Boneland

by Alan Garner

  ‘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 all 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: WHISPER 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 the other 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 like 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-at-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 or 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.’