by Alan Garner
“Give over sulking,” said his mother.
He watched her.
“It’s no use pretending.” There was a coyness that drink gave her: and she was so old. “I can tell you’re not listening to that thing. I’m not stupid, you know.”
He looked where she looked. The lead from his cans had not been plugged in at the recorder.
He went to the front of the mound, above the Wulvarn. That was always the sacred place. He had only his hands and a knife, but he dug. He dug as far as he could, his arm’s distance into the ground. Then he took the axe. “It’s all I can do. There’s nowhere else. I’m not fit.” He kissed the cool stone, and wrapped it tightly, and put the weight into the earth, and filled the hole, and covered it.
There was movement near him on the mound. She was watching. She sat on the mule, and had been watching him.
He lifted her down.
“Hold me,” he said.
“That’s why I’m here.”
“Hold me. I’m not fit.”
“You’ve no need,” she said. “Not now.”
“Bluesilver’s close.”
“I’m here.”
She wiped his lips with brandy. He was conscious.
“It hurts, Madge.”
“Sit against the pole. You’ll be all right.”
“What’s this post? And the fence?”
“Don’t worry: you’ll be all right.”
“John went to Chester. Saw the boats. He says there’s waves when you’re at the sea.”
“Yes, love.”
“He says they make a noise that comes and goes. Are we at the sea?”
“Yes, Thomas.”
“I can hear them. And them lights all the time.”
“Yes.” She looked at the dark tent, the one candle.
“By heck, they don’t half shift. Yellow when they’re coming, and red when they’re going. John never told me waves had lights. By heck, they’re knocking on. It hurts, Madge.”
“Have a drink.”
“He’s a close one, not saying about the lights.”
“Ay.”
“Why are we sitting out here against this fence?”
“I don’t know, love.”
“You told your parents about me. It’s worse than reading letters.”
He stood in the arch of the castle, watching all Cheshire.
“I had to. I can’t manage.”
“So I’m just a patient. A number in a file.”
“It’s their job.”
“You told them what had happened. You told them about us. You told them— About us. You told—”
“They understood.”
“No doubt there’s a textbook reference that cures all.”
“Each case is different.”
“So I am a case.”
“I have to see you that way, or I couldn’t go on.”
“You swapped opinions.”
“It was on the phone.”
“You must have minds like cess-pits.”
“Like what? Now you listen! Who was upset because his parents couldn’t talk about it when it wasn’t true? Now it is, and my parents can, without blaming. Don’t make us the cess-pit, love. Don’t double-cross yourself. I’m the one who has to take it, and I don’t know what to do. You used to give so much, oh, it was marvellous to be with, everything new and giving, like colour for the first time. Now you’re all one thing, and I don’t know what to do. Wherever we go I can’t go again. No talk, no fun, just grab. Why?”
“Catch up,” he said. “Rub out. My mistakes. My clumsiness. Next time it’ll be all right, every time, and it isn’t. Next time will make up for him—and me. Never. Poached eggs. Galactic. Red shift. The further they go, the faster they leave. The sky’s emptying. God, this wind’s cold.”
He pulled her into the castle. The wind was scarcely less, making waves on the mud and water that covered the floor. He pressed her against the wall.
“Not here. Not like this. Not here. I can’t take it.”
“Neither can I,” he said. “Neither can I, neither can I, neither can I, neither can I—”
“Tom! It’s me!”
“It’s Saturday night. Don’t let words fool you. You’re only young once.”
She was crying. “No church—no house—no Bunty—”
“Shurrup.”
“No you?”
“I’m cold. I’m cold.”
She put her hands over her face.
“The boundary’s undefined,” he said.
“I want to be sick. I want.”
“And so no more of Tom.”
“I’d rather you’d hit me.”
“It’s cold.”
“Cold enough to feel the warmth of your hand,” she said.
“Your hands smell of thyme. I love you.”
“You haven’t the feeling. All words.”
“I do love you.”
“You sold the Bunty. You sold what I’d lacked. And you knew.”
“Keep things in proportion, nurse. The bedpan’s half empty, not half full. The axe was only a chunk of diorite.”
“And what’s that?”
“A dense, sedimentary—”
“Shut up!” She stood back, and spoke in a very calm voice. “It would like to go now, please. It feels sick. It’s had enough. It has a train to catch.”
“The only tune that he could play was over the hills and far away.” He began to climb the inside of the castle, the folly, the empty stone.
“Tom?”
He climbed.
“Don’t be so bloody dramatic!”
At the top he stood upright, jerkily, balancing against the air above the wall and the cliff.
“You’ll not frighten me!”
He spread his arms and lifted his head to the sky. “Through the sharp hawthorn blow the winds,” he shouted. “Who gives anything to poor Tom? Tom’s a-cold! Bless thee from whirlwinds, starblasting, and taking!”
“Stop it! You’re all quote! Every bit! And you call me second-hand!”
“Pillicock sat on Pillicock-hill. Halloo, halloo, loo, loo!”
“You can’t put two words of your own together! Always someone else’s feeling! Other people have to go to hell to find words for you! You’re fire-proof!”
“Take heed o’ the foul fiend. Obey thy parents; keep thy word justly; swear not; commit not with man’s sworn spouse; set not thy sweet heart on proud array. Tom’s a-cold.”
“Tom!”
“Poor Tom’s a-cold.”
“Please, Tom—”
“Tom’s a-cold!”
“Please—”
He took out of his anorak pocket all the family medals and the two German iron crosses and pinned them on his chest.
“Please—”
“No words, no words: hush. Child Rowland to the dark tower came. His word was still.”
“Axe gone. Macey gone. I can’t see bluesilvers by myself.”
“I’m here,” she said.
“I was wrong.”
“You’re true now.”
“Am I?”
“Silence forgives.”
“Us?”
“Look.”
The forest glinted with weapons turning away. Quietly they were alone. He held her.
“I’ll watch,” he said. “Bluesilvers. It might matter.”
“Happen it does.”
“You reckon?” He felt the child move.
“And I’m here.”
“I’ve found words,” he said. “For what I wanted to tell you. Oh, I know—I know—all sorts!”
“Why did you bring the medals?”
“The knights are drawing in.”
“Why wear them?”
“For both sides. Him and me.”
“Hadn’t you better take them off? They’ll upset people.”
“You don’t understand.” At the barrier he showed a platform ticket. “Bought this morning. It seemed best.”
“They’re bonny light
s.”
“Aren’t they?” She gave him brandy.
“I’m cold.” His brow was sweat.
“You’ll be better.”
“You reckon?”
“And when you are, we’ll go to Mow Cop—”
“I remember today—”
“—and we’ll build us own house.”
“—at the church, and that—”
“It’ll be a good house.” She wiped the blood that was coming in his mouth.
“It wasn’t nice,” he said.
“And when it’s built, you’ll put the thunderstone in the chimney, for luck.”
“I didn’t smash it. It feels that grand.” His fingers moved over the cool stone, his face unseeing. “I mind a lot what he did at you.”
“Try to forget.”
“It’s all right. I mean, same as, if you are.”
“Don’t.”
“If you are: I’ll be proud.”
The red doors closed. The blue and silver train. She stood at the window.
“See you.”
“See you.”
It doesn’t matter. Not really now not any more.
THIS IS A NEW YORK REVIEW BOOK
PUBLISHED BY THE NEW YORK REVIEW OF BOOKS
435 Hudson Street, New York, NY 10014
www.nyrb.com
Copyright © 1973, 2011 by Alan Garner
All rights reserved.
Cover image:Ann Veronica Janssens, Blue, Red, and Yellow, Castellon version, 2009; courtesy of the artist and Esther Schipper
Cover design: Katy Homans
The Library of Congress has cataloged the earlier printing as follows:
Garner, Alan.
Red shift / by Alan Garner ; introduction by alan Garner.
p. cm. — (New York Review books classics)
ISBN 978-1-59017-443-2 (alk. paper)
1. Space and time—Fiction. I. Title.
PR6057.A66R43 2011
823’.914—dc22
2011028992
eISBN 978-1-59017-443-2
v1.0
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