Boneland

by Alan Garner

  ‘I am. I need another drink,’ said Meg. ‘My brains hurt.’

  ‘Montlouis or Château de Malle?’

  ‘Whatever. Oh, Colin, you really are a tonic! You’re too much! You’re absurd!’ She was spluttering. So was he.

  ‘In short,’ said Colin, as he poured, ‘if something can happen, it will happen, somehow, somewhere, sometime; though “how”, “where” and “when” are dubious words to use in this context, where even time can run backwards.’

  ‘It can?’

  ‘It does. All that’s lacking is the clincher proof. But here, on the Edge, is as good a “where” as any. The theory’s obvious. We may end at the start. But we may never find an answer, because our brains aren’t up to it.’

  ‘I’m not so sure mine is, at any rate,’ said Meg.

  ‘And why should it be?’ said Colin. ‘We’re savannah apes. That’s where our brains are at. Why should they need to be equipped to solve the most difficult problems the cosmos may throw at us? Isn’t it likely that there are areas as far beyond our comprehension as the theory of relativity is beyond that of an amoeba?’

  ‘Foolish me. Not to think of that.’

  ‘Take tachyons—’

  ‘Oh, I do. Every morning, as regular as clockwork. With my muesli.’

  ‘But it’s not so much deep space that concerns me as deep place. Once place is lost, you fall into history.’

  ‘And there’s no way out?’

  ‘There’s no way out.’

  ‘Mm.’

  Colin grinned through the red daub on his face. ‘I do hope I haven’t ruined your evening. There can be few more dispiriting experiences than being the recipient of detailed but entirely superfluous explanation.’

  ‘Colin, love, you’ve made my evening,’ said Meg. ‘And topped it. Strewth. Is it any wonder you’re you?’ Colin raised his glass. ‘But I think I ought to be getting off home now. A girl must work, you know, and I don’t want to overstay what’s been a great night out. Thank you.’

  ‘Don’t mention it. But would you like some coffee or tea before you go?’

  ‘Coffee would be perfect.’

  Colin ground the coffee and they drank it by the fire. They said little, but they laughed.

  ‘That’s more like it,’ said Meg. ‘That’s the first time I’ve seen you look even approaching happy.’

  ‘I’m feeling very happy,’ said Colin. ‘And a bit frivolous.’

  ‘Then that makes two of us. Now I really must be off.’

  ‘Thank you for coming, Meg,’ said Colin. He took her hand in both of his. ‘I can’t tell you how much I’ve enjoyed it all: your company, the talk, the friendship; the fellowship. They mean a lot to me.’

  ‘And to me, Colin.’

  ‘May I get you a taxi?’

  ‘No need,’ said Meg. ‘Bert’s outside.’

  She would come. She would. She would come soon.

  Colin washed up from the meal. Through the window the side of the quarry was green with morning drizzle. He whistled as he dried and polished the glasses.

  ‘The wind, the wind, the wind blows high.

  The rain comes pattering down the sky.

  She is handsome, she is pretty—’

  He put on his head torch, collected the bottles he had not opened, and took them to the adit. He unlocked the iron gate and stepped up into the tunnel. ‘The wind, the wind, the wind blows high—’ He laid each bottle back in its place. ‘—She has lovers, one, two, three. Pray can you tell me who is she? Who is she? Who is she?’

  Dill doule.

  He stopped.

  Dill doule. Dill doule.

  He looked towards the entrance. The silhouette of a woman was at the step. She was tall and slim, her hair straight to her shoulders. She seemed not to be wearing a coat, and her skirt was knee-length.

  ‘Hello there,’ said Colin. ‘It’s only me. Come in. Come in. Don’t stand out in the wet.’

  She moved forward to the goblin gold.

  ‘Can you see?’

  She did not stop.

  ‘Watch yourself on the wine racks. Wait a moment. I’m coming. I’ll be right with you.’

  She was beyond the goblin gold and her shape began to block the daylight.

  ‘Wait. The floor’s a bit uneven. I’m coming.’

  The figure did not stop. There was no reply.

  ‘You’ll trip if you’re not careful. Stay there.’

  A flickering white shone from the quartz pebbles in the wall and roof and outlined her, but it did not show her face. The light stayed with her and died behind her, keeping only to her shape, and she made no noise.

  ‘Who are you?’ There was no depth in the figure. It had no features. His torch lit a solid shadow. Colin groped backwards. The figure came on. ‘Stop.’ He felt the end of the adit against his shoulder. ‘Who are you?’ She came on. But instead of being larger, the shadow shape was less with every step, shrinking yet keeping its limned form. ‘No. Stop. Go away. Go away. I don’t want you. Go. Away!—’

  It was now the size of a girl, and near.

  Dill doule. Dill doule. Dill doule.

  She would reach him. She would touch him. Her small arms lifted.

  ‘No!’

  Colin pulled a full rack of wine across from the wall, and the bottles fell, smashing in rainbows, fragments lancing his mind. He roared. He screamed. The howl tore his chest, and he ran for the daylight down the adit, over the broken glass.

  He slammed the hut door behind him and bolted it. He snatched the telephone. ‘Yes, Colin.’ The connection was open.

  ‘Help.’

  ‘Stay where you are. I’ll raise Bert. He’ll be with you as soon as he can. Stay where you are.’ The connection went dead.

  Colin looked from the window. The quarry was empty. The adit was blank. He unfastened the door and made for the quarry entrance, walking quickly, watching behind him.

  ‘Hello, Col. You shouldn’t have done that. You really shouldn’t have done that. You know what happens when men look back. I told you. I did.’

  The voice was all about him. He was between the dishes.

  ‘You!’ He ran to the focus. He whispered. ‘Is it you?’

  ‘Oh, Col. Who else were you expecting? I told you. I did tell you. Didn’t I? I told you she’d get you. And this time I couldn’t stop her. You say you don’t want me now. You say go away. And you let her paint your face. Silly boy. Naughty. Need a smack. You’ve still got some of that red stuff in your beard. Never mind. Shall I sing you a song? I’ll sing you a song.’

  ‘Wait. I’m sorry. I didn’t know it was you.’

  ‘Oh yes you did. Too late. Listen. Such a pretty song. Isn’t it a pretty song?’

  ‘Please.’

  ‘Dill doule for Colin. Colin is dead and gone.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Left his life all alone, all his work undone.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Dill doule. Dill doule.’

  ‘Please.’

  ‘Where shall we bury him? Carry him to Ludchurch.

  By his grandfathers’ cave grows holly, grows the birch.

  Dill doule. Dill doule.’

  ‘Stop.’

  ‘Make the cave wide and deep. Strew it with flowers.

  Toll the bell, toll the bell, twenty-four hours.

  Dill doule. Dill doule. Dill doule. Dill doule. Dill doule.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Dill doule. Dill doule. Dill doule. Dill doule. Dill doule. Dill doule. Dill doule. Dill doule. Dill doule. Dill doule.’

  He ran to the other dish and put his ear at the focus.

  ‘Dill doule. Dill doule. Dill doule.’

  He ran between.

  ‘Dill doule. Dill doule.’

  He ran out of the ambient line. Silence.

  Colin faced the adit. The thick liquid had reached the step and was trickling from the opening into the quarry. The Edge was bleeding more than had been spilt. It welled over the lip and surged and slopped.


  Colin ran. He ran out of the quarry onto the track and to the road. A car was turning in and he fell across the bonnet.

  ‘Eh up, our Colin,’ said Bert. ‘Well I never. You’re a sight for sore eyes. You are that. Let’s be having you. Not much of a day, is it? I could make better weather meself.’

  The wild weathers of the world passed and the day lengthened in the bidding sun. But the woman did not come. Soon the clonter of the river would start and she could not cross. He hewed a holly branch to hold him and trimmed it and took the last of the food, and set out over the ice to fetch her.

  He climbed towards the Tor of Ghosts from where he could see all the world that was.

  He met spirits on the high fell; wolves, too, and bulls and bears and boars; but the way was longer than before and the land shifted under him, and the light around. He saw things that he could not tell: things that wound their tails round knolls, and the knars were big men that were not there. He dreamed horrors as he walked.

  And the wind grew worse. Each hill had a hood, a huge hackle of mist, and the cold clear rain that shed from the clouds was ice when it hit. He should have been dead of the sleet; but Ludcruck held. The clamour of the cranes and the beasts reached out and kept him for this journey.

  So. It was the morning when he woke and left the hole where he had slept and he followed a clough into a wood with banks on each side and the tangled trees were hung with skins of moss and on the twigs birds cried for pain of the cold. But it was shelter from the wind as he climbed, until he came out on a moor and the white snow lay beside. The sky was red, and the sun shone on the Tor of Ghosts above him.

  He climbed towards the ridge of the Tor, leaning on the branch, and however far he climbed the ridge came no nearer. But he knew it was the trick of the Tor, so that only the strong mind would gain the peak. Behind him billowed to the Motherworld.

  The sun was as high as it reached at that season, and he saw the ridge grow nearer and felt the ground ease under his branch. The wind had dropped. The ridge was before him. The rocks of the Tor were its crest, and he stepped onto them.

  Below him lay all that was. He looked across to the hills that kept the Flatlands from falling into the sky. And in that distance there was no one. He called to the woman, but she did not answer. The bone of the Mother was pure, but his hand had not cut true. He had waited too long. Now he was not singer, not dancer, but the meat of pain.

  He cramped on the rock of the Tor and wept. Then, because his head was low, he saw nearer, through the water of his eyes, the Hill of Death and Life stretching into the Flatlands. And from the Hill smoke rose in the still air.

  He pulled himself by the holly to stand and look again. It was the smoke of one fire. He called to it. It did not tell him. But he knew. The woman had come. He felt life, and danced and sang about the branch.

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

  Far away the Grey Wolf heard and came.

  Here am I, the Grey Wolf.

  The smoke on the Hill of Death and Life!

  That is Trouble. The Trouble has come.

  Wolf. Wolf. Grey Wolf. It is the woman. Take me up on your shoulder and run higher than the trees, lower than the clouds. Let each leap measure a mile and from your feet flints fly, springs sprout, lake surge and mix with gravel dirt, birch bend to the ground. Make hare crouch, boar bristle, crow call, owl wake, and stag begin to bell until I reach her.

  I shall not, and I will not. I come three times. No more.

  Then what is there to do?

  That will I tell you. Go down from here and take the Stone. Then walk on the blood of your feet to the Hill of Death and Life.

  But the Stone is the birth of night and the womb of being. Nothing before it was made, and with it all things were made. It lies in Ludcruck; and the river runs beneath. If I take it, all things must end.

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

  Is there no other way?

  No other. Live long. Die well. But me you shall see no more.

  The Grey Wolf struck the damp earth and was gone.

  Colin crouched in the chair, his knees drawn up to his chest, one hand over his eyes, the thumb of the other sideways between his teeth.

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

  ‘No. Not that. Not that again. It’s too embarrassing. Infantile.’

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

  He rocked in the chair. Meg was silent.

  ‘I—’

  She did not speak.

  ‘I—’

  A bird was outside the window.

  ‘House sparrow. Passer domesticus. It has brown and grey plumage. Feeds on seeds and insects.’

  Meg did not answer.

  ‘It has a small, round head and a simple song of one or a series of cheeps or chirrups notes, as you can hear.’

  No reply. He bit on his hand.

  ‘I—Blood! Blood!’

  ‘Nothing wrong with a spot of blood,’ said Meg. ‘You’ll live. Do you want a plaster?’

  ‘From the rock!’

  ‘So?’

  ‘I’m running. She’s speaking. She’s speaking to me. Says you’ve got me. She can’t stop you. I’m naughty. Dirty. Horrid. Need a smack.’

  ‘They can get peevish,’ said Meg. ‘Go on.’

  ‘She’s singing. Singing a song.’

  ‘What about?’

  ‘Me. I’m no good. Finished. Out. Dead.’

  ‘Oh, she’s being a little madam, this one,’ said Meg.

  ‘Going to bury me.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘Ludchurch. I don’t know what she means. What’s Ludchurch? Then Bert comes.’

  ‘And now you’re here, safe and sound,’ said Meg. ‘I’m afraid that’s not enough, darling. What’s really hurting? What’s really bugging you?’

  ‘Nothing. Nothing else.’

  ‘OK. Colin. Let’s try again. What’s the worst thing that happens? I don’t need to know what she says. What’s the worst thing she does?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Speak it.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Right, then. If that’s how you are,’ said Meg, ‘I can’t help. You have to do it for yourself. I can’t kiss it better.’

  ‘You promised not to ditch me.’

  ‘I’m not ditching you, treasure. But until you quit dodging you’re a waste of space.’

  ‘What do you want?’ said Colin.

  ‘I want you to go to what scares you most.’

  Colin uncovered his eyes.

  ‘I’ll be all right?’

  ‘You’ll be all right.’

  ‘Promise?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Her arms. Her hands. Reaching. To get me.’

  ‘She’s not trying to get you, Colin. She’s a child. She wants to be picked up. She wants you to pick her up. To hold her.’

  ‘Me?’

  ‘I told you. She hurts, too. She’s scared.’

  ‘What am I going to do?’

  ‘Give her another chance.’

  ‘How? What do you mean?’

  ‘It’s down to you. But I suggest you try; and soon. She doesn’t mean to, but she’s turning into a right bitch. And you’re not helping.’

  ‘I don’t know what to do.’

  ‘You’ll find out,’ said Meg. ‘Just remember how scared she is; how scared you both are. Help her grow up.’

  The smoke rose from the Hill of Death and Life but did not answer. He left the rocks of the Tor and went down.

  His legs jarred. Without the holly he could not have walked, and he fell as his grip gave to the pain. When he reached the clough the tangled trees were a net through which he had to thrust. He could not pull on them as he had on the way up.

  The sun dropped, and it was by the light of the stars that he followed his tracks to the hole in the snow; and ate; and slept.

  ‘Hi, Colin. Sit down.’
/>   ‘I need to talk.’

  ‘Fire away.’

  ‘No. I need to tell you. I want to tell you something. I want you to listen.’

  ‘So what’s different?’

  ‘I’ve made the biggest mistake of my life.’

  ‘I do that every day,’ said Meg. ‘Join the club.’

  ‘No. I can’t go on. I have to resign my post.’

  ‘Oh, don’t be such a drama queen. What’s the hoo-ha?’

  ‘It’s about my sister.’

  ‘Is it, now? I’m all ears.’

  ‘It started three years ago.’

  ‘What did?’

  ‘You know I’ve said I get flashbacks, and they don’t add up?’

  ‘Mm.’

  ‘I had the same flashback three times, close together.’

  ‘Were you awake or dreaming?’

  ‘Both,’ said Colin.

  ‘Can you tell the difference?’

  ‘Dreams are more real.’

  ‘You’re learning,’ said Meg. ‘Go on.’

  ‘It hadn’t happened before. Flashbacks don’t repeat. Well, not often. But these did. They became real, waking or sleeping.’

  ‘Tell me.’

  ‘I’ve not told anyone. I thought it was true. I knew it was true. But I knew if I said anything, or applied for a grant, I could lose my job. But I needed my job to prove I was right. Without the telescope I couldn’t find her.’

  ‘What were the flashbacks?’

  ‘I saw her. I saw my twin. I saw her riding; riding a horse. M45.’

  ‘On a motorway? That is odd. Especially when you’re awake.’

  ‘Sorry. Messier enumeration. The Pleiades. I saw her ride into the Pleiades. I saw.’

  ‘You’re an astronomer, honeybundle, not a bloody poet. Then again, come to think of it, I suppose you’re both.’

  ‘I am what I am,’ said Colin. ‘We think we understand. But we don’t. Out there everything’s possible. It’s not “either or”. The more we look the more we find. What did I say about the carving on Castle Rock?’

  ‘But constellations are subjective patterns of random stars. Aren’t they?’

  ‘The Pleiades are a discrete asterism. It’s all one. I saw her ride.’

  ‘Did you see her face?’

  ‘—No. But it was her.’

  ‘How far off are the Pleiades?’ said Meg.

  ‘About four hundred and forty light years.’

  ‘Then she can’t be there yet.’