by Alan Garner
‘Please. I want the number of High Forest Taxis, Macclesfield. Please. Hurry.’
‘Bear with me one moment, sir.’
‘Hurry. It’s important.’
‘Bear with me, sir.’
‘Of course. I’m sorry.’
Colin scrabbled on the dresser again.
‘Hello, sir.’
‘Yes. Yes.’
‘I’m afraid no such firm is listed.’
‘It is! It must be! I’ve used it! Often! All the time!’
‘It may have gone out of business. I’m sorry, sir. I’m afraid I can’t help you.’
He threw the telephone from him.
‘Hello, sir? Hello?’
Colin ran his bicycle through the quarry and mounted at the track. He did not have his helmet. He bounced over the ruts and stones and potholes and cobbles, pedalling hard, onto the road and along past Beacon Lodge and the Castle Rock lay-by to the drop at Armstrong Farm, crouched over his handlebars, to the bend at Whinsbrow by the notice THIS HILL IS STILL DANGEROUS straight down from Rockside to the roundabout at London Road. He braked and trailed his foot to veer to the right, among the flocks of cars. He stood on the pedals. Tyres squealed. He went over the station bridge and into Brook Lane, to Row-of-Trees, by Lindow Moss, along Seven Sisters Lane to Toft.
He turned onto the drive without looking. The gates were closed. He skidded and hit the woodwork sideways, but did not fall. He dropped the bicycle to open the gate. It was chained, and an unclasped padlock joined the links. Then he saw the board. Meller Braggins Established 1836. FOR SALE OR TO LET. And the estate agent’s address and telephone number.
Colin opened the gate and wheeled his bicycle through. He walked down the drive. Weeds had taken over the gravel. The bushes were unkempt and the rhododendrons were invading the front door, reaching into the porch. The windows were shuttered.
He left his bicycle and went around the house. He walked clockwise. The lawns were seeding grass. The flowerbeds had flowers that he remembered, but they were losing against invading growth. He came to the French windows of the library. They too were shuttered. He looked out at Beeston bluff.
He went on, and came to the greenhouse and the stable block. He stopped. There was a white van in the yard. Someone was whistling. Colin knew the tune. The wind, the wind, the wind blows high—
There was a man on a ladder, painting the transoms and mullions of a window.
‘Excuse me,’ said Colin.
The man wiped his brush and laid it across the paint can hanging from a rung.
‘Eh up, squire. Are you all right? What can we do for you?’
‘I don’t want to disturb you,’ said Colin.
‘You’re not,’ said the man.
‘What’s happening here?’
‘Not a lot.’
‘What are you doing?’
‘Oh, just giving the old place a lick and a promise.’
‘Who lives here?’
‘Nobody.’
‘No one?’
‘Not while I’ve been looking after it.’
‘How long is that?’
‘Must be a three year, give or take. I do the odd bit of bodging here and there so it doesn’t get any worse than it is. But, between you and me, it’s nobbut a hindrance. Too big for living, too small for business or flats. And the gardens are in shit order. They’re neither use nor ornament.’
‘Who was here last?’
‘You’d best ask the office. What’s up wi’ thee? What’s mithering you?’
‘I know this place,’ said Colin. ‘I was here a few days ago. And someone else was here. They were. They were here too.’
‘Well, they’re not now, anyroad,’ said the man. ‘You want to take more water with it.’
‘Would it be possible for me to see inside?’ said Colin. ‘I don’t wish to waste your time. It would take only a moment. Just the hall and the library will be enough.’
‘I’m the governor of this gang,’ said the man, ‘and we’re not on piece work. Help yourself. It’s all fetching night.’ He came down from the ladder, took a bunch of keys from his overalls and unlocked the back door. Colin went with him into the closed house. They passed through the kitchen.
‘I know this,’ said Colin. ‘It’s the hall.’
‘You’re not wrong,’ said the man. ‘Here.’ He switched on a maintenance light.
‘And this door’s to the library,’ said Colin. ‘It is. It has to be.’
‘Correct.’ The man opened the door and pressed another switch.
The curtains were drawn across the shutters. He knew them. The furniture was draped with dustsheets, but he could see the shapes: the chaise longue and the deep chair on either side of the fireplace; the low table, the drinks cabinet, the clock. The chandeliers hung in cotton covers. The walls were lined with empty shelves; they had no books.
‘You OK, mate?’
‘Yes. Yes. Thank you. Thank you. I’ve seen what I have to,’ said Colin.
‘You’re looking badly,’ said the man. ‘Let’s get you outside and sit you down.’
‘Thanks. Thanks,’ said Colin.
Colin sat on a step. The lines of the world returned.
‘You seem to know your way around,’ said the man. ‘I’ll give you that.’
‘Yes. Parts. But it doesn’t matter. I’ve taken up enough of your time.’
‘I’ll be right,’ said the man. ‘So long as me brush doesn’t dry. That’s what they say.’
‘Thank you. Thank you again.’
‘Cheers.’
‘I’m so sorry,’ said Colin. ‘I didn’t introduce myself. Whisterfield. Colin Whisterfield.’ He held out his hand. The man wiped his on his overalls. ‘Pleased to meet you, Colin,’ he said. ‘Call me Bert.’
Colin rode back along the drive to the gate, opened and closed it, replaced the lock. He rode blind by Seven Sisters Lane, Lindow Moss, Row-of-Trees, Brook Lane, London Road and up the Front Hill.
At Castle Rock lay-by he left his bicycle and ran along the path to the Rock. Its smooth quarried surface drew him to the point, and the point drew him beyond. He ran across the last ledge. There was nothing but the point and air, calling him. Three strides to an end. Three strides and then no more. His head no more rampicked by the stars. No more agate with dreams. No more. But the world swung. He pitched. His face was over the brink, his arms beside. He saw the grooves carved by rain down the rock, and the fields beneath. He could not move. His body was clamped. He pulled his hands back and gripped. He pushed, keeping every part of him against the rock. His eyes lost the vastitude and were seeing grains and pebbles, back and back, over the ancient river, until his feet met the ledge. But even here he could not stand. He rolled, ignoring pain, until he was further than his own length from the ledge. He turned onto his knees, facing away, and stood. To the south, on the safe land, the telescope was tilted, pointing at him. He clutched the black stone.
I have a Story.
Tell me your Story, said the other.
The world was full, and the people hunted, and the sun was young. Then two people of the Crow held each other, and the Stone Spirit wept and the sun moved its face. Then came cold, and the herds went. The Hunter and the people followed them and the world was empty; but the Bull stayed. And every night of winter he comes above the hills, watching to see that there is life; and the Stone Spirit looks to send out eagles from its head to feed the stars.
And because the Crow flesh brought the cold they stayed to dance and cut and sing in Ludcruck to make new the Bull and the beasts on the wall of the sky cave above the waters for the time when all will be again, with the Hunter striding. But if we do not dance and cut and sing and make the beasts new on the sky wall the Stone Spirit will not send eagles.
And who is it that you hold? said the other.
No one. She and the child went to the ice. No one is left to hold. No child to teach. I am alone. After me, no one will give my flesh to the sky, take my bones to the nook
s of the dead. The sun will not come back. The Stone Spirit will not send eagles. The world will end.
That is a true Story, said the other.
Colin woke. ‘Doctor Knickerbocker, Knickerbocker, number nine. He sure got drunk on a bottle of wine.’ He could not tell between memory and dream. There was a child singing in the quarry. He squirmed out of his bunk and opened the door and listened.
‘Rosy apple, lemon and a pear.
Bunch of roses she shall wear.’
He went onto the grass, but could see no one.
‘Be careful!’ he shouted. ‘Mind you don’t fall! The quarry’s dangerous!’
There was laughter.
‘Be careful! Where are you?’
He dressed in a hurry and went out again.
‘Hello!’
‘Gold and silver by her side.
She shall be a bride.’
‘Where are you?’
More laughter.
‘Don’t be silly! You could hurt yourself!’
He went up the path out of the quarry and walked all around the rim, checking. He called once more, but there was no answer. He went back by the main entrance.
‘Careful on the rocks! You could slip and sprain your ankle!’
‘I’ll be careful, Col, don’t you worry.’
He was between the dishes.
‘You?’
‘Of course. Who else?’
‘Where are you?’
‘Everywhere. Come and find me. Let’s play hide-and-seek. You’ll be “It”.’
‘No going out of the quarry,’ said Colin.
‘Mardy, mardy mustard.
Your head is made of custard.’
‘And no going in the hut.’
‘Ha, ha, ha, hee, hee, hee.
You can’t catch me for a penny cup of tea.’
‘Ready?’
‘Yes. This is fun.’
‘One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine …’
‘Ha, ha, ha, hee, hee, hee.
The elephant nests in a rhubarb tree.’
‘… ninety-one, ninety-two, ninety-three, ninety-four, ninety-five, ninety-six, ninety-seven, ninety-eight, ninety-nine. One hundred. Coming, ready or not. No barleys.’
Colin left the focus and looked around. The quarry was still. Nothing moved. He watched. He listened. Then he went to the entrance, and came back, crossing the ground to and fro. There were no prints in the mud, no moss on the rockery steps had been disturbed, no grass or reeds bent. He moved forward over unmarked dew.
‘Take her by the lily-white hand.’
The sound had no direction, but was outside the dishes and his head.
‘—lily-white hand.’
He moved along the floor of the quarry.
‘Lead her across the water.’
The rhododendrons were the only cover. He thrashed through them. Nothing.
‘Lead her across the water.’
There was the hut.
‘I said no going in the hut! I said!’
Laughter.
He went clockwise around the outside. Nothing. He ran. Nothing. He ran the other way, widdershins. Nothing. He looked inside. There was nowhere else.
‘Lead her across the water.’
He went back to the dishes and to the focus. ‘I give up. You win. “Olly, olly all in, no back bargains.”’
‘Oh, Col. You big sissy. You know where I am. Try harder.’
He went through the quarry again. Nothing. He went back to the dishes. The quarry was still; only a small wind.
There was a giggle, not at the focus. It had to be at the far end. The adit. He went towards the gate, the locked iron gate into the hill.
‘Give her a kiss and say goodbye.’
The sound was in the tunnel. He unfastened the gate. He stepped up. ‘Relieve-o!’
‘Relieve-o!’ Was it an echo?
‘She is the fairest daughter.’ Not an echo.
He moved in as far as the goblin gold, the edge of the dark. He took the stone from his pocket and held it before him.
‘Rosy apple, lemon and a pear.
Bunch of roses she shall wear.
Gold and silver by her side.
She shall be a bride.’
Triboluminescence flickered at the far end. He went on.
‘Take her by the lily-white hand.
Lead her across the water.’
The small black figure appeared limned in moonlight from the pebbles. He moved slowly.
‘Don’t be scared,’ he said.
They moved towards each other.
‘Lead her across the water.’
As she came nearer, she grew.
‘Lead her across the water.’
The day behind him, and the pebbles around, lit the tunnel. She was now his size, but black, without feature.
‘I’m not scared, Col. Not now. Are you?’
‘No.’
He did not pause. He could touch her dark, but he did not.
They were face to face, surrounded by light from the quartz.
‘Give her a kiss and say goodbye.’
She reached out to him. He reached to her. They clasped. He held the stone against her spine. The stone light quenched the moon.
‘She is the fairest daughter.’
‘Who are you?’ he said.
‘You.’
I sang and danced, and cut a woman for me to fetch a child for me to teach to dance and sing and cut. But you have come, not she.
That is a true Story, said the other.
He went to the dish. ‘Meg.’
‘Yes, Colin.’
‘I’ve been to Toft.’
‘Then you’ll know.’
‘Yes. And I’ve found her.’
‘Where?’
‘Here.’
‘So you understand. You asked the Question.’
‘Yes.’
‘Do you understand the answer?’
‘Yes.’
‘So?’
‘I’ve stopped the hurt.’
‘What a long way to market, eh?’
‘Yes.’
‘But that’s the way it is and has to fare, my love. You end at the start. You told me yourself.’
‘I did. Yes. I did.’
‘We are always with you, Colin. Always have been. Always shall be. All three.’
‘Three?’
‘Three.’
‘Her too?’
‘Her too.’
‘Her in the room?’
‘Her in the room. Trinity. You are nothing without her. She is the shadow that shapes your light. The moon, Colin. Ever strong; ever dying; ever young; the same. We are the Three. With you. Of you. In you. No need to fear or find.’
‘If you could have told me, from the start—’
‘Ah. “If ifs and ands were pots and pans, there’d be no trade for tinkers.” “If” is a big word, Colin. You had to do it yourself. I said so all along. I did tell you.’
‘What’s that noise?’
‘Why don’t you look?’
Colin turned his face to the other dish.
‘It’s only a crow,’ he said. ‘Carrion crow. Corvus corone corone.’
‘Only a crow.’
‘Yes. They’re very common.’
‘Then do it.’
‘Yes.’
‘That’s the ticket. That’s the ticket for soup.’
‘Yes.’
‘Now, Colin.’
‘Yes.’
‘Forgive yourself. Accept.’
‘Yes.’
‘Now, Colin.’
‘Now, Meg.’
‘And be.’
The wind was on the struts.
‘Knickerty. Knackerty.’
The spanners gripped.
‘Now. Now. Now.’
He disarmed the focus.
Colin left his robes and walked by Seven Firs and Goldenstone and Stormy Point to Saddlebole. He stepped up to the shelf and touched the quartz and laid his
cheek against the rough of the sand. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘I am sorry. I was wrong. I was so wrong. It is not Time. Sleep on.’ He went around the scarp to Castle Rock. The telescope moved in azimuth and elevation to lock onto him. He held the black stone: the stone that held stars and galaxies, all heavens in the hand that had held its making. He went to the thrust of the rock above the air and looked down. He looked up. He walked along the brink, along the line of nothing, between sky and ancient river. He turned from the rock towards the dish. It waited. He spoke.
‘Listen.’
I see a new Story. I see a Dream.
Tell me, said the other.
‘I’ll tell you. I’ve got to tell you.’
I sang and danced and cut the woman. I sang and danced and I cut strong. I cut with the last bone of the Mother, to fetch the woman. But you have come.
‘I must tell you.’
I am spirit. I am peace. Take the Stone. Take the bone of the Mother.
‘I will.’
Sing, dance, cut. Bring back the sun.
‘I shall.’
It is a true Story, said the other. It is a true Dream. Sleep now.
Also by Alan Garner
FICTION
The Weirdstone of Brisingamen
The Moon of Gomrath
Elidor
The Owl Service
Red Shift
A Bag of Moonshine
The Lad of the Gad
The Stone Book Quartet
Strandloper
Thursbitch
ESSAYS
The Voice that Thunders
Copyright
First published in Great Britain in 2012 by
Fourth Estate
An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers
77–85 Fulham Palace Road,
Hammersmith, London W6 8JB
www.4thestate.co.uk
Copyright © Alan Garner 2012
Alan Garner asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work
A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library
Source ISBN: 9780007463244
Ebook Edition © June 2012 ISBN: 9780007463268
Version 1
FIRST EDITION
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this ebook on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.
