by Garner, Alan
“There has to be.”
“There doesn’t have to be. And there isn’t,” she said.
“That is no problem.”
“I can see someone.”
It was another tall stone.
“It is no problem,” he said. “The GPS will give us a fix.” He took it out of his bag and put it on the stone. “Leave it a minute or two to scan.”
They waited.
“Is it switched on?” she said.
He looked at the screen.
“Did you put batteries in?”
“It’s not picking up on the satellites. The valley may be too steep. But we can’t be far off the line of the wall.” He took out the compass and the map. “If the worst comes to the worst, we can do it by dead reckoning.”
They moved away from the stone, holding hands; she finding a way, he following the bearing. When they came to reed beds they forced themselves through to keep the line. Everywhere was silence.
“I can hear the brook,” she said.
“Steady.”
They were at running water.
“It’s the main brook,” she said. Water came in from the left. “Here’s where we crossed.” They went over the water.
“And here’s the path,” he said.
“Make sure it’s the right one.”
“It’s that rough stretch we were on after we’d come down from the rock and before we reached the farm.”
“We haven’t passed the well, and we haven’t passed the farm,” she said.
“They could have been three metres away and we’d have missed them.”
“And no trees, either. Ian? I think it’s safe to say. We. Are. Lost.”
“This path’s bearing eleven degrees west of where we should be.”
“So much for your gismos. I’m following what we’ve got. Someone’s used it. It’ll go somewhere.”
“The compass says we should be dropping, and we’re not. We’re climbing.”
They came to another big stone, tall, narrow; but this was a part of a gateway, though there was no gate, and there was a wall to right and to left. The track led through.
“Glucose,” she said, and sat against the stone.
They sucked the tablets.
“The quiet’s different now. Hear it.”
“There’s some chocolate,” he said.
“Shh. Listen.”
“Up there?”
“Higher.”
They were whispering.
“The cloud’s thinning.”
Through the streaks that came and went they could see that they were above the brook. The other side of the valley was close. Small bells tinkled.
“There!”
A rift in the cloud showed a man climbing above them. He wore a black coat that came almost to the ground, and a hat over long hair. He was bearded.
“Hello!”
There was a lurcher at his heels, and he held a rope on which there were four horses, one behind the other, draped with panniers, and on the neck of the lead horse was a frame from which bells hung.
“Hello! Hello!”
The rift closed.
“Hello!”
It opened again for a moment. The man had seen them, but he did not stop. He shouted something and pointed with his stick back to the way he had come, then the cloud joined again. A dog barked.
“On your feet, Doctor Malley.”
The light was blue above, and the hillside cleared. Pockets of mist lifted out of hollows and streamed up the gullies.
“I told you.” They looked back along the valley. “There’s the farm. And the track going up to the rock. I can see the trees near that well or whatever. There aren’t any others. And we are: here.” He checked the map with the compass. “We’ve been on this path all the time. Rum. It was definitely eleven degrees off, back there. You can get pockets of geomagnetic anomaly; but I should not have expected it here.”
“Where’s the man with the horses?” she said.
“He’ll be on the ridge somewhere.”
The path rose to the shoulder of the field and over the brow. The land opened up and they were out. Todd Brook fell to its broad main bed at Saltersford, and their way took them across through the yard of Howlersknowl, dipped and lifted again to the gate to the road from Jenkin Chapel up to Pym Chair. They crossed the cattle grid.
The road was steep and low between wall-topped banks. The model flyers at Pym Chair were still wiggling their remote controls, and the coloured wings were jousting with each other and the air.
“Time to go,” she said. “This place has had enough of us.”
6
JACK WIPED HIS mouth and beard with his neckcloth and poured himself another mug. “I’m for Thursbitch on a job of me father’s. Are you coming?”
“Who? Me?” said Nan Sarah.
“Well, it’s not me,” said Mary. “I doubt there’s more to Thursbitch in that one’s reckoning.”
“I’ll get me shawl, then,” said Nan Sarah.
“What you want’s in the brewis,” said Mary. “Under the slopstone.”
Nan Sarah left the houseplace and came back with her shawl wrapped loosely about her.
“Are you fit?” she said.
Jack and Nan Sarah walked up the Old Gate and turned off to the right, aslant the Butts. The Butts was the last field. The way went through the corner, and then the valley showed. On one side, from Cats Tor to Shining Tor, the ridge was in sunlight; and on the other was Andrew’s Edge, dark always after the morning. Todd Brook fed from the springs of the peat and came together at the ford.
High stones marched into Thursbitch from all around, gathering the ways from the hills down and through the valley: from Longclough, from Osbaldestone, from Jenkin, each to be seen by another, but none by all, marking every brink; Two-Johnny Goiker on Andrew’s Edge, and Sprout-kale Jacob over Redmoor; Biggening Brom under Catstair; each line and double way coming to Bully Thrumble at the fork at the ford below Thoon. And Lankin stood at the mouth.
“Where are we going?” said Nan Sarah.
“Pearly Meg’s,” said Jack. “I’ve that job to do.”
“Then you’ll go by yourself.”
“Whatever for?”
“There’s snakes!”
“Give over.”
“It’s thrunk wi’ ’em!”
“And who told you that?”
“Suit yourself.”
“Nan Sarah, have you ever so much as seen one mortal snake there in all your born days?” said Jack.
“You don’t have to see them. They see you. I’m not going in yon hole, not for love nor money.”
“You can watch, then,” said Jack.
The hills drew towards Bully Thrumble. It stood near the head of the valley, yet was its heart. The stone pillar, not the height of a big man, was the first and the last of the eye’s every journey.
Jack and Nan Sarah walked together. Once the way in had begun, it was no time for speaking.
They crossed at the ford. Bully Thrumble looked above them on its bank.
“You go. I’ll wait here.”
“Come on with you.” He took her hand and pulled her, stumbling, through the rushes, towards the trees.
“Jack! I’ll get slutched!”
“You’ll wash. There. Now what’s here to be feart of?”
“Them trees.”
The two thorn trees stood beside the brook, the only trees in Thursbitch. One of them was hung with cow chains and spancels, some still flecked bright, some rusted, but most webs of iron. On the other tree were ox yokes, horse shoes and collars. The yokes were worm eaten, the collars old, their leather rotten and the straw fillings snagged in the branches.
“Jack. It’s not the same, here. Them things. On the trees. And the nails.”
“It’ll not hurt. Now come on.” He held her wrist and she had to follow him over the bog to Pearly Meg’s. “You stand yonder and count snakes.”
He bent under the flag roof and down b
etween the close walls to the running water of the well. At the bottom step he took the stem of grass from his hatband and held it before him. He dismembered it into four pieces and dropped them separately, and with each of them he spoke. “One for Crom. One for crow. One for Jenkin. One for grow.”
The water carried the ears into the hill. He raised his hat to the dark. “Thirsty work,” he said, and crouched to dip the hat in the well.
“Jack! It’s deadly poison!”
“So I’ve heard.” He drank.
“Deadly poison!”
“But only the one day in the year.”
“Do you not believe it?”
“I’ll believe it. But I’ve found no wag yet as can tell me when that day is. It’s not tonight, seemingly.”
He grinned, put his hat on his head and went up the steps to Nan Sarah.
She picked a drier way through the rushes towards Bully Thrumble. He followed in the single track.
“Are you that bothered by snakes?”
“There’s loads,” said Nan Sarah. “Little stone dead uns in the brook. So where’s the big uns if not in yon well?”
“I’ve not known anybody be hurt by owt here,” said Jack; “just so long as it’s done proper, and we mind us manners. It’s what ways are for. Do you not agree?”
“I need to know as how you do,” said Nan Sarah. “You’re forever full of oddments in the mind when you’ve been over them hills. Every time the bells are gone, a part of me fears I’ll not hear ’em again.”
He put his arm around her shoulder and hugged.
“Nan Sarah. I may leave in the crook of the moon; but I’m back in its every wild waning.”
They sat by Bully Thrumble and Jack took off her shawl.
“What’s this hard?” he said.
“A dog turd, I shouldn’t wonder.”
He laughed and lay back on the grass. She lifted herself on one elbow, and her eyes grew gentle and stern as she lowered her face on his.
“Nan Sarah.” He cupped the back of her head. “What makes you look so?”
She gave no answer.
“I’ve walked long,” he said, “and I’ve been in many parts, and I’ve seen things and heard tales and sung songs; but this here nook of the world, for me, smiles more nor any other. And the way you looked at me then has made me fit to skrike. Nan Sarah.”
She raised herself.
“Jack. I’m teeming.”
“Is it me?”
“Of course it’s you, you dimmock. You and maybe a bit of him.” She looked up at Bully Thrumble.
“What do you want to do?” said Jack. “Shove it under a stone?”
“It’s what do you want, Jack?”
“You’re definite it’s me? None of them down Saltersford?”
“You, Jack.”
“But you feel the same. You look the same. Thin as a rasher of wind.”
“Oh, Jack. Be told. Now what do you want doing?”
“Has Ma Mary ketched on?”
“There’s more nor nits in that one’s head.”
“What do you think?”
“Jack. Jack.”
“Nan Sarah. You’re all as I’ve ever needed in all this world. Did you not know?”
“You seem never suited. Forever agate. Like as you’ll never rest.”
“But that’s my way,” said Jack. “I’m a jagger born, me. I walk in my own shoon. And the more I see the more I want to be with you. Not some trollop else. And if you are teeming, and you’ll keep it and take me, then I’ll be a toad with two side pockets.”
“Now it’s me skriking,” she said.
“I’ve to be in Chester, night after tomorrow, so I’m off first thing,” he said. “And then there’s a four-seam jag to be fetched at Northwich. But the day I get back we go up Thoon. So you see to it as all’s ready.”
“It’s ready now,” she said.
She felt inside her shawl.
“You fause monkey!” said Jack.
“Better bad than bout’,” said Nan Sarah.
“You were reckoning on it all along!”
She smiled.
“You’ll do, Nan Sarah. You’ll do.”
She was holding the Blue John. Cheesecloth was tied over the top.
They left Bully Thrumble, crossed the brook and began the climb to Catstair. They held hands but did not speak. Thoon was the skyline of the ridge, and in their way was Biggening Brom. The stone stood on the moor side, as tall as Nan Sarah, its top weathered to a head and neck, its back straight and the belly nine months gone.
Nan Sarah undid the cheesecloth from the Blue John. Inside was a piece of honeycomb. She took it in her hand, and spread the honey over the top, and down and round until the stone shone in the lowering sun. Then she turned to face Jack.
With his knife he cut a button from his shirt and set the button on the honey. Next he cut a strip from the edge of his britches, and fixed it to the stone. He knelt on one knee and lifted the hem of Nan Sarah’s skirt. She did not move. He cut the same length from her petticoat and laid it crossways on the other strip. He took her hand and placed hers and his on the belly of the stone. Then, the hands holding, they went on up the moor.
Catstair was long and steep, and steeper; but always Thoon waited.
They reached the square slab of the top and stood looking out across Thursbitch. The sun was sliding from Andrew’s Edge into Redmoor.
“Set your foot there,” said Jack. “No. T’ other.”
There was a shallow print in the rock, and Nan Sarah’s shoe fitted. Jack spoke to the hills.
“I give up this button, and a bit of waistband of me own britches, and a taste of Nan Sarah’s petticoat, and a comb of the bees, in remembrance and mark of as how we made this holy station; and may they rise in glory to prove it for us in our last days.”
They looked at each other and drew the sweetness against the other’s lip. Then they left the top and went to the mouth of Thoon.
Nan Sarah felt the arch of the cave, the stones of the back, the crevice, the bottom slab.
“Whoever can have made this?”
“Summat bigger nor us, wife. There’s things up here. I can tell you. What! A man can see all sorts.”
They sat inside Thoon. The rock took them and held them. The first of night moved down the sky and the land merged.
“I never thought as how there were so many hills,” said Nan Sarah. “Jack, it fears me for you now.”
“You need never fear for me, Nan Sarah. Here’s where I was born, you daft woman. There’s no hurt.”
“Born here? Where?”
“On this very stone. At least, that’s what’s said. But I reckon it was some wench as couldn’t thole, and the chap fetched it and left it. But it couldn’t have been long. Me father told me. There was a great dumberdash, and it let against Shining Tor, above Longclough. Mark’s there still, if you look. Anyroad, me father, he’s leading his kyne up Thursbitch; and he sees this here thunderbolt hit the side of Tor; and didn’t they run! So he’s going to look, when he sees me lying in Thoon, snug as a bug in a rug. Leastways, that’s what he says. But I’ve always reckoned as it was a bit too much chance, like. Have you not been up before?”
“All them hills. Why should I?” she said. “There’s work for neither man nor beast in these parts.”
“There’s work for me,” he said. “And for me beasts. There’s not a brow nor a clough nor a slade nor a slack, nor a cop nor a crag, nor a frith nor a rake, nor a moss nor a moor, as we don’t know it, by day and by night, for as far as you can see and further.”
“Is there no end?” she said.
“Nobbut The Unvintaged Red Erythræan Sea. Same as they say.”
“That big pond down there?”
“That’s no pond, Nan Sarah. It looks like it now, I’ll grant you. But you get down there and it’s neither flat nor wet; and right t’other side’s Chester. And that’s a two-day jag and a whealy mile, I can tell you. And I’ll be laying me head there nig
ht after next.”
“You shall come back?”
“I shall come back. I’m the promise as always comes back.”
“I never knew,” she said.
“Well, you know now. A man wi’ salt in his pocket always gets home.”
“There’s a star falling. See at it!”
“Following its road. Same as me.”
7
“SAL. PLEASE. USE the gate.”
“I prefer the griddle cat.”
She teetered over the steel bars.
“You’ll fall.”
“Shut up, Ian. I’m concentrating.”
“Then hold on to something.”
“I like the odds.”
He closed the gate.
“Put your leg in bed.” She linked arms with him, and they went down and up to Howlersknowl.
Beyond the farmhouse the track turned off and climbed aslant the field. To the side and below was a yellow boulder with a steel ring fixed into the top. The soil was bare around it and its sides were polished dark with the rubbing of sheep.
They passed on, up to the gateway of the valley mouth.
“You were right about the stones,” he said. “This one doesn’t look like a post, either. It’s much too big. What else can it be?”
“I’ve no idea. Oh. The valley.”
“Nothing’s changed,” he said. “Just as it was.”
“Wrong. Everything’s different.”
“What do you mean, everything?”
“Over the winter it’s moved about three point seven millimetres.”
“You are absurd,” he said.
“On the contrary. I’m approximately accurate.”
She put her head on his shoulder.
“That’s an interesting feature.”
“What is?” he said.
“The outcrop on the ridge, to the left, with a track going up.”
“Sal?”
“Yes?”
“Look. Look at it. Look at it closely.”
“Why?”
“What do you know about it?”
“At this distance? It’s an outcrop. Rough Rock or Chatsworth Grit, probably. At a pinch it could be Roaches or Carbor. Namurian, certainly. What’s the matter?”
“Nothing.”
“Yes there is.”
“No. Really.”
“Come on. Tell Mummy.”
“It’s nothing.”