by Alan Garner
“Understand what?”
“Please. Tom.”
“Understand that intelligence isn’t the same as finesse? Understand that more of a caravan sticks to you than the smell of old fry-up. You’re tearing me. You’re tearing me. Bikini!”
“I’m trying to be honest! I didn’t understand! It’s my fault. I love you. I love you like nothing else.”
“Bikini!”
“I love you.”
“Bikini!”
“It’s hurting you too much,” said Jan. “I’ll get rid of it.”
“Have you caught up?” said Jan.
“Don’t.”
“I only want to know.”
“I can’t cry.”
“Should you?”
“I was by myself.”
“Yes.”
“I’m sorry.”
“You couldn’t help it.”
“Next time—”
It was Jan who cried. Tom held her, kissed her hair. “Next time,” she said. “Is that all? Next time—”
“What can I do?” said Tom. “Make it better—”
“The Bunty. Let me hold the Bunty. That. And you hold me. You couldn’t help it.”
“Why is it a Bunty?”
“Please. I want the Bunty.”
“I’ve not got it.”
“I want Bunty.”
“I can’t.”
“I don’t know why Bunty. It’s always been. Please.”
“I’ve not got it.”
“And hold me.”
“I’ve not got it. I love you, and I haven’t got it.”
“Left it? Why?”
“I’ve not got it.”
“Bunty.”
“Not any more.”
“Where?”
“Do you know what it was?”
“A Bunty.”
“What it really was.”
They crouched together in the square of the roof, on the tower of the church.
“Hold me.”
“It was an axe. Beaker Period. It was a votive axe. The best ever found.”
“ ‘Was’?” said Jan. “Bunty ‘was’?”
“It wasn’t a Bunty. It was an artifact. Not a toy. It was three thousand five hundred years old, and it’d survived. Toting it about, we’d’ve dropped it sooner or later.”
“What have you done?”
“It’s where it should be.”
“Where?”
“I told the Rector. He knew what to do. It’s in the British Museum. You can go and see it. It has a label and everything.”
“We found it.”
“Luckily. It could’ve been anyone. Kids.”
“It’s ours.”
“It’s not. The responsibility’s too great.”
“I wouldn’t have dropped it.”
“You don’t know. And humping it around on the back of a bike. And the caravan. My mother chucked it into the dustbin once. It’s not a toy.”
“It’s ours.”
“It’s not.”
“Why?”
“—I sold it.”
“You did what?”
“They paid. For that weekend.”
“That was the money?”
“Yes.”
“In a glass case?”
“You can see it any time.”
“Touch?”
“Of course not.”
“What’s ‘votive’?”
“Sacred, sort of.”
“But you had to be told that,” said Jan. “You didn’t know: not without being told.”
“I had to give it. It was too valuable.”
“ ‘Give’? ‘Valuable’?”
Jan went to the parapet, and leant over.
“Come back. People can see you.”
“I knew. I thought you did. Shut away: no touching: a label. A number written on it: Indian ink: a catalogue.”
“Come here,” said Tom.
She moved slowly. “It’s you,” she said. “I’ve staked everything on you. But you know nothing. You tried to make me feel guilt. Dirt.”
“It was for us. I did it for the best.”
“Always for the best.”
“Jan—”
“I love you,” she said.
“Jan—”
“Do something.”
He laid his cheek on the hot lead. He was crying and gulping breath. Her tears ran into her hair. She looked at the sun without flinching.
“A budgerigar,” she said. “Mum and Dad were on a teaching course. I was six. I went to stay with friends up the road. I came in every day to feed him and clean his cage. But they told me he’d pined. That’s a funny word. I buried him in a salad-cream jar. Poor Bunty. I had to leave him when we moved.”
“I’ll get it back. I’ll buy it back.”
“You don’t know where we lived.”
“I’ll get it.”
“Were you alone again that time?” she said. “I was. I’m cold.”
“I’ll get it back!”
“You can’t.”
“I didn’t see how much it mattered.”
“That’s what you can’t get back,” said Jan.
“Next time—”
“It always will be next time.”
Jan fastened her anorak. In the dark of the stair she could not feel which way the stone curved. Her hand gave the illusion, the stone reversing, inside, outside. The steps were dangerous hollows. She had to sit. Worn by so many feet, so long a time, they were not safe.
Tom put the keys through the Rectory letterbox.
“Never take me there again,” she said.
“Right.”
“And don’t talk.”
“Right.”
They held each other at the barrier as they had held outside the tower.
“I love you,” said Tom.
“Yes.”
“Hello?”
“—Hello.”
“What will you do with the axe?” she said.
“I don’t know.”
The bodies had been taken away in the night. No blood was on the mountain. Only a stake, wedged between rocks, was left. It carried Logan’s head.
“He must wait while the ravens have finished,” she said. “He killed here.”
Macey kept looking at the ridge and the head, nursing the bundle at his shoulder.
“I should’ve saved them. It was my fault. All.”
“The goddess drew them pictures, so they wouldn’t be hurt. They don’t know.”
“Don’t know they’re dead.”
“It’s wrong to be under ravens. He was a good man.”
“If I hadn’t used it—to kill.”
“You’d be dead. We’d not be here. A baby wouldn’t be ready.”
“I’m not fit. I used what’s never used. Good or bad, I’m not fit. Macey’s gone. I see bluesilver waking and sleeping, and red.”
“That’s real. Not pictures.”
“Tell me.”
“It’s your god and your way. You must carry it.”
“Will Cats come?”
“The goddess ground the flour, but my hand gave death on the mountain. I may not be free.”
“I’ll look after you.”
“We’ve both betrayed. There’ll be a price.”
“I can’t plunder it,” he said. “Or you.”
She held him closer. “Don’t try.”
“Face used to reckon,” he said, “and he knew all sorts, that the more words people had for something, the more they thought on it. Well, if what he reckoned is true, I wish I was Greek.”
“Why?”
“They’d words. Still have. For feeling.”
“We’ve words, haven’t we?”
“Face reckoned Greeks had more for this, what I feel. Romans don’t.”
“For instance?”
“Well, same as ‘fond’: but that’s not enough. And ‘wanting’: that sounds too previous. It’s no good: I haven’t the words.”
“You have,
” she said, “but you’ve not matched them till now. If they let me be, and don’t part us, I’ll find you words. And even now there’s words they wouldn’t kill.”
“Why me? Lame-brain, goofball, screwed-up bluesilver—”
“Romans don’t have the words. Forget them. They’re ugly. I’ll learn you. And think on: no matter what happens, it’s a future, shared and held.”
“Is it me?”
“Yes.”
“Is it really me?”
“Yes.”
“I know what to do, then.”
“He’s not badly, just frit.”
“Look after him,” said John. “I must go.”
“He couldn’t help it.”
“I know.”
Margery’s calm fingers loosened the muscles of Thomas’s jaw. His body jerked with breath. He tried to speak, but she would not let him.
“Hush, love.”
Thomas relaxed into her. When he opened his eyes, she closed them. When he moved, she stilled him, as if from nightmare.
She heard sounds in the graveyard, and the echo of people on the stair, but all was unhurried, muted. Thomas slept a little. It was better when he slept.
The first warning was the thump of a musket butt against the church door. Thomas woke.
“John!”
“Hush. It’s all right.”
“It isn’t. He doesn’t know. I must tell him.”
After the knock on the church door the echo in the tower became more rapid, uncontrolled. Her own body was hard. Thomas stood up and walked across the roof. A musket ball broke the crenellation near his head, and he went on hands and knees. The sound added to the tempo of the stair.
“Tell him what?”
“Not all Irish. Him. Mow Cop. He’s there. I saw him.”
“Thomas!”
She scrambled after him into the dark. They met people coming the other way, skirts and legs shuffling upwards in the stone tube.
Margery and Thomas were sworn at unknown, but they pushed their way down. Comforting words went along the chain. “John—” “John—” “John’ll see us right—” “John knows what to do—” “John knows what he’s at—” “John—” “John—” “John—” “John—” The bell-ringers’ room was full, mainly the women with babies. Thomas went on down. He reached the church.
John was not easily seen. The Rector gave orders, marshalling the people to the stair, deploying the men about the church. John was only one of the men.
“John! He’s here! Venables!”
It was as though the church ignited violence. There was no start to the fighting. The windows shattered and were black with headlong silhouettes. Swords and muskets filled all sound. A cow ran mad in the noise, worse than a bull. It was the only saving against the Irish. It charged until it fell, and the Rector cut others free to run mad in turn, and he kicked the hens, anything to hold back the soldiers until the stair door was clear.
“Venables, John!”
But Margery was tugging him back, and the men pressed in, smelling of fear. The door slammed. “I’ve locked it,” said John’s voice. “Get up before they shoot!” They pulled to help each other at first, but there were too many stumbling. At the ringers’ room they paused.
“Where’s the Rector?”
“I’ll look after you,” said John.
Some of the women screamed, but neighbours slapped them quiet. John left two men to hold the stair below the room, and caught up with the line to the top of the tower. Fear had almost stopped them: there was movement without direction.
And then smoke. At first it was the sting of wood.
“They’ve stacked pews against the door!”
“Keep calm!” John shouted.
When the door burnt through, the stair sighed like a chimney. Heat swept up, air was sucked away.
“Don’t panic!”
The soldiers laid wet and fouled rushes on the fire. There was less heat, but the smoke was like oil. Daylight showed amber above their heads, and they broke for the top of the tower. Some steps were cluttered, but no one cared, except not to fall themselves, and they spread clear of the smoke over the roof. The first to arrive had stood up and were dead. A steady volley covered the tower. The Irish were trained.
“Venables!” said Thomas.
“Yes, yes.” John was crouching beside Dick Steele.
“He’s sure,” said Margery.
“There’s one or two among that lot,” said Dick Steele. “They’re no more Irish than I am. They’ve been fighting there, that’s all.”
“Most part’s the bottom end of every pig trough from here to Chester,” said Randal Hassall. “There’s some as should’ve hanged these last twelve years.”
“My father had to stay,” said John. “To close the door. It drags.”
“Ay.”
“They’re in the bushes,” said Dick Steele, “and there’s enough to keep our heads down, no messing.”
“What’ll they do?” said John. “They can’t burn us out. They can’t take the stair.”
“They’ll do something. They know what they’re at.”
“It’s Thomas Venables, John. I saw him. I did. And he’s wearing me breeches.”
“Hush, now,” said Margery. “John’s busy.”
“I’ve lost me musket.”
“Never mind.”
“Is he dead?”
“I’ve not seen him.”
“Did you kill Mow Cop?” Thomas shouted. “Anybody?”
The people looked at him.
“I didn’t see Thomas Venables,” said Dick Steele, “but happen—”
“Come here, Dick,” said John. “I must think.”
“You’d best be doing, not thinking.”
“Why muskets all the time?”
“To keep our heads down.”
Screaming began again in the ringers’ room.
“Ladders,” said Randal. “Along the roof and through the window. They’ve got ringers’ room.”
The screams choked as the women tried to climb the stair.
“Help them!” said John.
But another scream stopped him. A man had jumped the parapet from outside: more followed, using swords.
Margery held Thomas. Only Thomas Venables would have had the daring to scale the tower: only he was dull enough to have no fear to try it. She watched him work, butcher and shepherd, driving the people to the stair. He had come in like a crow above her head. He went to the parapet and gave a signal. The shooting stopped. Then he saw Margery and Thomas in the corner.
“Hello, chuck,” he said.
Thomas went for him bare-handed, but Thomas Venables tripped him headfirst down the stair. Margery ran without speaking, past the soldiers, into the smoke.
Two slow forces moved and met in the darkness. The women climbing with their babies, and the people driven down the tower. The steps were gone. Brief trampling smoothed them, and the first to lose balance on the soft incline brought the rest down. The stair was a line of bodies that stifled, all ways up.
Thomas Venables shouted to the soldiers on the ground. “You can put the fire out. They’re thrutched.”
The smoke cleared. Hands pulled from below, and feet pressed from above. The mass fell slowly down the tower, helpless in the dark where there were no holds.
The dead and suffocated were thrown out. The rest were kicked among the ashes to the door. Margery had not fainted. She saw the church and the bodies. The soldiers had begun looting the corpses of both sides. She felt for Thomas, hoping that he was near, hoping he had not lived, but he reached to her and held her. His strength was frightening. “Have you got it?” he said.
“Got?”
“Thunderstone: petticoat.”
She felt its weight on her breast.
“Yes.”
“I thought you might’ve dropped it, like.” He smiled. “Eh, Madge, that was a do, wasn’t it?”
The Rector stood outside the tower. With him was another man, an off
icer. They stood together.
The village men were lined up against the wall. John was next to Dick Steele.
“There’s hope. It’s an officer, not rabble.”
“Rabble didn’t plan that,” said Dick.
“What do you reckon?”
“It’s clog-cocking time.”
“He’s an officer. He respected my father’s cloth.”
“Bright-arsed rain,” said Dick. “Look at his eyes. He’s a flavour for it.”
“My father’s with him.”
“You think he has any choice?”
The officer waited until Thomas Venables and the soldiers had cleared the tower. Then he spoke.
“Who fired on my men, against the King’s Peace?”
“What’s he mean?” said Thomas.
“Don’t look at the Rector,” Dick Steele said without moving his lips.
“That one has the face of a cur,” said the officer. “I think it was that one.” He stepped up to Randal Hassall and shot him in the head with a pistol.
“Don’t move,” said Dick Steele.
“We have one more piece of business,” said the officer. “It does not involve the ladies. They may be excused.” He spoke to the Rector. “And my men, sir, have been most inhospitably treated.”
“In God’s Name!”
“In the King’s. And I shall have any who give me more delay killed, sir.”
Five of the twenty soldiers were left to guard the men, and they shouted encouragement and complaint: but each had their turn, and their anger was a part of the game.
“They are louts, sir. But they earn their keep, and one has to give them their heads now and again, or I fear they would prove intractable.”
“I absolve them,” said the Rector.
“You are kind, sir.”
“And I curse you in the Name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Ghost.”
“Amen.”
There was not much commotion, and hardly any noise. Margery fell into wet grass, but the man above her was pulled away, and another face grinned: the face of a soldier, with streaks on his chin, grey from holding lead shot in his mouth.
“No.”
“Now, Madge,” said Thomas Venables. “Who else would you rather? It’s been a long time, Madge.”
She looked towards Thomas, helpless at the wall.
“No.”
“Madge.”
“Don’t let him see my face.”
“Keep the women here,” said the officer. “Check for anybody in hiding.”