by Alan Garner
“I love Thomas.”
“I’ll remember.”
“Now the other matter, sir. You spoke of a father and a son.” The Rector stared straight ahead. “Ah. I thought so.”
The officer went forward. “I have a warrant for the arrest of John Fowler, clubman and mosstrooper against the King’s Peace. Where is he?”
No one moved.
“Strip them.”
But after the fighting and the stair, rank was hard to tell.
“Is this your son, sir?” The officer went to Jim Boughey.
“He is one of my children.”
“Is he your son? Is he John Fowler?”
There was no answer.
“By heck, it’s a thin wind,” said Jim Boughey. “Or I’m nesh.”
The officer nodded, and a soldier killed Jim Boughey with a sword.
“You could see his age!” shouted the Rector.
“You make the rules, sir. Which is John Fowler?”
No one moved or spoke.
The Rector took off his vestments.
“What are you doing?”
“It seems that only beasts are clothed today.”
“As you wish, sir. Who is John Fowler? I see there is a choice of inns.” He beckoned to a soldier. “Headquarters.”
“Yessir.”
“Drinking comes later. I’ll have you shot if you anticipate.”
“Yessir.”
“Now then.” The man next to Jim Boughey was killed. “Was that John Fowler?”
“No,” said John.
“That is a cunning remark, don’t you think, sir? It is a nice demonstration of my predicament.”
“He’ll kill the lot,” said Thomas Venables. He still held Margery, as if claiming her. “One of them will.”
“Who?”
“Our major or young Fowler. What’s he at? He can’t get away.”
Another man died.
“Was that John Fowler?” said the officer. “Come, sir, you know him. Will you see all your lambs slaughtered?”
“My son’s conscience is his own.”
“Very well: let him put you all to bed with a shovel.”
“What are you doing, John?” Margery shouted at the sky. “He won’t stop.”
“Follow your conscience and God’s Will,” said the Rector.
The major nodded. Women were beginning to cry again.
“John Fowler,” said the major, “step forward.”
The line of men moved from the wall together. Some were held up by their neighbours.
“I see,” said the major, and nodded.
The Rector spoke from his blind face. “What does it prove, John? A martyr for Christ is his own man. Why make others answer for you?”
“We thought no end on him,” shouted Margery. “He stood by us!”
“He stands with you now,” said the major. “To your cost.”
“I know who he is,” said Margery.
“Shut your trap,” said Thomas Venables.
“Keep your lady quiet, soldier.”
“Yessir. Permission to speak, sir.”
“Permission refused.”
“He’ll kill Thomas,” said Margery.
“It’s Fowler who’ll kill him,” said Thomas Venables.
Dick Steele walked forward. “I’m John Fowler.”
“Thank you,” said the major, and shot him. “Now who is John Fowler?”
Margery tried to scream, but Thomas Venables stifled the noise.
“You are an ordained minister,” cried the Rector. “You serve: you do not command!”
The major waited.
“A most powerful, stiff and intemperate nature, sir.”
“He’s mad,” said the Rector. “He was that way when he was a child. A feeder on the love of others.”
“You hate him, sir.”
“Hatred is love,” said the Rector. He spoke out to the men. “You trusted in him to deliver you. He has not. You die for him and only him. John! Come forward. Now. In God’s Name and your own.”
There was no sign.
The Rector walked to the men and put his hand on John’s shoulder. “This is my son. I baptized him John.”
“Are you John Fowler?” said the major.
“I am and all.” John spoke broad dialect. “Merry Christmas, Rector.”
“Bastard!” said Thomas Venables. He pushed Margery aside and went to the line. “Out of my road,” he said to the major. The major stood back. Thomas Venables took his sword three times through John Fowler.
“You waited until it was my turn, father,” said John. “I’ll be remembered.”
“That was deliberate, soldier,” said the major, “and skilled. You know where pain lies.”
“He shoved me into nettles once. To see. Always someone else. Never him.”
John’s back was leaving trails on the stone as he fell. He looked at the Rector. “I bested you.”
The soldiers had to use their muskets to keep the line.
“ ‘John Fowler, Bachelor of Arts, aged nineteen years,’ ” the major read from his warrant. “A most promising young man, sir. The facial resemblance to yourself was outstanding. You may kill the others now,” he said to the soldiers. “The sooner it’s done, the sooner you may enjoy the village.”
“Why?” said the Rector. “Nobody else.”
The major appeared to be surprised. “But there are those here who wouldn’t betray your son. They may be dangerous, they may have knowledge. Yet I am a civilised man, sir. I don’t enjoy torture. It’s fruitless. Consider: if I torture these fellows, they will, eventually, say what I wish to hear: will it be true? If they volunteer without torture, they are cowards, and I would not trust them. If they don’t speak, how can I know their thoughts? You see my dilemma. No, sir, it is a waste of time to deal with them. They are to be put down. It is the best way to proceed with their kind of people, for mercy to them is cruelty.”
The killing began.
“I’ll have no trouble from the women,” the major ordered.
Thomas felt nothing real until he saw Thomas Venables in front of him with blood on his sword. He opened his mouth.
“Keep still,” whispered Thomas Venables. “You’ve had your go at me today.”
“I’ll—”
“You’ll stand. Don’t move. But think on: if you don’t look to her afterwards, I’ll come from hell to give you what I gave Fowler.”
Thomas watched the man. He was a brute made brutish. Nothing about him was clean but his weapons. They shone despite use. His hands and his eyes were armed. Whatever they did they would achieve. He had to trust them, to receive their skill.
“Right?”
“Be quick. I can’t stop shivering.”
“Good lad.”
Thomas Venables pulled back and drove his sword through the ribs, a butcher’s stroke, near to the heart. In and out, once, and so to the next man, but with little care, and the next.
The Rector lifted his hand in blessing. “The Heavens declare the Glory of God; and the Firmament showeth His handy-work. One day telleth another, and one night certifieth another. Lord, now lettest Thou Thy servants depart in peace: according to Thy Word.”
“He’s not dead,” said Thomas Venables to Margery. “He took it. Push off, mate,” he said to a soldier, “this one’s mine. Now, I can get you out of here with him, but after that you’re on your own. Right?”
He picked Margery up and carried her across the Wulvarn to her house. When they were inside he shut the door.
“Listen. I’ll fetch a pack mule. Night’s no more than a mile away. That’s all you’ve got. And he’ll be dead if he’s left longer, anyroad. Take what you need. No more.”
“Thomas—”
He slammed the door.
Margery looked about her at the contents of her life. Then she moved. Blankets. Herbs. Bacon. The thunder-stone in its petticoat.
Thomas Venables came back. “Don’t take much. Where we’re going, too much is
dangerous. Come on, Madge: shape.”
“I’m ready.”
He lifted her pack.
“Is that all?”
“All that matters.”
“Tom—”
“When I’m being—”
“Don’t—”
“—most disgusting, I’m trying the hardest. Next time—”
“Please stop talking.”
“All right.”
“Please. The train’s in.”
“Yes. Hello.”
“Hello.”
Macey waited until her breathing was regular and deep. He made himself wait longer, holding the axe close to him in its tatters. Then he went out of the hut. The mountain turned beneath the skymill. He walked down to the boundary, and crossed it. Nothing happened. He heard nothing. From the scrub to the forest. Among the oaks the light was lost, but he kept his way by Orion and the White Road above.
After a while in the forest, he had to stop for the terror in him. But he fought it, seeing no blue and silver truths, only the branches. Yet there was escort: he felt it. He walked and did not run. His way was a procession for the tattered thing under his arm, and he would not break for fear, although fear was with him until the trees opened at the mound of Barthomley.
The burnt remained. There had been no occupation. He walked onto the long mound. His foot arched.
He already smelt of brandy. They found Thomas among the strewn white shapes at the tower. He was alive, and had not lost blood. They pulled clothes on him and lifted him up to the mule. He made a sound, but was unconscious.
“Will he do?” said Margery.
“He’ll have to. Stick fast to him: don’t let him fall. Watch his mouth: if it starts to run, tell me. And think on: I kill anybody as sees us, and any we meet, choose who it is.”
“Where are we going?”
“Shut your gob.”
He led the mule through the village. There was noise in every house. It had started.
They crossed the Sandbach road, keeping to the wood. He drank brandy from the bottle hanging from his shoulder. The sweat and fear and the light were behind them. They went into a safe dark.
As he drank, he sometimes spoke, but Margery only listened. He was talking, and needed no answers.
“If he lives, see to him. He’s taken it all today. He stood still. I’d not have. After that. I can’t say as he’ll live.”
They forded a river. The stars were sharp, and the Milky Way spanned the valley. He looked up at the whiteness. “There’s a few going home down Cow Lane tonight. There’ll be more. I reckon it must be cold up there.” And into the wood again.
“I’ll dye, I’ll dye my petticoat red,
“For the lad I love I’ll bake my bread,
“And then my daddy would wish that I were dead;
“Sweet Willy in the morning among the rush!
“Shoorly, shoorly shoo gang rowl,
“Shoo gang lollymog, shoogergangalo,
“Sweet Willy in the morning among the rush! Eh, Madge? Remember?”
His walk was unsteady, but he knew the way.
“I’ve no words, save I’m on the beer. But listen, Madge. Where we’re going. It’s for while he mends. But I doubt it won’t stay safe. If he mends, get him up Mow Cop. Go to me mother. She’ll set you right. You’ll have to fettle yourselves, but she’ll speak for you. They’re a close lot. Tell her I couldn’t come. They’re a close lot, and if there’s trouble, you can see from there. Not down here. Go to me mother.”
The ground was changing, opening to silver birch. It was damp, and a cold wind. Margery wrapped Thomas as well as she could.
“Where are we?”
“Shurrup.” He was drinking hard.
“Where?”
“Rudheath.”
“Oh, God—”
“But I doubt it won’t last.”
“It’s a terrible place.”
“You’ve been?”
“I’ve heard.”
“It’s favourite.”
“How shall we fend?”
“I don’t know as you will.”
“Why here?”
“It was given us.”
“Who?”
“Venables.”
“But it’s no one’s.”
“That’s why Venables. Me grandfather, or some such, I don’t know. Anyroad, he killed a dragon, they said, so they give him where it was at. Only because it’s fit for nowt. That’s Venables.”
He tethered the mule.
“Wait here.”
He was gone less than an hour. When he came back he dropped a body from his shoulder. “He can go in the river later. Come on.”
“Who—?”
“I don’t know.”
He led the mule deeper into the birch wood. All the ground was sour. They began to pass tents and shacks, booths, shelters of twigs and branches. It was a quiet place.
He stopped at a tent. A candle was alight inside, and there was a fire. Rags made a bed on the sand floor. Nothing else.
“Whose is it?”
“Yours. You’ve just met the feller as give it you.”
He carried Thomas in and propped him against the tent pole.
“Here’s a bottle of spirits I’ve kept. You’ll need it. Save some against the wound turning badly. He’ll as like be in a fever soon. But get him to me mother’s as soon as he’s fit. Don’t stay here.”
He left the tent.
She dabbed the hole in Thomas’s chest with brandy and wrapped the petticoat round it. The thunderstone lay cool in her hand. She put it by the wound, and went outside.
The air was clean, and the booths were quiet in the starlight. There was no sound. Total stillness.
He was by the mule, drinking. She went to him.
“I want no thanks,” he said. “I’ll have no thanks.”
“Tom.”
“You stay with him. I’ve not changed, and you’d not change me.”
“I know.”
“I must get back to the lads. I’m missing out.”
“Yes.”
“And you think on.”
“I feel safe here.”
“Well, you’re not.”
“After today. The light. No noise.”
“You get out. You hear me, Madge.”
“It’s sanctuary, they call it.”
“So’s a grave.”
“What harm—?”
“I’ll show you what harm.” He pulled her into the tent. He was drunk. He took his sword and thrashed the flat of the blade against his leg, and screamed like a woman. The candle swirled shadows, and the noise was harsh as Barthomley. Then he stopped. “Look now.”
The booths were still peaceful, the light was still calm from the stars. No one moved. No one spoke. There was no sound.
“That’s sanctuary. You’re alone as you’ll never be. It’s Venables, Madge. They don’t want to know. So you think on.”
“I will.”
“We’ll not meet again, I reckon.”
“No.”
“So long, Madge.”
“So long.”
“Hello.”
“Hello.”
He rode the bicycles slowly. The neon of Crewe starred his eyes in the dark. The loss within him was too big. Each gain was loss now.
He reached Sandbach. Shop windows displayed the unattainable: smaller than stores, and worse because of that. He parked the bicycles outside an off-licence. He crossed the road to the bus station and car park, scuffing the ground, and picked up a lump of clinker. He went back to the off-licence, the tears drying cold, and stood before the window. He calculated stress. The centre.
The window fell like guillotines. He reached over the sharpness and picked out a bottle of whisky, zipped it in his anorak without hurry, and rode away. Nobody seemed to mind.
At Rudheath the caravan tilted as he went in, swirling the trees.
“Had a good day?” said his father.
“Brought you a present. For bo
th of you.” He gave his parents the whisky.
“Eh up! How’s that?”
“I play Bingo. You can’t lose every time.”
“Well, I’ll go to Buxton—”
His mother took two glasses out of the cocktail cabinet. “Are you sure you won it?”
“No, I stole it.”
“Don’t be daft.”
“Why can’t it be a present? Take it, from me. Drink it.”
“I can read you like a book.” She poured herself a measure.
“I’d be better translated.”
“You can be summonsed for riding two bikes,” said his father. “It’s a drop of good stuff.”
“You’re both intensely dear to me.”
He went to his bed and put on the cans to play “Cross Track.” The guitar moved backwards and forwards inside his head. The drums and bass were firm for the guitar to lead from, swooping chords, brilliant as eyes, but the man still could not do what he heard.
“Open the way. I’ll take that road.
“I am the one of all gifts and all giving—”
“You bastard,” she had said today.
“No such luck.” He had tried to cover. “I’d always thought I must be the second recorded case of parthenogenesis.”
“—Though sweet the morning, green the rush,
“When I get
“Cross track,
“I’ll be
“Real soon.”
The innocent words and the betrayed music drove through.
“The stars are changed now.
“I did not bring them back.
“All systems went, but—”
“You need help. Mum and Dad say it’s got to come from you.”
“What, give it to an answering machine? ‘Hello, this is Tom talking to Tam.’ ”
“It’s their job.”
“Our love?”
“There’s a limit to debasement.”
“De floor?”
“You would.”
“ ‘Love is not love which alters when it alteration finds.’ Remember?”
“—When I get
“Cross track,
“I’ll be
“Real soon.
“Sweet is the morning, green is the rush,
“And all my loving is far away.
“The stars are changed, and
“When I get
“Cross track,
“I’ll be
“Real soon.”
Free of the words, the man tried to free the music. It was enormous. At the end the crowd would not listen, and their cheers almost drowned his exhausted apology to the bass, “I couldn’t make it.” But he had. He had.