by Alan Garner
‘Do you want to come out?’
‘No. Go on. Grus grus. The common crane.’
‘That’s fine. Relax.’
‘Grus grus. Grus grus.’
He closed his eyes. Although he did not move he flew, and the tunnel was a turning sky with stars, five-pointed, red; against his lids. His legs stretched, his throat held the calling; and Time was still.
‘We’ve finished, Colin. You’ve done very well. We’re bringing you out now.’
He did not want it to end. He floated in the night and was one with stars and birds. ‘Don’t stop. Don’t stop the music.’
‘Don’t worry. I’m here, Col. I’m not leaving you.’
The bench slid back. He opened his eyes. The tube passed, and the nurse was standing by. She lifted the cover from his head. ‘Lie there a moment, Colin. That racket can make you dizzy; and we have to check the scan. But you were very good. I thought you’d dropped off to sleep. It’s surprising how it affects different people sometimes.’
‘Oh, where? Where are you? Tell me.’
‘I’m here, Colin. You can get dressed and go home now. Give me your hand, and we’ll ring for your taxi.’
Each year he sang and danced in Ludcruck and cut between the worlds to make the beasts free and bring their spirits from behind the rock so that they could spread across the land. And in winter he watched the Bull climb the wall of the sky cave and the Stone Spirit riding to send out eagles to feed the stars. All this he did, though it brought no woman. But every year the sun turned, because of the dance.
Colin rolled the empty oil drum along the floor of the quarry to the hut. He went back and rolled another. He brought out a notebook, callipers, a flexible rule and a pair of dividers, and put them on the table. He tipped the first drum upright and set it level and fixed rocks about it to hold it steady. Then he lifted a stone in both hands and, using it as a maul, began to beat the flat top, moving round the rim and inwards, depressing the surface with dimples. The banging echoed on the rocks.
Round and round he went, so that the metal bent evenly without rupturing the join to the rim. The head of the drum became a dish. He dropped the maul and picked up a mallet and continued round, smoothing the dimples and working the middle down so that the dishing grew steeper. When it was the right depth he took a soft-faced ball-peen hammer and worked more gently, removing the irregularities, making the skin smooth.
He looked at his notes, and measured the hollow, checking with the callipers and marking points with the dividers. Next, he scored a line about the side of the drum, keeping one leg of the dividers against the rim. He lifted the drum, laid it down and worked along the line with mallet and a blunt chisel, driving slots, until with a single knock the top was free. He took it and threw it onto a fire of pallets he had stacked, and he sat and drank water from a can while the fire died.
He pulled the drum head from the ashes and quenched it, and when it had cooled he sat on the ground with it between his legs, read his notes and scored more lines inside the dish with callipers and dividers, turning, checking, turning, checking.
He linked a piezo tuner to the rim and went on tapping.
‘Da-di-dum, ti-dum-ti-dumti—’ He tapped to the readings of the tuner. ‘—Dove an-drò senza il mio ben?—’ The metal showed the physics of the scoring. The lines drew together as they ought. The maths was right ‘—Io son pu-re, il tuo fedel-e—’ So elegant. ‘—Rum-ti-titi-pom-ti. Rum-ti-titi-pomti. Ti-pom-ti!’
Colin sat and looked at what he had done. The quarry was quiet.
A noise broke in. He twisted towards the entrance. It was the sound of a machine, an engine, coughing and struggling over the ground. A motorbike appeared at the entrance, black, with high handlebars, black, and the rider was all in black leathers, gauntlets, helmet and visor. It came towards him across the quarry floor. Colin hugged the drum and shuffled away.
‘No.’
It came nearer.
‘No.’
It stopped. The rider cut the engine, and a gauntlet lifted the visor.
‘Hi,’ said Meg.
‘What are you doing here? What do you want?’
‘I did ring, sweetie, but you weren’t answering. I thought I’d check out your lair. Have I disturbed you?’
‘No. No,’ said Colin. ‘I don’t like surprises, that’s all. Sorry.’
‘Don’t apologise. How many times do I have to say it?’
‘Sorry,’ said Colin. He got up. ‘Please come in.’
Meg dismounted, took off the helmet and shook her hair.
‘What are you at?’ she said.
‘I’m making two parabolic dishes. Do come in.’
They went to the hut.
Meg looked around. ‘Hey, this is something else.’
‘Would you like tea?’
‘Thanks.’
‘Earl Grey or Lapsang Souchong?’
‘I’ll pass on the scented muck. Plain builder’s with milk, if you have it,’ said Meg. ‘And no sugar.’
‘I think I can do that,’ said Colin.
He lit a Primus stove and filled a kettle.
‘Bert told me there wasn’t electricity,’ said Meg.
‘I have enough electricity at work. And those harsh lights. I keep a wind-up torch, batteries and a generator for emergencies.’
‘Great. What a place, Colin. How did you find this? Suburgatory it is not.’
‘I built it.’
‘Built it? By yourself?’
‘From a kit. It’s a mountain hut. A Bergli. I ordered it from Switzerland.’
‘These flag floors aren’t Swiss.’
‘No. They were under the grass. All I had to do was level them. Someone must have been here before me. And there was a rock garden of sorts at one time; which is why there are those blasted rhododendrons. But I’m clearing them, bit by bit. I hate rhododendrons.’
‘Why?’
‘They’re alien. Wrong. Evil. They shouldn’t be allowed.’
‘Why do you live here?’
‘Why shouldn’t I?’
‘Fair question, dodgy answer. So why?’
‘Someone has to look after the Edge. There always is someone; always has been.’
‘How do you know?’
‘He’s everywhere,’ said Colin. ‘If you look, you see. His face. He’s obvious, in the rock, once you get your eye in.’
‘“He”?’ said Meg.
‘Always.’
‘So why you?’
‘It’s the only way I can be sure the Edge stays,’ said Colin.
‘Stays where?’
‘Exists.’
‘Tell me,’ said Meg.
‘I have to be able to see the Edge from wherever I am,’ said Colin; ‘in order to keep it. If something isn’t looked at it may go, or change, or never be.’
‘Isn’t that tampering with the metaphysical?’ said Meg. ‘The same argument used to “prove” the existence of God. “Since we know there’s a sea over the mountain, someone must be observing the sea, the mountain and us. Ergo God.”’
‘But do we “know”?’ said Colin.
‘Well, if I’ve booked a flight to a conference in LA and when I get there the runway hasn’t been built, I’m going to be pretty hacked off.’
‘I never fly.’
‘Come on,’ said Meg. ‘You can do better than that.’
‘It’s more subtle now we have quantum mechanics. You must be aware that matter can be in two places and in two states at the same instant, as both a particle and a wave. Yes?’
‘I did get that far. Once upon a time.’
‘And if we look at it, if that matter is observed, it can change. The very act of observing makes it change. It’s not quite as simple as I’m expressing it; but that’s why I have to guard the Edge: to keep it in balance.’
‘But what about your job? The shenanigans of giving papers and traipsing round the world all the time?’
‘I don’t travel.’
‘Ev
er?’
‘I mustn’t be away overnight.’
‘How can you not be? You’re an authority, probably the main authority, on your subject. I do my homework. I’ve read up on you. You’re the tops.’
‘I can write without leaving here,’ said Colin. ‘Someone else gives the papers.’
‘But you must have to show your face.’
‘Meg. You’re embarrassing me.’
‘How’s that?’
‘I don’t have to show my face. There are video links. If people care enough about my work to discuss it, they come to me.’
‘Here?’
‘At the telescope. No one comes here. It’s private.’
‘So I’ve intruded.’
‘That’s all right. You weren’t to know.’
‘I’m sorry.’
‘Now look who’s apologising.’
‘But what if you were taken sick?’ said Meg. ‘What if you had to be hospitalised, an illness, surgery?’
‘I’m never ill,’ said Colin. ‘I must never need or have surgery. Don’t talk about it!’
‘I’ll take a raincheck on that,’ said Meg. ‘It smacks of the three-card trick to me. Shall we drink this tea before it’s stewed?’
‘You don’t understand.’
‘If it’s right for you, Colin, I’m happy,’ said Meg. ‘I try not to be dumb, but I’m out of my depth here, I’m afraid. Will you be mother, or shall I?’
‘You,’ said Colin. ‘I may spill it. I shake when I’m upset.’
‘I had noticed.’
‘I’m sorry.’
‘Oh, do belt up, darling,’ said Meg. She poured the tea.
‘Thanks.’
‘How was the scan?’
‘The noise was amazing,’ said Colin. ‘It was all around me. It sounded as though I was in a flock of birds: cranes, Grus grus, would you believe it? And the sky was a spinning tunnel, with stars; five-pointed; red. Oh, and I heard her voice. She told me she was here.’
‘Did she, forsooth? And you weren’t bothered?’
‘I know she’s here now. She’s close. She’s staying.’
‘The results came through yesterday,’ said Meg. ‘Where’s your computer? It’s not driven by elastic, or water-powered, is it?’
‘Help yourself,’ said Colin. ‘But please keep it clear of the tea.’
‘I shall. I shall, bossy boots; never you fret.’
Meg took a memory stick out of her pocket and plugged it in. ‘I want you to look at this.’ Colin moved a chair to sit beside her. The screen showed an array of images.
‘So that’s me,’ said Colin. ‘All that I am.’
‘Perhaps,’ said Meg. ‘They’ve gone through your brain in slices.’
‘And?’
‘Everything’s fine.’ She selected a consecutive sequence and made it one whole. ‘Except for this.’
‘I can’t read it,’ said Colin. ‘You’ll have to talk me through.’
‘It’s the area here,’ said Meg. ‘In the right ventral frontal cortex and white matter, including the uncinate fasciculus.’
‘I’m lost,’ said Colin.
Meg zoomed in. ‘Well, to put it simply, this shouldn’t look like that.’
‘How do you mean?’
‘There’s trauma. Quite severe trauma. Have you ever had a head injury?’
‘Not that I know of.’
‘A bad car accident, or anything similar?’
‘Never.’
‘A fall from a height, or something fall on you?’
‘No.’
‘Hmm.’ Meg lodged her chin in her hand and scrolled between the images. ‘Hmm.’ The skull and brain bobbed. ‘Hmm. Colin. Have you ever been struck by lightning?’
Colin knocked the computer into Meg’s lap and turned his face to the log wall.
‘I’m sorry! I didn’t mean it!’
‘Well, have you?’
‘I didn’t mean it! Promise I didn’t!’
She put her arm round his shoulder. ‘It’s all right, love. It’s all right.’
‘How can you tell? You weren’t there! Why don’t you go away? Leave me alone!’
She went outside.
‘Meg, I’m—’
‘Don’t say “sorry”.’
‘But I am.’
‘Oh, Colin. Cheer up. I tell you what. Show us your telescope. Come on. Just for Meg. Eh?’
‘Now?’
‘Why not? You’ll need something to keep the wind out; and there’s a helmet in the pannier. Hold the grip behind you. Come on, our kid.’
‘I’ve got to change my trousers.’
‘I’ll wait for you on the track,’ said Meg. She started the engine and walked astride the bike to help it over the ground. Colin caught up with her, lodged on the pillion seat and they set off down Artists Lane.
‘Aren’t you going a bit fast?’ he shouted in her ear.
‘Maybe.’
‘Watch for the bend at Brynlow. This is a rat run and the road narrows there.’
‘Roger.’
They reached the Cross.
‘I’m taking the main road.’
‘Do you know the way?’ said Colin.
‘Yep. Hold tight.’
Meg twisted the throttle and they moved out of riding and became a part of the road’s life, leaning into the bends past The Eagle and Child and pursuing the straights, overtaking the cars with dark windows, curving round the high trucks. The wind thrummed.
‘Why so fast?’ His hands locked on the steel bar.
‘Relaxation. Concentrates the mind. Enjoy!’
The traffic lights were in their favour at Monks’ Heath. The loneliness of Sodger’s Hump with its ring of pines zipped by; Capesthorne and the double bend dark with rhododendron, out onto the clear ridge with the length of Redesmere on the left, the glittering water and the scudding bright sheets of the sailing club’s yachts.
‘Who-whoop! Wo-whoop! Wo-o-o-o! Cowabunga!’
Then to Siddington, to the salt road; wood and valley and stream swept by, field and hedge and lane; by Windyharbour, Welltrough, Withington.
‘Meg! Slow down! I don’t like it! Please!’
‘That’s because you’re not the one in control!’
The telescope sprang up and dominated the land. Meg eased the throttle. The hedges became bushes and fencing again, with trees. The telescope grew. Meg crossed the road to the staff entrance. Colin unlocked the gate.
‘Switch off your phone,’ he said. ‘We’re in the radio silence zone now.’
‘Never use it,’ said Meg. ‘Can’t be arsed.’
Colin locked the gate and they went on to the main complex. He punched in the door code and led the way to the control room.
‘Hello, Owen.’
‘Hi, Colin.’
‘I’ve a visitor, a friend. Is it all right to come in?’
‘Be my guests.’
Beyond the round table the window framed the telescope. On either side were monitor screens and the clocks of other time.
‘Meg, this is Owen. He drives the telescope and looks after all this lot.’
‘Hi, Owen.’
‘Hi, Meg.’
Meg looked about her. ‘Wow. How do you live with it?’
‘Oh, she’s only a scrap-metal rustbucket and a bit of old wire,’ said Owen. ‘And there’s never much on the telly.’
‘Mm,’ said Meg.
‘What’s today?’ said Colin.
‘Ethel,’ said Owen.
‘Mind if we look around? Is it OK to go downstairs?’
‘Feel free. There may be a few postdocs to trip over.’
‘And is Gwen still here?’
‘No. You’ll be all right. Titselina Bumsquirt went home as soon as she shut the shop.’
‘Thanks, Owen,’ said Colin.
‘Yes. Thank you very much,’ said Meg. ‘It’s a privilege to see this.’
‘You’re welcome,’ said Owen.
They left the control room down
a flight of stairs.
‘Ethel?’ said Meg.
‘When you work here you have to make it family, or you wouldn’t cope,’ said Colin. ‘Ethel’s a quasar so far away that the signal started out before our galaxy was fully formed.’
‘Do you always use female names? Owen called the telescope “she”.’
‘I suppose we do. I hadn’t noticed.’
‘Like anything else you can’t handle. Think about it.’
They came to a room that was a clutter of cables, looped, coiled, held with plastic ties and lengths of string; lights twinkling; the chatter of printers.
‘What’s this gubbins here?’ said Meg.
‘The main control for all the telescopes linked to us on the network,’ said Colin.
‘But some of it looks like it’s made of bits of Meccano. Why aren’t you more high-tech?’
‘There isn’t always the equipment,’ said Colin. ‘We codge as we go along. It works. Which is all that matters.’
‘Great. This is what I call science. This is real.’
‘Come and see this, then.’ He led her to a printer. Pens were moving up and down, tracing lines on graph paper. ‘Behold our Ethel. The energy that’s moving those pens has been travelling at two hundred and ninety-nine thousand seven hundred and ninety-one point eight one nine zero zero eight kilometres a second, approximately, for over twelve billion years, and the antenna of the telescope has picked it up and fed it down when we happen to arrive together from our separate existences and our origins in other stars to observe it here.’
‘The impossibility of “now”. Discuss,’ said Meg.
‘Follow me,’ said Colin.
They went on, to a bare concrete corridor fitted with bulkhead lights, the floor wet red mud, cement stalactites hanging from the gaps in the roof slabs, up more steps, and were out in the open, among girders.
‘Where’s the telescope?’ said Meg.
‘Look up.’
‘Heligoland, Dogger and Forties.’
They were at the central spot. Above them, tilted to follow Ethel, the telescope filled the sky.
‘Listen,’ said Colin.
Around them the wind played the harp of the structure. As the telescope moved on its track with the Earth’s turn, the changes of stress made their symphony from the flexing of the metal.
‘Good, isn’t it?’
‘Colin, this is one of the most moments,’ said Meg.
‘“Rustbucket scrap and a bit of old wire.”’
