling itself among the hills.

’Twas there I learnt my prayer.

’Twas there I learnt to swear.

’Twas there I took my first two Beecham’s pills,

Ta-rah-rah!’

He passed the notice at Whinsbrow. THIS HILL IS STILL DANGEROUS. Straight down from Rockside to the five-lane-ends and the roundabout.

‘There’s a cottage so sweet

At the end of the street,

And it’s Number Ninety-Four.

Oh, I’m going back to Imazaz:

Imazaz a pub next door!’

At the bottom he braked to lessen momentum, so that by leaning hard over and trailing his foot he cleared the roundabout and veered right into London Road and the traffic. He worked among the flocks of cars. They all had black glass in the windows. Then the station approach made him pedal. Two point zero four kilometres; approximately.

After the station he went by Brook Lane and Row-of-Trees, urging past Lindow Moss, along Seven Sisters Lane to Toft. The house stood at the end of a drive, among rhododendrons. He lodged his bicycle and rang the doorbell.

‘Whisterfield. Colin Whisterfield.’

‘Do come in, Professor Whisterfield. Doctor Massey is expecting you.’

The entrance corridor had a side room.

‘Please wait here.’

Colin waited.

He waited.

‘Doctor Massey is ready now, Professor.’

He was led into a bigger room, lined with books. French windows opened to lawns. A woman lay on a chaise longue, reading a file. She wore a suit of dark silk. ‘Hi,’ she said, without looking up.

‘You’re quite young,’ said Colin.

‘“Quite”.’

‘Your hair’s black.’

‘That’s this week, darling. Tomorrow may be a different story.’

There was a diamond-paned cabinet. The tumblers and decanter inside were of crystal.

‘Are you looking for a drink?’ she said.

‘May I? Is it allowed?’

‘No. But there’s ice and water over there. Help yourself.’

‘Thanks.’

‘Cheers,’ she said, and continued her reading.

Colin scanned the books. ‘You have a fascinating library. Eclectic.’

‘Yes, I have.’

‘I could make myself a tome here. That’s a pun; which is a play on words to exploit ambiguities and innuendoes in their meaning, usually for humorous effect.’

‘Oh, ha-bloody-ha. Sit down.’

Colin sat in a deep leather chair on the other side of the marble fireplace from the chaise longue. By the chair there was a low table on casters, and an open box of tissues. He was facing the windows. The chaise longue and the woman were silhouettes, the light on the silk picking out her form.

Colin held the tumbler in both hands and drank.

She shut the file, swung her legs round and sat forward. Pendant earrings broke the light, and her eyes were violet green.

‘And—Action. You’re Colin. I’m Meg. What’s up?’

‘I—’

A clock ticked. There were crystal chandeliers.

‘Do you like crows?’ he said.

‘I can take ’em or leave ’em.’

‘I—’

‘“I” what?’

Colin drank again.

‘I—don’t know.’

‘Well, I’m buggered if I do,’ she said.

‘I—’

Colin emptied the tumbler. ‘What am I supposed to say?’

‘What do you want to say?’

‘I—’

‘Where’s the pain?’

‘I don’t understand,’ said Colin.

‘So why have you come? Because you’re in pain. Right? Something hurts. Right? Go there.’

‘Go where?’

‘Go to where the pain is most and say what it tells you.’

‘Tells me what?’

‘Holy macaroli. Spare me the smart-arses. We’re not talking the square root of minus one.’

‘That’s i,’ said Colin. ‘i’s imaginary.’

‘Is you indeed?’ said Meg. ‘Is that a fact? Oh, switch your sodding brains off. Don’t think. Feel.’

‘How?’

‘He says “How?” How? Ask it. It hurts, too. It wants to tell you.’

‘“It”,’ said Colin. ‘What’s “it”?’

‘Search me.’

Colin looked at the tumbler. The tumbler flashed. He looked around. The diamond glass. Light. Blue silver. He looked up. The chandeliers. Lightning.

‘Can’t. Can’t. Nothing. It’s—’

Her earrings. Blue, silver. Blue silvers. Lightnings.

‘—No!’

He stood, smashed the tumbler on the marble and fell back, curled, his arms covering his head. The blaze from the fragments lanced his mind. He roared. He screamed. The howl tore his chest, and ran to wordless snatches of sound. She leaned forward and passed him the box of tissues.

‘I’m sorry,’ said Colin. ‘I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I am so sorry.’

‘There’s nothing to be sorry for, Sunny Jim. It’s those question-begging reductive pharmaceutical plonkers that should be sorry. They’ve put you through the wringer. They’ve even fried your head. Or tried to. Eric suggested ECT? I’m surprised. Good job you stopped. But that’s spilt milk. Someone should have read this file before it got to me.’

‘What happens next?’

‘You go home,’ she said.

‘Go home. Yes. Go. Home. But then. I’ve only just come.’

‘You’ve been on the road to here for a long time, Colin, and you’ve had a trashing now. You need to settle. Same time next week? Sooner, if you want. Or not at all?’

‘Next week. Home. Thanks.’

‘You’re welcome.’

‘I’m—’

‘Mm?’ She put her feet up on the chaise longue.

‘I’m not being—difficult—on purpose.’

‘Who’s saying you’re difficult?’

He left the room, to the corridor, out, and was sick into the rhododendrons.

Colin lifted his bicycle, but could not ride. He pushed it. The traffic, the black windows. Trucks to and from the M6, so high that they were not a part of the world, but blocks moving. He walked on the verge and turned to Seven Sisters Lane.

Here was quiet. Colin sat astride the saddle, and fell, retching. The spasm stopped. He tried again. He had balance. His legs moved. The need to pedal sucked air to his lungs and worked his heart, and by the time he came to Lindow he felt the chill off the Moss. The pull of Brook Lane parched his mouth, leaving the taste of bile on the skin. But he had to walk the Front Hill and rest at Castle Rock lay-by. His empty stomach spewed more bitterness. The road here was too loud for him. He walked, still quivering.

Colin reached the trees and the peace of the quarry, went to the hut and pumped water into a bowl. He rinsed his mouth and cleaned his teeth. Then he washed his hair, and the crusts of vomit from his beard, laid the fire and filled the lamp. He took a box from a shelf and opened it. Inside were layers of paper smelling of cedarwood mothballs.

Colin removed the layers, one by one. Between, there was folded clothing. He lifted each piece and placed it on the table, and when the box was empty he stood back and considered.

‘Full dress? Or habit? Convocation? Convocation habit. Con-voc-ation. I think so.’

He put on a white shirt and white bow tie, pulling the ends level. Next the white bands, to hang evenly. He changed his sandals and jeans for black shoes, socks and charcoal grey suit, adjusting the braces so that the trousers broke at the shoe. He fitted gold cufflinks and held the sleeves as he slid his arms into the black gown. Then he brushed the scarlet and blue silk chimere, fitted it over the gown, and fastened it with the two buttons. To finish, Colin slipped the green silk hood with the gold edge over his shoulders and set the bonnet on his head, and adjusted the tassel.

He checked in the mirror, arranged his hair and beard. He locked the hut and made his way from the quarry to the track, holding up the gown and chimere to avoid snagging. He turned left.

Away to the right were the hills: the flat top of the cone of Shuttlingslow stood clean and in the freshness he saw farms and fields on its lower slopes. To the south was Sutton with its tower. Colin went along the old broad way by Seven Firs and Goldenstone to the barren sand and rocks on Stormy Point and Saddlebole and looked out across the plain beneath. Kinder’s table was streaked with the last of late snow; Shining Tor was black.

Colin stood, pulled his hood about him, and breathed the wind. He saw the bright of spring. He smelt returning life. Then, in a moment that he knew, it was time to go. The Edge was waking to its other self. He turned from Stormy Point and strode back through the woods along the broad way.

He sat outside in the evening light with a bottle of wine.

‘I am. Must. Am.’

Colin sat, watching the shadows move over the herringbone pick marks on the wall of dimension stone. And when he could see the marks no more he went into the hut, and without lighting lamp or fire, undressed, folded the clothes into their box, got into the bunk and cried himself to sleep.

He lay for one day. He lay for two days. He lay for three days. He woke and blew a fire heap.

‘Afternoon.’

‘Hi, Trouble,’ said Owen. ‘You’re looking rough.’

‘Thanks. Can’t think why,’ said Colin.

‘Rough as old gorse. What’s up? Has your mother sold her mangle?’

‘This lot.’ He dumped a wedge of paper in the waste bin. ‘God, the kids are bad today.’

‘I’ve learnt to tune ’em out.’

‘We should get those dishes moved. Create an idiot zone.’

‘You’ve got a right cob on, haven’t you?’ said Owen.

‘Sorry. Could you run these data, to see if there’s anything fresh? No hurry. Tomorrow will do.’ Colin slid a notebook across the control desk.

‘And here’s the latest for you to look at while you’re badly,’ said Owen.

‘Thanks. I’ll take them to my pillow.’ Colin unfolded the first sheets and scanned them.

Dill doule.

‘What? What did you say?’

‘Colin, we’ve been too long at this lark—’

‘Alauda arvensis arvensis. It flies high and is insectivorous, with an exuberant song carried out on the wing. There’s also a liquid trilling flight note; Slater, Williams and Whisterfield, page 208. Sorry. You were saying. M45.’

‘As heck as like. I was saying you’re off sick, you should be at home, and if this bollocks you’re gobbing is part of it—’

‘All’s well,’ said Colin. ‘Please don’t lose any sleep over me. Apart from the hardware, I can drudge from home as easily as here.’ He put the new sheets into his backpack. ‘Now I’m going to sort those kids.’

He went out past the Discovery Centre over the grass. There was a notice: WHISPERING DISHES. Two metal bowls stood apart from the telescope, inconspicuous against its presence, but the same parabolic shape. They were mounted on edge, facing each other. The focal point of each was a central ring held on three struts, and on the rings was engraved SPEAK OR LISTEN HERE, and there were two aluminium steps up to the rings, with rails on either side. Children were swinging on the stabilising frame at the back, labelled PLEASE DO NOT CLIMB ON THIS SUPPORT STRUCTURE. Other children were on the steps of both dishes, yelling across the gap, and others running and barging at each other between. Colin went close, saying nothing, waited. The noise died under his presence.

‘It doesn’t work if you shout,’ he said. ‘You must whisper. Softly. Otherwise the signal distorts. And if you face away from the dish it’s forty-one point seven metres between, and all you hear is your own voice. You have to turn towards the dish and whisper into the ring. Then the person at the other end can hear you. Try it. Like this. Excuse me.’ Colin stood at the foot of the steps, held the rails and whispered into the focus ring. ‘Hello?’

The children had drifted off. There was one boy and a girl left. ‘Go and put your ear at the ring of that dish and listen,’ Colin said to the girl.

The girl ran, and when she was in position he said to the boy, ‘You stand up and speak into the ring as I did.’

The boy went to the top step.

‘Hello!’

‘Too loud. You have to remember to whisper,’ said Colin. ‘The parabolic surface has the property that all sound waves disseminate parallel to its central axis and travel the same distance to get to its focus. Which means that the sound bounces off the dish and converges towards the opposite focus in phase, with its pressure peaks and troughs synchronised so that they work together to make the loudest possible sound vibrations. The sound is thus enhanced at the focus, but only if it originates from the source you’re aiming it at. It’s simple. Radio waves are no different. The telescope operates on the same principle. Try again.’

‘Hello!’

‘Come down,’ said Colin. ‘Listen.’ He whispered. ‘Hello? Can you hear me?’

‘Yes!’

‘No. Shh. Shh. Like this. Can you hear me?’

There was a giggle at the focus.

‘That’s it,’ said Colin. ‘Hello.’

‘Hello.’

‘Good. Now say something.’

Giggle.

‘Shall I say something?’

‘Yes.’

‘Right. I’ll sing you a song. But quietly. Shh. Ready?’

‘Yes.’

‘Oh, I’m one of the nuts from Barcelona. Did you hear that?’

‘Yes.’

‘I plink-a-ti-plonk.

I Casa-bi-onk.’

More nervous laughter. Colin held the rails and danced, kicking his legs out, keeping his mouth at the focus. The boy ducked and crouched by the steps.

‘Round at de bar I order wine-o.

Half de mo I’m feeling fine.

Light-a de fag, de old Woodbine-o.

Order de cab for half-past nine.

I’m one of the nuts from Barcelona.

I plink-a-ti-plonk.

I Casa-bi-onk.

Did you like that?’

Silence.

‘Another try,’ said Colin. ‘Remember. Whisper. Whisper. Shh. Hello.’

‘Hello.’

‘Perfect. Great. That’s the way to do it.’

‘Hello, Col.’

‘What?’

‘Where’ve you been all this while?’

‘What?’

‘You know.’

‘You? Is it you?’

‘Who else?’

He turned. There was no one at the dish. The girl was playing with the others.

‘You!’

There was no answer.

‘Don’t go! Don’t leave me again!’

The Valley of Life was safe, but under the ice he heard the first waters. He could not stay.

Colin stumbled between the dishes, calling, listening, calling, calling. There was only ambient sound. He sat on the steps, his head in his hands, past tears.

‘Professor Whisterfield.’

One of the staff of the Discovery Centre had come out to him.

‘What, Gwen?’

‘I’d like a word with you. You’re all right, son,’ she said to the boy, who was peering through the treads.

‘He’s bloody mad! He wants locking up! I’ll tell me mam!’

‘You do that. Now off. Go on. Imshi. Pronto. Vamoose. Scoot. Shoo. Skedaddle.’

The boy ran.

‘Colin, what the hell do you think you’re at?’

‘Survival.’

‘We can’t afford this.’

‘Me neither.’

‘Inside, and no messing.’

Colin stood and walked with her, back to the Centre. He held her sleeve between finger and thumb. She took him to her office and sat him down.

‘Sorry, Gwen.’

‘“Sorry” won’t do, Colin. Any more of that and there could be a shitstorm.’

‘“Bonkers boffin bloodies blockhead beef-wits”?’

‘Shut your trap and get off site. You’re not supposed to be here. You and the other barmpots, you think you own the place.’

‘But I must be here. I have to be here.’

‘Well, I’m telling you straight. You’re useless. Nothing but a frigging nuisance. If I see you near my patch again your feet won’t touch the ground.’

He took moss and blew a brand at the fire heap and went down, swinging the brand to keep its flame.

Between the river and the crags there were no lodges nor any sign of being. He broke dead branches from fallen trees and went to a cave. He called, but only the rock spirit answered. He looked around at the earth and the floor. No one had sat here. No one had passed by. There were bones with cut marks, but they were old, gnawed by wolves and beasts and long ago. Earth covered the ashes.

He walked from cave to cave of the Valley of Life until the last. It was thin. He made a torch of pine, moved into the gap and eased himself along. The way grew wider, and there was a place where a hearth had been, but nothing now. He moved on. The passage closed again, and he came to people; but beasts had splintered their bones and cast them about, and no one had come back to care; nor were any of them new. And beyond the people there were the bones of cranes, and the cave end.

He went back to the light and the sky. He looked across the Valley to the other shore and the cave there. He had to go.

He stepped over the ice.

The cave faced the star that did not turn, and he sat at the cave mouth through the day and sang the sun along until night filled with black and the sky River ran into the cave of bones, then lifted above the crags so that Crane could fly. He sang Crane round from its lowmost up to its height to bring the day. And when he saw that the sun had woken he made the fire heap strong and lit the pine, stood, and went to the cave.

He entered the chamber and raised the torch to the bird cut nesting in the roof. He saw it, and its eye saw him. He passed the slots of women, which made the tracks of birds, along the walls and by beasts that he knew in Ludcruck.

He left the cave, into a passage to where he had to crawl, to the place of the Dark and of the Woman. She had no head, but her breasts were rumps, and her legs were two cranes plunging.

There was nowhere else for him, nothing else to do. He had to reach the life within her. He slid his hand along the necks into the cleaving. He felt. He drew his hand out from the wall. His fingers were dry. There was no blood. The rock was dead.

Wolf! Wolf! Grey Wolf! I am calling for you!

Far away the Grey Wolf heard, and came.

Here am I, the Grey Wolf.

There is no one to be; no one to give my flesh to the air, to take my bones to the cliff and the nooks of the dead. No one shall cut the bulls. No one shall watch. The Stone Spirit shall not send eagles. The stars must end. The sun must die. Crane shall fly alone. All shall be winter the wanderers and the moon.

That is not Trouble. The Trouble is yet to come. Sit up on me, the Grey Wolf.

He sat up on the shoulder. The Grey Wolf struck the damp earth and ran, higher than the trees, lower than the clouds, and each leap measured a mile; from his feet flint flew, spring spouted, lake surged and mixed with gravel dirt, and birch bent to the ground. Hare crouched, boar bristled, crow called, owl woke, and stag began to bell. And the Grey Wolf stopped.

They were in Ludcruck at the wall of the bird spirits. The skin bag was before him, and a crane bone lay beside.

Get down from me, the Grey Wolf. Cut. Dance. Sing. Bring. Do not forget.

How shall I cut dance sing bring and not forget when the end is nothing?

Long hair, short wit. I, the Grey Wolf, am speaking. Do it. I come three times. No more.

The Grey Wolf struck the damp earth and was gone.

‘Hello. This is Colin Whisterfield. May I speak to Doctor Massey, please?’

‘Can I take a message, Professor?’

‘No. I’m afraid not. I must speak to her. Now.’

‘Please hold.’

‘Hi, Colin.’

‘Meg. I need to see you. Today.’

‘Well, that was quick. Of course you can.’

‘What time?’

‘Whenever. Take care.’

‘Hello. Is that High Forest Taxis?’

‘It is indeed, Professor Whisterfield.’

‘I have to go from Alderley to Toft. Now. As soon as possible. And I’d like the driver to be Bert. He knows where I am. Thanks. Thanks very much. You’re so kind.’

He left the quarry for the road and paced until the taxi came.

‘Eh up, Colin. Are you all right? What’s it today, then?’ said Bert. ‘The nut house?’

‘It’s not as far as Barcelona.’

‘No worries.’ Colin sat in the front. Bert whistled as he drove, and kept winking at Colin. They turned onto the drive. Meg was by the house, lopping holly branches.

‘Hi, Colin. Hi, Bert.’

‘Hi, Doc,’ said Bert.

‘Go in, Colin,’ said Meg. ‘I’ll stow the gear and be with you.’

‘Watch them gullantines, Doc,’ said Bert, ‘else they’ll have you.’

Colin went to the library and looked out over the lawns.

‘I didn’t know you knew Bert,’ he said.

‘Bert and I go back a long way.’

Only, in all the world, he entered the lodge.

‘Am I mad?’ said Colin.

‘Not yet,’ said Meg.

‘But a voice. That’s psychosis.’

‘Depends on the voice,’ said Meg. ‘Have you heard it before?’

‘No.’

‘Did you recognise it?’

‘Yes.’

‘A real person?’

‘—Yes.’

‘You don’t sound too sure.’

‘I think,’ said Colin.

‘Oh, you “think”,’ said Meg. ‘Now. Let’s unpick this. You hear a voice you’ve not heard before, and you “think” it’s the voice of someone you recognise. Dead or alive?’

‘I don’t know. I don’t know. I don’t know. I don’t know. I don’t know. I must find her.’

‘You just hold your water. So it’s a “she”.’

‘Yes.’

‘How can you tell? A whisper is voiceless. Hard to differentiate.’

‘She calls me Col. No one else does. No one else knows. It’s just between the two of us. At secret times.’

‘“Did” or “does”? “Knew” or “knows”?’

‘Does. Knows.’

‘So it’s all in the present.’

‘It depends on whether time is linear,’ said Colin.

‘Who is she? Was she?’

Colin began to cry.

‘Who, Colin?’

‘My sister.’

‘What’s her name?’

‘I—can’t remember.’

Meg took Colin by the hand.

‘Come up, love. Come up.’

She helped him from the chair and walked him across the room to the French windows.

‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘I never cry.’

‘Why not? I do. Does me a world of good. You’re always apologising. Stop. Let it go. You’re OK. Let it go.’

They stood, hand in hand, looking at the sunlit gardens of spring. Wrench by wrench Colin’s tears turned to dew on his cheeks.

‘What’s that rock over there?’ he said.

The distant flat horizon was broken by a bluff.

‘Beeston,’ said Meg. ‘Shall we start now?’

‘Start what?’

‘Scraping off the crud.’ She took him back to the chair, sat herself opposite and opened his file. ‘This is the most God-awful collection of tunnel-visioned codswallop I’ve seen in all my born puff. There’s not a trace of insight, imagination, flexibility, humanity, humility in it. Apart from Eric. It’s you that has to conform to the preconceptions of others, and when you don’t you’re closed down with dope to make you go away. Wuthering dry wankers. They don’t want to learn. I’m being unprofessional, of course. You understand.’

‘What does it say?’ said Colin.

‘What doesn’t it? About the only thing missing is athlete’s foot.’

‘Oh, I have that,’ said Colin. ‘I have that, too. Tinia pedis. In summer, by and large, or when using occluded footwear for long periods. I treat it symptomatically. I wash the affected part first and dry it well; then either spray with a fungicide, avoiding inhalation and the eyes, or I can use a cream, twice daily; usually a miconazole nitrate base. It’s important to continue the treatment for ten days after the symptoms have disappeared, to prevent them from coming back.’

‘That’s true,’ said Meg. ‘Most people do stop too soon. Shall we go on?’

‘Yes, of course,’ said Colin. ‘But it can be a most aggressive itch.’