by Garner, Alan
“Of course.”
“Really?”
“Keep going.”
“Right. Which means the weaknesses are stress phenomena. So the sediments would have been about three kilometres below the sea floor at the time. There’s forestepping here. And here’s a trace of the palæoslope.”
“Stop now.”
They had worked around to the top of the rock.
“What’s wrong?” she said.
“Nothing. Absolutely nothing. You were terrific.”
“Was I?”
“Promise.”
“Did I get it right?”
“You began to rev, that’s all.”
He looked out over the valley, the one ruin of house below, Andrew’s Edge beyond.
“Give me your hand, fair maiden,” he said. “Come and be Cinderella.”
She took his hand and stepped up to the ledge.
“This mark. Put your foot in. There. A perfect fit. So you shall go to the ball.”
“That, you idiot, is a transient artefact of weathering in the laminate.”
“Well, it fits your foot, en passant, as it were.”
They laughed, and went to the cave. They sat on the smooth floor, which made a canopied chair for them, holding them.
“Are you sure it’s natural?”
“Positive.”
They were silent. The wind. Distant sheep.
“There’s a front moving in,” he said. “Shall we be getting on?”
“Not yet. I want it all.”
Silent.
“You can see for ever from here,” he said.
“It depends which way you see it.”
“A womb with a view.”
“Don’t even think of starting that one,” she said.
“Sorry. Freudian lisp.”
“Ian!”
“Ah well. Another damp squid. Cheer up.”
“I’m not down. There’s so much. If you know how to look.”
“Show me,” he said.
“Well. For instance. How far is it to that next ridge?”
He took the map and measured. “About one point two five kilometres.”
She spread her hands on her knees. “Got a calculator?”
“Somewhere.”
“One point two five kilometres,” she said. “Watch this. Divide a million by eleven point two five and multiply by one point two five.”
“Good Lord. It’s exactly one hundred and eleven thousand one hundred and eleven point one recurring.”
“Neat.”
“You knew!”
“Of course I didn’t know. But I like it. Apt.”
“So what does that tell us?” he said.
She moved her gaze from her hands to Andrew’s Edge. “We both look, but we see differently.”
“Meaning?”
“You call it a view. But it’s a song. Such a dance. If I sat and didn’t move for one hundred and eleven thousand one hundred and eleven years, according to you, these fingernails would grow as far as that ridge. Everything’s moving. When here was under the water, it was south of the Equator. And ever since, all of it’s been travelling at about eleven point two five kilometres every million years. It’s still doing it. Here is just where it happens to have got to now. That’s the song. Pangæa. Gondwanaland. The song and the dance.”
“What’s that about your fingernails?”
“It’s another part of the song. Our nails grow at the same rate as continental drift.”
He smiled, but she did not.
“There’s the beauty. If we could only dance more, for longer.” She stood up. “Instead of games. Just word games.” Her eyes were bright. “But that would be selfish. Wouldn’t it?”
“Oh, perispomenon!”
He had been tracing the line of the vertical crack at the back of the cave while she spoke.
“I’ve been stung!”
“Don’t move. The bee’s all right. It’s still attached.”
“I know it’s attached!”
“Keep still. Don’t hurt it.”
She held the bee so that it could not fly. Then slowly, gently, she turned it on his skin until the sting was free. She looked at the bee to check. “There. Off you go. No harm done.”
“I’m harmed!”
“Spray it with some of that anti-histamine from your bag of tricks,” she said. “And let’s walk.”
A track cut down across the steep of the valley, brown on green, more than a path. It had been made, though rough; too mean and rushy to walk, but the bank thrown up to the side was firm enough to wobble on.
She put her arm through his.
“It still hurts.”
“You’ll live.”
“This track isn’t marked, either.”
“But it’s here. So you can put the map away and watch the real thing. Then you won’t sprain your ankle. How’s the hand?”
“Anaphylactic shock can be fatal. Do you think it’s swelling?”
“You tell me. I know you will.”
The track turned back on itself off the rough onto a more lush pasture sliced by gullies, reed lined and wet. Water gurgled all around and they splashed over stones towards a ruin higher up the brook, and the track merged with another, more broken, nearer the house.
“There’s a way out, up to the watershed, along that line of wall,” he said. “It’s nothing but benchmarks.”
They clambered about the ruin: two gable ends of stone, stone wall footings, rotten spars and beams, holes of windows, some still spanned by lintels of twisted, weathered, silver oak, as if a part of something else. Fallen masonry and rubble masked the flagstones. There were gateposts and traces of outbuilding. A silted-up tank, made from four slabs, collected the brown water that ran off the surface above and seeped towards the brook.
He checked on the map. “Thursbitch.”
They crossed the brook at a ford. The main flow came from the head of the valley, and a feeder had cut through the shale to join it. At the point where they met, the bank was higher, and on it a stone.
“This one’s odd,” she said. She ran her hands over it and looked closely. “The sedimentary structures are quite different. And it’s too big for a post; the wrong shape. That top feature has some strong stylisation.”
“Doctor Malley,” he said, “is there anything at all that you do not know?”
She looked at him.
“Let’s find those benchmarks of yours.”
She set off across the reed bog. He plunged after her, to her. They both fell together in the mire, on their knees, black splashing to their faces, hands under the water.
“Sal. I’m sorry. I am so sorry.”
She pulled a face, and banged her forehead against his in the green reed light and the cotton grass. “Just get me up, somehow; or we’ll be here all night.”
He pulled a hand out, and slipped sideways. She caught hold of his sleeve and hauled herself over him, laughing. “People pay good money to watch this sort of thing.” They wrestled each other till they stood. “Shit and Derision. Trees. The trees. Over there.”
The reeds were high. But beyond was a patch of other ground, and the scraggy tops of thorn trees showed, a poor cluster beside the brook.
They rinsed their hands and faces in the water.
“Shall we go back?” he said.
“We must find your benchmarks. Where are they?”
“In the wall up there.”
“Come on, then. And what’s that?”
A circle of marsh ate at the bank, and on the far side there was an arch of stone.
They moved towards it on sheep walks. It was not a house of any kind, but a structure that had collapsed into the hill. Most of it was covered by a single broken and massive flag that had been its roof. Under it were low walls.
“Are those steps?” he said. “There’s water running.” He took out his torch and pushed it between a crack. “See anything?”
“No,” she said. “Yes. It’s a spring.
Or a well of some sort. The steps go down to it. There’s a channel cut. The water’s coming out of the hill. It looks absolutely clear. Then it must drain out to the marsh. What does it remind you of?”
“Nothing.”
“Not that?” She pointed up to the ridge across the brook. The rock outcrop was opposite them, on the horizon, from where they stood; the only break in the smooth long line of hill.
“But this has been made,” he said.
“Then there’d be no point in building the other well for the farm. If this is good water, they wouldn’t have put up with that muck for the sake of a few metres.”
They left the well and found the wall. Whole lengths of it were no more than two courses high, and in places there were only gaps and lines in the thin soil.
“The first one should be just beyond a sheepfold,” he said. “I’m going to complain about this map. That well’s not shown, either. The one at the farm is.”
They came to the remnant of a wooden enclosure lying against the drystone wall.
“It’s in the right place for the sheepfold. Look for a benchmark in about one hundred and fifteen metres. It’ll be on something obvious that can’t be shifted easily.”
“Like this?”
It was another big stone, a pillar set in the wall, with a hole running through.
“That’ll be it. Where’s the benchmark?”
“I can’t see one.”
They pulled the grass down to where the stone met the ground.
“Nothing.”
“The next should be about one hundred and ninety metres.”
They tramped up beside the wall.
It was another holed stone, and this time pointed at the top. There was no benchmark.
“I can’t see any function for these big stones,” she said. “Walls aren’t built that way.”
“There should be one more at the watershed. How are you feeling?”
“Fine. Nearly dry. How’s the hand?”
“It still hurts.”
“You poor thing.”
They followed the wall. Another tall holed stone was where it should be. Something had broken it off at its base and it lay on the ground; but again no mark.
“Have some glucose.” He offered her a tablet. “Do you want to go back, or shall we pick up the ridge at Shining Tor?”
“Back. I’m intrigued.”
“By what?”
“The whole place. Look at it.”
“It’s a terrific – ?”
“View,” she said. “I’m not all Upper Carboniferous.”
4
“Hic, hoc, the carrion crow,
The carrion crow I see.
As I walk by mysen
And I talk to mysen,
Mysen says unto me:
Look to thysen,
Take care of thysen,
For nobody cares for thee.”
Jack climbed out of Goyt by Embridge Causey, over Withenlach and passed through Old Gate Nick. The road dropped straight to Saltersford.
“Hic, hoc, the carrion crow,
The carrion crow I see.
I talk to mysen
And I say to mysen,
In the sen-same nominy:
Look to thysen,
Or not to thysen,
The sen-same thing shall be.
Hic, hoc, the carrion crow,
The carrion crow’s for me.”
He went down the road over Shudder Brow and Hog Brow Top, along by the high stones, and rested at Shady to take in the valley.
“Home now, me lass.”
The lead horse shook her mane and the bells rang.
He saw the men below him, mowing The Halls. Higher Hall and Lower Hall had been cut, and the team was in Little Hall. He saw his father and Edward, and Clonter Oakes had come from Green Booth, and Sneaper Slack had come from The Dunge, and Tally Ridge from Hulley Hey; and the Lomas women were tedding the swaths as they fell.
The mowers paused to whet, and the stones’ ringing on the blades carried to him in the quietness. He cupped his hands to his mouth.
“Hic! Hoc! The carrion! Crow!”
They heard him and waved. He waved his stick. The cows on Todd Hill lifted their heads. He started down the last stretch.
“The carrion crow! The carrion crow! The carrion crow!”
Mary and Nan Sarah ran out into the yard and swung their aprons. He whirled his hat high. The feather caught the sun. The farm dogs barked, and Bryn answered them.
He stopped in the yard, loosened the panniers and put them in the brewis, fed and watered the horses and went into the houseplace to the table. Mary was by the fire. Nan Sarah came to him, holding a mug of buttermilk. He drained it at a swig, and Nan Sarah sat on his knee. They kissed.
“Now then, our Jack,” said Mary. “Where hast tha bin this journey?”
“Oh,” he answered, as he always did, “up a-top of down yonder, miles-endy-ways, tha knows, at Bog o’ Mirollies, where cats kittlen magpies.” They laughed; his bigness filled the room.
“What have you fetched us?” said Nan Sarah. It was all a part of the game.
“Fetched you?” said Jack. “And why should a man be fetching things for the likes of you? It’s enough for a man to walk from Derby, without being mithered with fetching. I could sup some more buttermilk.”
Nan Sarah brought the mug again, excited. Jack took the satchel from round his neck and put it on the table.
“But who knows?” he said. “Who knows what’s in the old powsels and thrums? Ay. Now then. What have we here?” He felt around among the contents of the satchel. “Powsels and thrums. Powsels and thrums. No. It seems there’s nowt of consequence. Eh up. Wait on.” He took out a lace bonnet and threw it across to Mary. “There’s that. I got it off a chap from Nottingham way.”
Mary put the bonnet on, crimped it with her fingers, turning her head from side to side. “How’s it look?” she said.
“It suits you well, Ma Mary.”
“What’s for me?” said Nan Sarah.
“What’s for you? I don’t know. I do not.” He felt around again. “Powsels and thrums. Powsels and thrums. Eh up. There’s this here dishclout.”
He proffered the grubby rag.
“Now see as you don’t drop it. They come expensive, do dish-clouts.”
He put it into her hand.
“It’s a weight,” she said. “What’s in it?”
“A dog turd, I shouldn’t wonder.”
She unfolded the cloth.
“Oh, Jack. Whatever is this?”
It was a stone cup. A hollowed stone cup. Outside it was rough rock melted wax, grey, yellow, dark. Inside was polished deep with crystals white blue purple.
“Hold it against the sun,” he said.
The rough rock glowed from the colours within.
“Jack, it’s gorgeous.”
“Down Derby, they call them ‘grallusses’. Leastways, that’s what the chap I got it from said. But he could’ve been twitting me. What took my fancy is the way as how, one road, it’s nowt, and t’other road, it’s all sorts.”
“What’s it of?” said Nan Sarah.
“Blue John.”
“And what’s that?”
“Stone as is found at Castleton, and nowhere else in all the wide world, so they say. You’d think, if that’s true, it’d be worth more nor gold nor silver. But I got it for a hoop of salt. Nobbut a hoop.”
“Blue John,” said Sarah.
“Am I?”
“You boiled turmit. But what’s it for?”
“I never asked.”
“Eh,” said Mary. “You two. There’s men yonder as are at making a right job; when you’ve nowt better.”
Jack went into the brewis and picked up a two-gallon jar in each hand and walked down to The Halls. The team saw him and straightened their backs from the mowing.
“Look ye,” said Sneaper. “Here comes trouble. Here comes a young tragwalleter as never did a hand’s turn in his life.”
Jack laughed, and sat in the shade of the wall. The men sat with him, and he passed the ale jars around. The women went further along, by themselves.
“And what do you call this here effort?” he said. “It’s never mowing. Three fields not done yet? Whenever did you start? After you’d had your dinners?” He took a stalk and chewed the joint of the stem. “By. But it’s sweet. Are you not being previous, Father?”
“I thought we might as good try to get a second bite,” said Richard Turner, “if we took his head off now.”
“Yay,” said Jack. “And I might as good milk ducks. But think on. There’s my hay, too. And it’s to be High Medda stuff. Rye. And I don’t want it in next Monday-come-never-on-a-wheelbarrow. I do not. My beasts pay their pasture. So don’t none of you stop mowing afore you see a star.”
“Best be doing,” said Richard Turner. He lifted his sickle, and from the band of his hat he took a stem of grass and fixed it in Jack’s hat, on the other side from the feather. “And then.”
Jack looked at him; and nodded.
The men went back to their line, and sharpened up.
“What’ve you fetched?” said Tally Ridge.
“Malt,” said Jack.
“Shall you let us have a gallon?”
“We’ll have to see. Most of it’s spoken for at Chester.”
“When shall you be back?” said Tally.
“Time enough,” said Jack. “When have I ever not?”
5
THE VALLEY LAY in scudding sunshine: browns and greens and browns and greens and browns.
They returned along the wall. The wind was behind them, from the south, and the low cloud caught them before they were aware, and they were in a glittering mist worse than fog. The valley had gone.
“Keep to the wall, Sal. We’ll drop through this.”
It was easy at first. The wall took them to the stone. But the chill had lingered in their clothing and the mist was cold.
“There’s a gap here,” she said. “I can’t see the next bit.”
“It’ll be there. Look. What did I tell you?”
“It’s another of those stones.”
“Same thing.”
“It’s not the same. It’s by itself. There is no wall.”