Boneland

by Alan Garner

  ‘Hoh yes,’ said Meg. ‘Thank you. You don’t know how much. I’m beginning to see.’

  ‘My pleasure,’ said Colin.

  He went to the security fence and unlocked the gate.

  ‘And here are the dishes.’

  ‘Wait on,’ said Meg. ‘I’ve got to adjust.’ She looked back at the telescope. ‘OK. What’s next?’

  The parabolic dishes were nothing after the sky.

  ‘This is where she spoke,’ said Colin. ‘I’m afraid I’m wobbly.’

  ‘Let’s sit down,’ said Meg. She breathed out. And in. ‘Right. And you understand and can handle all that up there: what it is, what it means, what it implies?’

  ‘More or less,’ said Colin. ‘As well as any.’

  ‘But not these tins.’

  ‘Everything’s relative. What do you make of them?’

  ‘Shall we find out?’

  They went to a dish. ‘You understand the principle?’ said Colin.

  ‘Near enough. Do I go to the other end?’

  ‘Keep your voice low,’ said Colin. ‘Whisper. And stay at the focus.’

  Meg went.

  ‘Hi, Colin. How’s that?’

  ‘Spot on.’

  ‘Weird, isn’t it?’

  ‘And if someone stood in the acoustic line between they’d hear both of us, but the sound would have no direction,’ said Colin.

  ‘Would it internalise?’ said Meg

  ‘More ambient, though unnatural in space.’

  ‘Like another dimension?’

  ‘I suppose it would be.’

  ‘What are you going to do with the dishes you’re making?’

  ‘Play around with them. Listen.’

  ‘Listen to what?’

  ‘Whatever the dishes may reflect.’

  ‘Whatever?’

  ‘Yes. That’s the way to do it.’

  ‘Hello, Col.’

  ‘It’s not funny, Meg.’

  ‘What isn’t?’

  ‘Stop it.’

  ‘Stop what?’

  ‘She can’t hear me, Col.’

  ‘Is it you? Is it?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Please. Stay.’

  ‘I’m not going anywhere. Don’t turn round. You know what happens when men look back.’

  ‘The years. The searching.’

  ‘Colin. This is Meg. Are you all right?’

  ‘Go away, Meg.’

  ‘I’m still here, Col. She’ll try to be rid of me. She wants me gone. But she’ll have no luck. Don’t you know who she is? Don’t you remember?’

  ‘What? Remember what?’

  ‘It’s her, Col. She’s come to get you. This time.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Yes. But I’ll stop her.’

  ‘Where are you?’

  ‘With you, Col. I’m always with you.’

  ‘Where? Why can’t I see you?’

  ‘Ah.’

  ‘I must see you.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘You’re my pearl.’

  ‘Yes, I’m your pearl.’

  ‘My pearl to a white pea.’

  ‘That’s a funny thing to say.’

  ‘But you are. Let me across.’

  ‘Colin. Meg here. Look round. Look at me. Look now. I’m telling you. Now.’

  ‘She’s hurting, Col. She’s hurting me. It hurts. Don’t let her. It hurts. Don’t look. It hurts. Col. The others. They’re coming.’

  His head was blistered in noise, swamped by calling, around him, in him. He fell into the sound of cranes.

  Colin hit the asphalt at the bottom of the steps and lay. He looked back. Meg was at the other dish, turned towards him. She came down and stood over him.

  ‘You’re only winded.’

  He grabbed for air.

  ‘Now what was all that about?’ said Meg.

  ‘I’ve found her. She spoke.’

  ‘I bet she did. Let’s check, then. Sailor’s grip.’ Meg gave a lift to Colin and he pulled himself up to sit on a step. Meg sat by him, holding a recorder. She pressed the playback.

  ‘What are you going to do with the dishes you’re making? Play around with them. Listen. Listen to what? Whatever the dishes may reflect. Whatever? Yes. That’s the way to do it. It’s not funny, Meg. What isn’t? Stop it. Stop what? Is it you? Is it? Please. Stay. The years. The searching. Colin. This is Meg. Are you all right? Go away, Meg. What? Remember what? No. Where are you? Where? Why can’t I see you? I must see you. You’re my pearl. My pearl to a white pea. But you are. Let me across. Colin. Meg here. Look round. Look at me. Look now. I’m telling you. Now.’

  ‘That’s all.’ Meg switched off.

  Colin put his hand out and she took it.

  ‘Oh, my God.’

  Meg was silent.

  ‘My God.’

  His grip crushed, but she did not flinch.

  ‘I am mad. I am mad. Aren’t I?’

  ‘You are not mad,’ she said. ‘Yet.’

  ‘I heard her.’

  ‘Of course you heard her. What did she say?’

  ‘She’s with me. Always. Always will be. She doesn’t like you. Says you’ve come to get me. She’ll stop you. What am I going to do?’

  ‘Don’t panic. You’ll live. But you’re not fit to be on a bike. Sit quiet. We’ll see you home.’

  He held Meg’s hand; she looked at the telescope. It tracked the quasar, and the wind played.

  ‘Come up, love.’

  He walked with her; he still held; out past the car park. There was a car waiting.

  ‘Now then, our Colin,’ said Bert. ‘Are you all right? Let’s be having you.’

  Then he came to the age where he could not run. Pain sat in his knee, so that he stumbled, and in his arm, so that his spear did not hit. Pain sat in his back, so that he could not lift the kill and fetch it home, nor bring wood from far, so that his fire was small. He preyed upon the weak and gained no strength. He took the deer big-bellied, ripped out the fawn, leaving the hind to crows. Wolf and raven followed him. He took the farrow and fled the sow; until there was only fox to hunt. He ate nothing that drew its spirit from the cave, and his own spirit dwindled unfed. He set traps for hare.

  He knew how this had been before, and the old man had fetched meat that had no song. But the old man had taught him to hunt and kill, so that he came to know the way of the beasts, and after he had taken the old man to the nooks of the dead he had stayed. The old man had taught him to free the spirits from the rock, to dance and sing and dream. Now there was no one to be taught. And no woman came.

  ‘I found my love in the month of June.

  Risselty-rosselty, now, now, now.

  I carried her home in a silver spoon.

  Risselty-rosselty, hey bombossity,

  Knickerty-knackerty,

  Now, now, now.’

  At the quarry, Colin adjusted his dishes on their mountings.

  ‘I lost my love in the dark of the moon.

  Risselty-rosselty, now, now, now.

  If she came back it would not be soon.

  Risselty-rosselty, hey donny-dossity,

  Knickerty-knackerty, rustical quality,

  Willow tree wallowty

  Now, now, now.’

  He attached the focus rings.

  ‘There’s bread and cheese upon the shelf,

  Risselty-rosselty, now, now, now.

  If you want any more you can sing it yourself.

  Risselty-rosselty, hey bombossity,

  Knickerty-knackerty, rustical quality,

  Willow tree wallowty, hey donny-dossity,

  Risselty-rosselty

  Now, now, now.’

  Colin brought a chair and sat facing in. He put his mouth at the focus. ‘Hello, I’m here. Hello. Hello.’

  It hurt to turn the stick between his palms to blow a fire heap. It hurt to follow his shoulder and to twist his head through the hill along the seam of grit. It hurt to cut the veil to set the spirits free. His hand o
n the blade lost its grace, and it hurt to make a beast true. Yet if he did not make it true the spirit would not be true. Beasts would go into the world unmade. Wolves would feed until there were no more, and then wolves and all would pass because they had eaten life rough-hewn. The Stone Spirit and the Bull would see that the land was wrong and dead, and there would be no eagles sent to feed the stars; the sun would not turn from death, and there would be only wanderers and the moon and Crane flying in night.

  There had to be a woman that he could hold, to grow a child that he could teach, to stop the dark. But where she was he could not dream.

  He climbed down into the great cave, beneath the bulls and above the shining waters, seeing nothing outside the glimmer in which he hung. He came to the Stone and sat a while, moving his thought. Then he danced and sang. He became the sounds, and was with the voices of the old, and the voices of the old were with him. His step crushed, and under him rose light, which 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.

  The light threw a shaft across the wall, and he saw a way he did not know. He followed, turning to fit the crack. The waters were near. He stretched. He touched a nipple, hard in the rock.

  Colin pressed the bell.

  Meg opened the door. ‘Hello, stranger. Come in.’ She led the way to the library and curled up on the chaise longue. Colin stood by the window, looking towards Beeston. ‘I got your letter,’ she said.

  ‘I hope it didn’t cause offence,’ said Colin.

  ‘Was it meant to?’

  ‘No. I wanted to thank you.’

  ‘For what?’

  ‘Taking me seriously. And to say that I don’t need to waste any more of your time.’

  ‘So why are you here?’

  ‘Because you’re kind—’

  ‘Bullshit.’

  ‘—and a letter isn’t the right way to say goodbye.’

  ‘I don’t say goodbye.’

  ‘There’s nothing wrong now,’ said Colin. ‘I was a mess, and you sorted me out. I’m going back to work. As soon as I’ve seen my doctor.’

  ‘I can’t sort anyone out, dear heart,’ said Meg. ‘But so long as you’re happy that’s all that counts.’ She picked up a magazine and opened it. ‘Have a nice day.’

  ‘Yes.’ Colin went to the door. ‘Meg. Thanks.’

  ‘You’re welcome.’

  He turned the handle.

  ‘Colin?’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘One thing.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Why did you smash the glass?’

  Crow. Crane. Stone. Bone. Moon. Mother. Made. Blade. Bull. Blood.

  ‘Witch!’

  ‘Shush, laddie. No need to capslock. You’re all right.’ He sank in the deep leather and she held his hand. ‘What are you so scared of?’

  ‘You.’

  ‘That makes sense,’ said Meg.

  He had found the woman. She was pressing to be brought. He had to free her spirit so that it could go into the world and come to him. If he cut wrong, she would not be whole, and no child could be made. The blade had to be pure, with no stain, so that it would lift the weight of the moon at its full.

  He climbed back and took all the stone that he held in Ludcruck: stone that he had gathered from the torrent beds, stone that the old man had brought when young, and stone from before him; the black stone and the white. He had gone with the old man up to where the Mother lay, and they had sung and danced before her, and the old man had told the stories of the Beginning, so that the Mother would let them take her bone from the land for the getting of life.

  But all this had been before, and he saw that the stones too were old now and might not hear the songs that he must sing and the stories that he must tell for the stones to learn the shaping of his hand. If he cut with a blade from tired stone the woman would be tired and her belly dry, without blood.

  He had heard the stories of the Beginning and the songs and the steps of the dance; and he knew the way. He had to go to the Mother while his legs could walk and dance, to bring the stone that had the life to make the blade to cut the rock to free the woman to make the child to learn the dance to keep the world. If he did not, there would be no other.

  He took a fire stick and went from Ludcruck to where the sun rose at its longest.

  He walked for one day, he walked for two days, he walked for three days into the further land. But he did not come to where the Mother lay. He walked past torrent beds, which led him by the cobbles of her rolled bones. He walked for four days. He walked for seven. He walked for nine. And he came to the Mother.

  Her flanks were covered with scrub. He went to where he had come with the old man; but the marks of their taking had grown dead. No blades lay in that stone.

  He sang and danced and told the stories of the Beginning; and he sat and dreamed. Then he took a piece of her weathered skin, and drove it, smashing away the dead flesh, maggot-cleansing the Mother, for three days till he came to the white bone. He saw the living blades within, the blades that she had grown in the Beginning, the life that came from the start of things, and he sang to the Mother that the bone should not break, telling the stories as he worked, so she would know that he sang true.

  The bone came free. It was as much as he could bear.

  He sang to the Mother, to make her sleep and feel no hurt. He gathered the splinters of his work from the taking and buried them by her ribs. He lifted the bone upon his shoulder and set out under the weight. His shoulder tore, but he went on. His arms were numb; his hands did not hold. Sweat and thirst made his mind a cloud, and blood came from his eyes, but he followed the torrent beds down, and in a time he could not tell he came to the Bearstone above Ludcruck, and dropped into the cleft.

  ‘Why am I scared of you?’ said Colin.

  ‘God knows,’ said Meg. ‘Do you?’

  ‘Now I’ve found her everything should be right again.’

  ‘“Again”? When was that?’

  ‘Before I lost her.’

  ‘Remind me. Who is “her”?’

  ‘You don’t need reminding,’ said Colin. ‘You mean repeat. What you don’t know is she’s my twin. She tells me.’

  ‘Ah now. Twin. What’s her name?’

  ‘I can’t access the data. She went before—’

  ‘Before you were thirteen.’

  ‘But she’s real. She is. She is real.’

  ‘What did your parents say?’ said Meg.

  ‘I can’t access them.’

  ‘Why not?’

  Colin shook his head. ‘They were deleted.’

  ‘Your parents were killed. Air crash.’

  ‘Sierra Papa Lima Tango Victor.’

  ‘I wouldn’t know about that. But you were twelve years old.’

  ‘Flight one-six-five. Was I?’

  ‘Yes. What do you remember of your adolescence?’

  ‘School. Holidays. University.’

  ‘Who paid for it all?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘Aren’t you interested, Colin?’

  ‘What happened to my sister?’

  ‘Colin. I’ve tracked the records. Has it never occurred to you to do the same?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘You have no surviving family.’

  ‘There’s my sister. I lost her. My sister. I’ve been looking; searching; for years; even in the stars.’

  ‘Where did you spend those holidays?’

  ‘Here, on the Edge. Down Hocker Lane.’

  ‘Who did you stay with?’

  ‘An old man. And his wife. They were small farmers.’

  ‘How did you come to be there?’ said Meg.

  ‘I loved them.’

  ‘Then what?’

  ‘He died. And she died six years after I’d got my doctorate and was at the telescope, and the farm had to be sold. It was tarted up and gentrified, and I went to Church Q
uarry and built the Bergli. I don’t go down Hocker Lane. It’s too dreadful.’

  ‘Where were you when the amnesia began?’

  ‘It must have been at the farm.’

  ‘And your sister? Where was she?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘Do you remember her being at the farm?’

  ‘Sometimes. I can’t be sure. Bits.’

  ‘According to the records, Elizabeth Mossock, of Hocker Lane, was your legal guardian, and the couple adopted you when you were twelve. Did they ever mention a sister?’

  ‘No,’ said Colin. ‘But I used to ask them.’

  ‘And what did they say?’

  ‘Nothing. Every time I asked they changed the subject. It seemed to upset them, though they tried not to show it. They wouldn’t talk about her.’

  ‘I’m not surprised,’ said Meg.

  ‘But they must have known, mustn’t they? They could have told me. They could have said.’

  ‘Oh, supple your kidneys. Let’s not add paranoia, Colin. Now. Listen. Hear me. I’m not asking you to accept this; only to consider it. What you’ve been describing is well recorded in the literature. It’s known as Missing Twin Syndrome. It creates the illusion of another self. It can be pathological, but it often has a physical reality, where one embryo has absorbed the other, or aborted it. Does that possibility ring any bells for you?’

  ‘Cuckoo,’ said Colin. ‘Cuculus canorus, long-tailed, rather sharp-winged; in flight sometimes confused with sparrowhawk, Accipiter nisus, or even kestrel, Falco tinnunculus, commonly windhover.’

  ‘You are not a bird,’ said Meg.

  ‘Then where’s my twin?’ said Colin. ‘Where’s my sister? Give her back. Where is she?’

  ‘Good question.’

  ‘Don’t ditch me, Meg.’

  ‘I shan’t.’

  ‘What am I going to do?’

  ‘It’s a poser,’ said Meg. ‘Now you’re presenting juvenile psychopathy. That’s greedy. But getting you sectioned isn’t an option. Yet. So how’s about inviting me to dinner? A girl needs a break sometimes.’

  ‘I’d like that very much,’ said Colin.

  ‘You’re on,’ said Meg.

  When his legs could walk and his hands could hold and his fingers speak he went from the lodge the length of three days’ hunting down beside the river towards the Flatlands, to the earth where the hammers grew.

  He searched about the bank until he found two that were firm. One was white and black, the other yellow and grey. He pulled them from the mud and moved them in his hand. They were ripe to be taught their ways.