The Owl Service

by Alan Garner

  He lay till he could move, then walked up towards the grey air of the mountain. He would be safe outside the valley, he would make plans, where to go, how to eat, to sleep.

  The cloud drifted with him, always in front, blocking his sight, and the mountain was open below him down to the house, but he could not look. He set his back to the valley, thrusting left right left right, a foot of mountain and a second of time behind him, and so for a while nothing else mattered.

  He rested when he knew the house had gone. Most of the valley was hidden from where he leant against a quartz boulder under the edge of the plateau. He held a clover to strip the petals, and reached for another, and it was then that he saw how it grew in a white line of flowers past the boulder and into the cloud.

  He crouched by a flower, but his hand drew back, for the grass round the clover had been flattened, though the clover stood free. As he watched, a blade sprang, and slowed, lifting its weight.

  He went downhill a few paces. His feet had crushed grass and flower, but where he had not trodden yet the clover stood above the grass.

  More blades sprang back, as if they had been flattened by a light step.

  Somebody up there, is it?

  He walked beside the white track and the cloud moved in front of him like skirts until he was on the plateau. The ground was level. There was no more climbing, and the mist lifted from the mountain and he saw across peat and water and rushes, and there was no one on the mountain but himself. In the distance a black sow rubbed its flank against the cairn.

  Gareth Pugh’s.

  Now then. Which road?

  Which?

  He saw mountains wherever he looked: nothing but mountains away and away and away, their tops hidden sometimes, but mountains with mountains behind them in desolation for ever. There was nowhere in the world to go.

  “Alison—”

  He stood, and the wind was cold through him. He looked again, but there was nothing, and the sky dropped lower, hiding the barren distances, crowding the hills with ghosts, then lifting, and he looked again. Nothing. Even the pig had gone.

  He stumbled along the mountain. I’ll show them. You could die here, man, and who’d care? Them?

  He had not meant to find the Ravenstone. He came to it when he could see no more than three paces ahead. He faced the wind, ready for the cloud to pass, and there were the valley and the house. For a moment he longed to be among fields and trees, with people, to be down from the moss and the peat hags.

  But the sheep were moving from left to right across the slopes. Wether-go-nimbles. He raged the cold back into him.

  Farmers whistled their dogs, and called. The sounds rose from the valley, “There, Ben. There, Ben. Good, Ben,” and he saw the dogs fanning through the bracken, black and white among the green. “There, Ben. Lass. Good, Lass. There. There. There.” The dogs changed direction at a whistle. He looked for the men, but they were not on the mountain. “Bob, there, Bob, Lass, good, Lass, there.”

  The dogs came on and the sheep bunched together. The dogs were in a bent line, the horns of the line pointing up the mountain. The dogs reached the sheep. “There there there there. Ben. There. Bob, Bob, Bob.” The whistles followed sharp and urgent. The dogs swept past the sheep, ignored them, the horns of the line drew in, pointed to the Ravenstone.

  “There, Ben. There, Ben. Good, Lass.”

  He looked behind him. There were no sheep on the top.

  “Bob, stay, Bob. There, Ben, there, Ben. Lass, there. Lass.”

  The dogs came for the Ravenstone. Their tongues rolled with the climb, but they came, and when they were near they dropped their bellies low, and crept. They moved in short spurts, eyes fixed.

  He could not watch all of them at the same time.

  They moved past the Ravenstone, turned, and lay between their haunches, and then ran at him, low quick darts from all sides. When he faced a dog it stopped, and two others closed nearer, and lay still when he looked, and the first came on.

  “Get out!”

  He waved his arms.

  “Ben. Good, Ben. There, Ben.”

  A wall-eyed dog had reached him first, in with a nip to the ankle and away. He ran to kick it, but other teeth pinched his calf.

  “Lass, Lass, Lass, there, Lass.”

  “Call your flaming dogs off!”

  But his voice went into cloud, and the wind spread it over the peat moss.

  Two dogs rushed him, and he fell from the Ravenstone on to the steep grass and slid for twenty yards, sky, teeth, mountain and tongues whirling, and then he was on his feet and his own weight carried him down, and the whistling grew louder, but the dogs were silent – rush, stop, belly to the ground, rush, nip and away.

  “Good, Ben. Good, Lass. Ben, there, Ben. Good, Bob.”

  From the grass to the screes and the bracken, and grass again, over the streams they drove him. If he threw stones at them they snarled and were more savage in their biting. He ran, fell, ran a thousand feet down to the river, but they would not leave him. No men appeared, but the shouts and whistles were close in the hedgebanks. The dogs walked up the road, their steps high and slow, lips arched red, back, back, to the front drive – and left him. They cocked their legs at the gatepost, and frisked into the meadow.

  “Good, Ben. Good, Lass. Good, Bob. Here. Here. Here. Good, Ben.”

  Who told them? Who told them I was going? Who said? Who knew?

  He wanted to sleep. Suddenly all he wanted was to sleep.

  Sleep: food: eat. Who knew I wasn’t coming back? They’ll not have me. What are they wanting? They didn’t send dogs – before – when we – I – up: before. Who told them? Who?

  CHAPTER 22

  “T here you are,” said Clive. “Been looking for you both.”

  “Hang on, Dad,” said Roger. He pulled back his elbow and splayed his fingers over the green cloth. As he thrust the cue forward Alison said, “Hello, Clive.”

  The cue glanced off the billiard ball.

  “You did that deliberately,” said Roger. “Broke my concentration.”

  “She didn’t,” said Clive. “The bad workman always blames his tools. It’s a cue, not a see-saw. Watch me. The cue moves easily: backwards: and forwards: one: two: one, two: level: don’t lift the butt: and—”

  He played five cannons in a row, and then potted the red.

  “Clive, you’re brilliant,” said Alison.

  “Evidence of a misspent youth, that’s what they say.”

  “Why were you looking for us?” said Roger.

  “Um – yes,” said Clive. “Tread a bit softly these next couple of days, there’s good people.”

  “What are we supposed to have done?” said Roger.

  “I’m not bothered. But until her majesty abdicates things are a bit dicey.”

  “What happened?” said Alison.

  “Nothing. She’s playing it strictly by the book, that’s all.”

  “I don’t understand,” said Alison.

  “Old Nancy’s complained to Margaret about the kitchen being her stamping ground until she’s worked her notice. So no safaris, eh?”

  “Dad, are you all right?”

  “She says the larder’s been cleaned out of bread and cheese.”

  “It wasn’t me,” said Roger.

  “Nor me,” said Alison.

  “I’m not worried,” said Clive. “We stock up again tomorrow. Let’s weather the next couple of days, though, shall we?”

  “No,” said Roger. “We’ll have it straight.”

  “Honest, Clive,” said Alison.

  “Oh? Well, not to worry.”

  “It’ll be that light-fingered so-and-so she carts round with her,” said Roger.

  “It will be Gwyn,” said Alison. “I know he does – take things.”

  “Does he?” said Roger. “Wait a minute, then. Have you borrowed my anorak?”

  “No,” said Alison.

  “I saw it wasn’t in the cloakroom when we came through. If he’s had
it I’ll kick his teeth in.”

  “Leave it,” said Clive. “We’ll be rid the day after tomorrow. It’s not worth making a fuss. Are you coming for dinner?”

  “Yes. There’s something else I bet he’s found,” said Roger, and on their way through the cloakroom he lifted the lid of an ammunition box by the log basket. “He has, too! Dad! He’s pinched my climbing boots!”

  “I’ll have a word with him tonight,” said Clive.

  “I’ll have more than a word,” said Roger.

  “I’d steer clear. Not worth the fuss.”

  “In case someone’s upset?” said Roger. “She’ll just have to be upset. No doubt we’ll survive.”

  “Now watch it,” said Clive.

  “Once bitten twice shy, that’s your motto, isn’t it, Dad?”

  “Right,” said Clive. “Upstairs. If you decide you’re fit to take dinner with the rest of us kindly see that you’re ready by the gong. It’s a civilised meal. We shan’t expect any snotty-nosed kids who haven’t learnt their manners.”

  “Naturally, Father,” said Roger. “Good night.”

  “Sorry about that,” said Clive. “He’ll apologise.”

  “It doesn’t matter, Clive,” said Alison.

  “Now look, princess. I’m the one to say whether it matters or not. Let’s get that straight, shall we?”

  “Excuse me.”

  Huw Halfbacon knocked on the open door.

  “Yes, what is it?”

  “Excuse me asking,” said Huw. “Is the boy here?”

  “Which boy? Young Gwyn?”

  “That is right, sir.”

  “I expect so.”

  “We were fetching him down this afternoon, and I was wondering if he is here now.”

  “I think he may have gone for a walk,” said Alison.

  “Oh. Yes?”

  “He’s borrowed some climbing boots.”

  “Ah,” said Huw.

  “Last time I saw him,” said Clive, “he was having a kip along the front drive there after tea. I thought he was ill at first, but he was snoring away – spark out.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “While you’re here,” said Clive. “I don’t suppose you can find us another housekeeper, can you?”

  “Is she not good?” said Huw. “I am sorry for that.”

  “She’s given notice. Didn’t she tell you? They’re off the day after tomorrow.”

  “She is not talking to me,” said Huw.

  “But is there anyone else, Halfbacon?”

  “No, sir. Now excuse me. I must go working.”

  “Work?” said Clive. “At this time? Don’t you ever knock off?”

  “Yes, sir. Excuse me, when is she going, that day?”

  “After breakfast.”

  “After breakfast,” said Huw. “Well, well, sir.”

  “Look here, Halfbacon,” said Clive. “You must understand this overtime lark is entirely your own affair. If you think you can twist my arm with it for more wages you’ve come to the wrong shop.”

  “No, sir,” said Huw. He walked away. “No, no, not at all. I must go helping my uncle with finish a job, see. Good night, sir. Good night, my lady.”

  “Urrh,” said Clive. “These people give me the jim-jams. It’s the same in business. You never know where you are with them, you never have a straight answer. You never know when they’re being polite or just sarky.”

  “Cold,” said Alison.

  “Eh? What?”

  “Cold – kippers.”

  CHAPTER 23

  H e sat behind a thorn bush high in the valley, waiting for dusk. The first part of the climb into the rocks might be seen from the farms. He ate a little of the cheese and scooped the stream water into his hands. He was wearing both his shirts, his pullover on top of them, and the anorak, and two pairs of trousers were tucked into his socks.

  These boots are a bit of all right.

  He had kept low along the stream, and quiet, and he had seen no dogs, no voices had called, and no one had whistled. So far it had been easy, but now he had to climb the Black Hiding, and the noise of its waters pounded him.

  It was dark enough to move. There had been hardly any rain for several weeks, and the channels were running slack, so that he could climb between the loose slate of the cliffs and the foam of the water.

  Them cliffs and screes – by, foxes know what they’re at.

  He climbed the narrow thread of rock, smoothed, hollowed by waterfalls. On either side the decayed buttresses of the Black Hiding rose above him and fell below him.

  He rested on a flat stone, his feet hanging over the drop. Lamps were showing in the house.

  Cosy is it for you down there? You can’t touch me. I’ve done with you lot.

  He ate some food, and climbed again. The top of the Black Hiding started to show, a notch against the skyline, and then it disappeared as he came in close to the stream below a waterfall: twenty feet, and no way up unless he moved out on to the crag. The buttresses crowded the water.

  So how do foxes manage?

  The buttress was not sheer, and he saw that an animal could take it at a run. The surface would hold long enough.

  But you’re not a fox, man.

  He ran at the shale, and the force of his scrabbling carried him more than half way. Then he stuck. He was spread-eagled on the buttress. His toes dug into the muck and his fingers clutched deep. His head was twisted to the side. He looked down out of the corner of one eye.

  Two hundred feet? What’s the chances? Slide? Like a cowing cheese-grater.

  His hands pulled balls of clay out of the surface, and the boots were moving farther apart.

  The lamps twinkled at him from the valley.

  He dragged his head up. The slab of the waterfall was less than twice his own height above him, but he was at full stretch, with nothing to thrust against.

  What you worrying for? Ten seconds and you’ll be on that ledge, or you won’t. Them holds will go, or they won’t. What’s your problem? Nothing to it, man! One. Two. Three. Hup!

  He spat from the slab to the crest of the waterfall. Where his hands and feet had touched there were no holds, only streaks in the shale.

  He stood on the edge and rolled stones to see how he would have fallen from the buttress, then he threw stones at the house. It was nearly a mile away, but before they dropped into the crags the stones arched high and seemed as if they would reach.

  Surprising what you can do when you try: as if I cared.

  He turned from the valley, and climbed. He was near the top of the Black Hiding, and the water lost its fierceness, and soon he would come to the peat hags, and from there he would find the rocks that marked where some women had died in a snowstorm, and then he would be near the line of slates, upended in the moss, that pointed over the mountain to the next valley. From that valley he could reach a main road, thumb a lift, and be in Aberystwyth next morning.

  The top of the Black Hiding was a deep stone gutter which ran into the plateau. Behind him the crags fell to the valley and the spark of lamplight, and over his head the grass caps of the buttresses held the last of the day.

  He trod carefully, wanting to stay dry if possible, but the gutter was thick with boulders, and when one of the boulders moved under his feet, and screamed, rose, and came for him he scrambled backwards up the shale wall and forgot his wet feet.

  He had stepped on the black sow. The sow squealed as it strained to reach him. It could not lift its flanks on to the slope out of the pit where it had been wallowing, but he began to slide back towards the jaws which squelched and gobbled the shale that rained from where he was trying to stop his fall. The head was turned side on to him, the teeth like broken bottles.

  Worst bite there is. Takes a lump clean out. You’ll not be seeing much of Aber if she gets you.

  His hand thrashed against something firm. He spun himself round and grabbed: it was a tree root. He swung clear of the gutter, hanging free, and kicked up to the trunk wh
ich grew sideways from the rock. He draped himself over the trunk and watched the sow.

  If she goes upstream to that sheep track she can have a do at me here from the side. I suppose I ought to move.

  The sow had stopped squealing and was nosing about, its sound covered by the water, and its body hidden by darkness. A grunt or a splash or a gleam of jaw were all that gave it way, and nothing came from the same place twice. He climbed into the branches of the tree.

  Well, that’s me for the night. Roll on death, eh? Now: daylight by four: over the top and into the next valley by seven: main road by ten. Blast Gareth Pugh. Never mind, should be clear of Aber before she can get back, even if she twigs.

  He ate some more food, and arranged himself on the tree. He found a compass and a whistle tied to a lanyard in the anorak pocket. He took the lanyard and made a sling round a branch, and pushed his arm through to the shoulder. Then he wedged himself between the trunk and a tangle of branches.

  It was a warm night, and he was sheltered from the wind, but he could not sleep for more than a few minutes at a time. He was cold and cramped. He had no watch, but the position of the moon told him how short each sleep had been.

  The lamps went out in the valley.

  He dozed, and shivered, and dozed, and ate the last of the food, and dozed.

  He woke. He was cold to the bone, and his head had fallen backwards across a branch, so that when he opened his eyes he was looking at the edge of the plateau thirty feet above him. The lanyard had deadened his arm, and his other arm lay over his chest, the fingers hooked in the sling. His neck was stiff. There was a man on the plateau.

  The man walked along the top of the gutter towards the peat hags.

  Them with their dogs, is it? There’ll be a right sort-out if they tread on that pig. Let them get on with it. I’m not bothered.

  He found a new position in the branches to ease his arm. Darkness came and went with clouds over the moon, and the water rattled the stones, but he watched.

  He saw the scree move before he heard any change in the note of the stream: a long slew of rubble farther up the gutter hit the water where it lay in a hollow. The bubbles rose like silver blossom.