Red Shift

by Alan Garner

  “The caravan’s full of stuff like this.”

  “I can’t,” said Jan.

  “Why not?”

  “It isn’t yours.”

  “It will be, when I inherit the family fortune.”

  “No. It’s a great idea. But I can’t. Find me something. One day. Special. OK?”

  “OK.” He stood up and went to the door. “Good-bye, house.”

  “See you tomorrow,” said Jan.

  Tom shook his head.

  “Why not?”

  “Crewe.”

  “What?”

  Both their voices were whisper.

  “Don’t like good-bye. Been good-bye since you told me. Your first Saturday. Crewe.”

  “I don’t leave for nearly a week. Why waste that time?”

  “Practice. While there’s a safety net. I might not be able to manage. Might not have a head for heights.”

  “That’s plain sick.”

  “Tom’s a-cold.”

  “I love you.”

  “I have a gift for self-dramatisation.”

  “I still love you.”

  “It’s important.”

  “I know.”

  “Ten o’clock.”

  Jan nodded.

  “Look at that Milky Way,” said Tom. “One hundred thousand million stars. One hundred thousand million specks of dust turning. It’s just a steaming poached egg in space.”

  “You can’t have eggs twice,” said Jan. “My eyes.”

  “Galactic.”

  “Hurt.”

  “Too full of stars.”

  He walked home, the Mizpah in his hand. Why did I make Jan cry? I wasn’t leaving. This isn’t me. He stared at Orion.

  It was waiting. It was the waiting. She had stood all morning, watching the men. They were cutting the edge of the Barrow Hill below the graveyard to make a sheer bank. The mire of the Wulvarn gave protection on the lane side. Thomas worked with them, next to Dick Steele, men in slime to their thighs, black all over with falling. She stood at her doorway and felt neither warmth from the hearth nor cold from the air.

  John Fowler came riding along the bed of the Wulvarn, not on the lane. He slowed at the Barrow Hill to give news, then went straight to the Rectory. The men worked harder.

  Bad news.

  There was a shout. She saw Thomas kneeling in the mud, and hurried down the path to the gate, but Dick Steele had waved the men back to their work. Thomas ran, his hands tight against his chest, as if in prayer.

  “Madge!” he called. “Madge!”

  “What’s up? Are you badly?”

  “No, no no! Fetch water. I must wash me!”

  He stumbled into the house. His fists were a ball of mud. She poured water over his hands into a bowl. The earth fell away. He was holding a smooth shape.

  “I found it! I’ve found one! In the bank! Luck, Madge!”

  It was polished, grey-green, and looked like an axe head made of stone. One end was oval, and a hole ran through it, as if for a handle; the other was curved to an edge.

  “It fell out of the bank and I caught it. There’s not a mark.”

  “We had lightning, backend. Was it far in?”

  “Just below graveyard.”

  “It looks fresh. It must’ve been this backend: October.”

  Thomas washed and dried the stone. The hard weight lay in his hand.

  “Fetch us me hammer,” he said. “There’ll be enough for everyone.”

  “You’re never going to smash it—”

  “It’s luck. A bit in each chimney, and then. Lightning doesn’t hit same place twice.”

  “How many down there saw?”

  “Dick Steele. The others were talking to John. Hey, he was near taken at Crewe, was John. He says they’re coming. We need the luck, Madge—”

  “Where’s the luck in bits of stone? Get scratting in the Wulvarn if it’s stones you want.”

  “I’m master!”

  “And I’m saying.”

  “You’ll not stop me!”

  “I shall.”

  “I’ll smash it!”

  “You won’t.”

  “I will!”

  “Who says?”

  “I say!”

  She put the stone behind her back.

  “Give it me! I’m master! Give me that stone!”

  “Why?”

  “I—I—can—”

  “Can what?”

  “I can read! I can! John’s learning me! So you give that stone here!”

  “Read?”

  “Yes! And—write. And then he’ll learn me Greek, and all sorts, good as Oxford.”

  “You’ll need a calm head for that,” said John. He stood at the door. “What’s the noise? It sounded as if they were here already.” He was dressed in labourer’s clothes.

  “I found a thunderbolt on Barrow Hill, and she won’t let me smash it,” said Thomas.

  “Why not, Margery?”

  “Would you?” she said. “Feel.”

  John took the stone and slid his hands over it.

  “That wasn’t made to be broken, wasn’t that,” she said.

  “What would you do with it?”

  “Keep it.”

  “Thou shalt not make unto thee any graven image, Margery.”

  “Give over. We hear enough from your father in church, without you starting.”

  “Back to the lads, Thomas,” said John. “I’ll be with you.”

  “You’re wasting your time with that one,” said Thomas as he went out. “She’d mither a nest of rats.”

  John picked up the axe. “I’ve never seen a thunder-stone,” he said. His touch flowed over the lines. “It’s beautiful.”

  “Thomas won’t hurt it.”

  “Of course not.”

  “He wants to help: and it’d make the others think more on him.”

  “Why shouldn’t he? It is luck.”

  “That’s not all it is,” said Margery.

  “You reckon?”

  “Don’t you?”

  A single bell began to ring over the parish.

  “Is it church time already?” said Margery.

  “No. My father. He thinks we’ll be up against reasonable men.”

  “Have you seen them?”

  “Nearly. I rode down through Crewe by Oak Farm. They’d not left any alive. I must go and stop that bell. They’ll find us soon enough.”

  She wrapped the stone axe in a petticoat and laid it by the chimney.

  John smiled. “You know, just for today,” he said, “I could wish you’d married your other Thomas. We’ve a use for that one now.”

  “We’re well shut of him.”

  “You were a right pair.”

  “I married a Rowley, not a Venables.”

  “Thomas Venables was born fighting.”

  “Aren’t they all on Mow Cop?”

  “And you were courting strong.”

  “So you say.”

  John walked down the path. Margery went with him.

  “Don’t let Thomas hear you say Venables.”

  “He’s not jealous!”

  “Hadn’t you best stop that bell?”

  “It can wait,” said John. There was smoke over Crewe.

  “A lot’s never been said.”

  “A lot shouldn’t be. I married Thomas Rowley.”

  “Good.”

  “Then leave him quiet. Don’t work him up with ideas of learning.”

  “He already knows more than I could learn.”

  “And don’t bait me. You and your reading and that.”

  “It’s what we make do with, if we can’t be Thomas Rowley.”

  “But—books, Latin—”

  “The greater part of rubbish.”

  “But when he’s badly—”

  “—that man sees God.”

  “Him? Thomas? Where’s God when you’re stiff as a plank and your tongue’s down your throat?”

  John shrugged. “He’s not at Barthomley these
days, and that’s for sure.” He crossed the bridge over the Wulvarn, leaving her. “I’m not completed, Madge. I’ll say it now. You and I meet in Thomas.”

  “Bugger off!” Her anger was caught in the swing of the bell, and at its next lull she was empty.

  John went into the pulpit. He was dirty and still roughly dressed.

  “The Lord be with you,” he said.

  The people answered, “And with thy spirit.”

  “Thanks be to God,” said John. “Now listen. The Irish have landed. And they’re for the King. They’ve neither clothing, food nor weapons, and they’re swinging round Crewe to get them. We stay here and keep our heads down.

  “We’ve water in church, and hens and cattle are being brought from the Rectory. Cooking will be by the tower door. Children will go out to milk cows on empty farms. Lavatories are the north and south chapels. Now the grace of our Lord Jesus Christ, and the love of God, and the fellowship of the Holy Ghost, be with us all evermore.”

  “Amen.”

  John left the pulpit.

  “What are you gawping at?” said Margery.

  “I’m reading,” said Thomas.

  “The vigil may be long,” said the Rector, “but let us, with the psalmist, each ask our Father, ‘Be not far from me, for trouble is near and there is none to help. Many bulls encompass me, young bulls of Bashan surround me, they open their mouths at me like a ravening lion.’ He will not forsake us at this time of the Nativity. Therefore let us welcome the Christ Child with gladsome hearts, though we be lost sheep among wolves. And if we suffer much, yet shall we be spared. These Irish are but men in a strange land.”

  “Reading what?” said Margery.

  “That carving on chapel screen, where Dick Steele’s pissing.”

  “What’s it say, then?”

  “ ‘Let there be no strife: for we be brethren.’ ”

  “How do I know?” she said.

  Face stopped behind at Barthomley the next day to burn the huts. He would wait until dark.

  The girl walked hobbled, her wrists tied. Macey fed her when they ate. Logan found the route. Magoo covered. They travelled the ten kilometres, and it was evening again before they reached Mow Cop.

  Scrub grew high on the mountain, but the ridge was stone, without shelter. “No fire,” said Logan. “Not until we’re certain.” He sent Magoo to look for a camp site. “Get us out of the wind.”

  Macey was quiet from the killing. The girl watched Logan. The wind would finish them by dawn.

  Magoo came back. “It’s good,” he said. “You’d think we were expected.”

  “Occupied?”

  “No—well, since we’re tribal, I don’t like it: but if we weren’t, I’d say we had it made.”

  “Get us out of this wind,” said Logan. “And don’t skyline us.”

  “It’s all skyline,” said Magoo.

  They climbed among grit slabs to the peak, and onto a tilted platform that ended in a cliff. The mule skidded, and Macey had to wedge himself as an anchor.

  “There,” said Magoo.

  “I don’t know what it is,” said Logan, “but I’m not asking.”

  There was a recess in the platform, as if a cube had been picked out of the rock. It was twenty feet deep, and a path went down one of the walls.

  “Tent for now,” said Logan. “We can roof over when we’re settled.”

  “If you go in, you’ll die,” said the girl.

  “Sweetheart, I’ve been in,” said Magoo.

  “You’ll die.”

  “What will she mean?” said Logan.

  “It’s an old quarry, or something. No recent working. Don’t worry: I’ll fix this one.”

  Magoo pushed the girl down the path. She fell, and he maimed her as she lay.

  “You’ve done nothing to me,” she said. “There’s no pain. I’m not hurt.”

  “Shurrup,” said Magoo.

  Logan and Macey took the first watch. In the night a fire showed. “Barthomley,” said Logan. “Face’d better make the most of it: he’ll be a while before he’s that warm again.”

  Macey pulled his cloak around the weight of his shoulder. “She needs bandages,” he said.

  “Magoo’s job.”

  “She won’t let him.”

  “Her problem: but if it bothers you—don’t be long.”

  “We’re all mates.”

  “She isn’t,” said Logan.

  Macey turned to go. He screamed, threw himself backwards, scrabbling at the rock. Logan choked him with an elbow and kicked his sword away.

  “They—they’re—don’t make me! They’re—not there! They’re not there! My mates! All! There’s nothing!”

  “Get down!” Logan swore at him.

  Magoo appeared out of the shelter, armed. “What’s up?”

  “Macey. Give us a hand.”

  “Come on, you prannock,” said Magoo. “Get down them steps.”

  “No. No steps. Nothing.”

  “Get bleeding down!”

  “Height!” Macey opened his mouth, and through Logan’s full strength a cry broke, one sound, rising in pitch. Magoo hit behind the ear, and Macey collapsed. They dragged him into the tent.

  “He was for going again,” said Logan. “I could feel it in him. Why?”

  “You’re the expert in his little ways,” said Magoo.

  “He’s never been like this; until he killed that guard.”

  “Happen it’s that,” said Magoo. “Let’s have a look.” He reached for Macey’s shoulder.

  “No,” said Logan. “The order stands. Nobody to touch him.”

  “Of course, sir. I was forgetting.”

  “Take watch. Don’t call me ‘sir.’ ”

  The wind made their teeth ache.

  “Some Ninth you’d have,” said Magoo, “if you’d killed me for frisking Macey, and the rest of our mob didn’t make it from Barthomley.”

  “We’d manage.”

  “I don’t see you as Officer in Charge of one nutter and a slag.”

  “She’d breed.”

  “But how long can you go it up here?”

  “For ever.”

  “Roll on, winter.”

  “Give over,” said Logan. “Check me on Mothers’ dialect. It’s a while till light.”

  They settled in their positions.

  “ ‘Stream,’ ” said Magoo.

  “ ‘Beck.’ ”

  “ ‘Valley.’ ”

  “ ‘Dale.’ ”

  “ ‘Field’ or ‘yard.’ ”

  “ ‘Garth.’ ”

  “ ‘Cold.’ ”

  “ ‘Starved.’ ”

  “ ‘Hungry.’ ”

  “ ‘Hungry.’ ”

  “ ‘Clemmed.’ ”

  “ ‘Fed up.’ ”

  “—‘Mithered’?”

  “That’s Cat.”

  “ ‘Agait.’ ”

  “No.”

  “Tell me,” said Logan.

  “ ‘Borsant.’ ”

  “I’m right borsant, starved and fair clemmed on this cop,” said Logan.

  “Not bad,” said Magoo.

  Face reached scrub line after dawn. He hung back until Logan whistled.

  “Go and see if Macey’s come round, and if he has, tell him to fix breakfast.”

  “She can do that,” said Magoo.

  Face climbed the slabs.

  “Barthomley?” said Logan.

  “No trouble.”

  “Good. We’re settling in. We’ve got it made. What do you think of that?”

  Face looked at the square hole in the rock. “Get the hell out of there, Logan, or you’re dead.”

  “It was the waiting.”

  “It was.”

  They stood on the platform. A line of trolleys rattled by, and people moved, but Tom and Jan held each other invisible.

  “Checking.”

  “What?”

  “Memory: hair in my face.”

  “You.”

  �
�And you.”

  “It was waiting.”

  They had to step back to be closer.

  “Let me look at you,” said Tom.

  “You’re too far away.”

  “Your fault.”

  They came together again.

  “Are your eyes shut?”

  “Yes.”

  “Funny. I shut my eyes to be with you when I’m not, and when I am—”

  “You shut them!”

  They giggled, and went the length of Crewe station, skipping, running, breaking to rejoin, under the glass, the dark bridge and into the daylight to the platform’s tip, and back again. The platform made a headland above the woven lines, and at the end, away from passengers, was an old bench. Tom and Jan sat there in the sunlight and wind and watched the junction.

  “Like Blackpool prom, isn’t it?”

  “Quieter.”

  “Coffee?” said Jan.

  “Yes.”

  They returned to the gloom and announcements and people, trains drawing hands apart.

  “Don’t look,” said Tom.

  They sat in the cafeteria and drank their coffee.

  “So I may switch to a medical degree,” said Jan. “I can’t see myself as Matron.”

  “I thought the glamour wouldn’t last.”

  “The first bedpan! No, I’ll do the two years for experience, but I think I’d like to follow up Mum and Dad.”

  “They sold ‘The Limes.’ ”

  “How is it?”

  “I’ve not been.”

  “You’ve still got the key?”

  “Sure.”

  “Dad says will you give it to the new people.”

  “I’ll drop it in next week. Can we go somewhere else now?”

  “What’s wrong?”

  “This room’s empty.”

  “It’s full!”

  “But no one’s here,” said Tom. “Let’s go. Please.”

  They went up the steps and through the barrier. The road was noisy and there was grit in the wind.

  “Where?” said Jan.

  “Into town. I’m panicked on stations. I don’t know that anybody’s real.”

  “You’ve not changed, have you?”

  “No.”

  “Good!”

  The town was busy. Tom and Jan walked with the crowd. There was a current of movement through the terraced streets.

  “With stations,” said Tom, “you’d find it hard to prove that it wasn’t full of ghosts.”

  “I bet that’s not original.”

  “Nothing I say is.”

  “I love you,” said Jan.

  “Get that for innovation!”

  “This must be the middle,” said Jan. “The traffic’s going round in circles.” They were at a shopping precinct.