by Garner, Alan
“Out!”
Jack went to Nan Sarah. She was sitting on the bed. “It’s me father. I don’t know what’s taken him.”
“Nay. Rutchart, nay!”
“Leave me!”
The door of the houseplace was opened and a dim light was on the stair.
“Jack!” Richard Turner called from below. “Yon’s Great Mortality! Get her from here! Out! Now! Be told!”
“She’s badly!”
“Be told!”
Jack went to the stair again. There was a flash and an explosion and the smell of powder.
“Rutchart!”
“Be told, youth!”
“I’m on the stairs.”
“Come no nearer!”
“He’s got both guns!” shouted Mary.
“Out! Now!”
Jack went back to Nan Sarah.
“Me father’s mad. I fear he’ll shoot us. There’s no reasoning with him. Dress, wife. Take some things, and we’ll try again in daylight when he’s mebbe come to his senses.”
He went to the stair again.
“Father?”
“Out!”
“We’re going now. I’m taking the dog, and two of me beasts, and some bread and cheese.”
“Nay!”
Shadows changed in the dimness, and Jack heard Richard Turner go to the brewis door and open it. Then he went back to the houseplace.
“You touch dog or beast, and I must shoot ’em!”
The door of the houseplace closed. Mary was talking to Richard Turner. His voice did not soften. His words were muffled, but Jack heard the fear.
He took Nan Sarah down the stair and through the brewis. The houseplace door opened, and he stopped. The silhouette of Richard Turner showed a levelled gun.
“You’ll not do this, Father.”
“Yay but I must, youth. For all on us. We’ll know soon enough who’s safe.”
“What is it?”
“There’s not time. Get you gone.”
Jack heard the cocking of the flint.
“Don’t you hurt Ma Mary.”
“I shall not that.”
“Father?”
“What?”
“I think a lot on you.”
“And same on you, youth, never fret.”
Jack put his arm about Nan Sarah and left the house. When they were out of the yard, the door was banged shut.
“Where can we go? What shall we do?”
“Come up, wife. It’s a fine night to take some air. It’s good for you, so they say. I know a place as’ll suit us well. Soft now, love.”
A clear, waning moon was in the sky, and they walked at Nan Sarah’s pace towards Old Gate Nick between the high stones.
“Me legs are wrong,” she said. “Moon hurts.”
Her steps had begun to jerk, then sometimes dance, and sometimes she strode, and sometimes tottered. Jack held her firm and they rested often.
At Old Gate Nick they went along gentle Cats Tor and down the ridge.
“I do believe I can’t go no further, Jack. Me back aches.”
“No need, love. We’re there.”
They had come upon Thoon from above. He helped her down the side of the rock, took off his black goatskin coat and laid it on the shelf for her to sit, and held her close for warmth.
“I’m that spent,” she said.
“Then rest, love. Jack shall watch you.”
She put her head on his shoulder.
“Oh, bonny Bull,” he whispered. “Bless us and keep us this night.”
Thursbitch was silver below them.
Nan Sarah slept; but she twitched and her breathing was rough. Jack was holding her now to stop her from falling off the rock as much as to comfort her. She was sweating, though her brow was a dry heat. Her limbs flexed. Yet she slept.
“Jack. I’m thirsty.”
“Hush, love.”
“I must drink.”
“Let me settle you, so as you don’t fall, while I fetch some in me hat.”
“I brought Blue John. Me shawl.”
Jack felt for the stone and took it. He moved Nan Sarah so that her back was held by the crevice in the middle of the hollow, and tucked her around with the goatskin.
“Bide still as you can, love. I’ll be back directly.”
He ran sideways down Catstair, on land so sheer that a trip would kill him; but each place for his foot shone in the light every step to the ford. He ran to Pearly Meg’s and filled the cup. Then he ran back, scrambling up the steep, one hand on the slope, the other spilling not a drop.
Nan Sarah had slumped. He held her upright, and sat by her.
“Here, love, drink this; and I’ll fetch you more.”
He put the cup to her lips and she drank without pause until the cup was dry. Then he propped her, and set off again.
He was near the ford when he heard her scream. It was no small pain that cried. He ran. She lay out of the shelter. He lifted her. She screamed at every touch and move. “Jack! Jack! It burns! Jack! It burns! Burns! Burning!” Her body went into spasm stronger than he could hold and a stinking warmth flowed from her.
“Jack.”
“Wife.”
She was dead. She was dead, but her body had not done. He felt the spasm again and her legs and hips moved. Again. Again. Again. Again. Again. Again. Again. He gathered all onto the goatskin. Then he stood. He looked up into the red eye of the Bull, with the moon in its horns, and he roared and lifted rocks from the ground and hurled them at the sky.
“You nowt! You nowt! False have you flummoxed me! You never said! You never said as this was yon night! You never said as poison was tonight!”
He flung the cup from him into the valley.
“Wife!”
Thoon answered: “Wife.”
He picked up the goatskin in his arms and ran. He ran along the ridge, over Cats Tor to Old Gate Nick and Hog Brow Top, along by the high stones down to Saltersford.
He kicked at the door and banged with his head. Voices were on the other side. He kicked and banged and shouted, but no words. The door opened, and Mary stood there, Richard Turner beside her with his flintlock.
He held out the goatskin.
Mary put her candle aside and took the skin and opened it.
“Quick, Rutchart. A clean gown. Fetch blankets. More sticks. There’s two on ’em; and they’re breathing.”
Jack picked up the goatskin from where Mary had dropped it and put it on.
“Jack has seen a black sun.”
“Come in and wash you.”
“Torn to bits in the wits of his mind. Left only the knowing heart. And the green leaves they grow rarely.”
He stepped away.
“Snake and stone. They live for ever. And for why? They never care owt. And what is us but blood and soot?”
“Jack?”
“Jack? Him’s a headless carcass and a nameless thing.”
He went into the shippon and picked up a sledgehammer. He went up the lane to Jenkin. The pillar caught the light. He lifted the hammer and smashed it onto the face of the white rock. “Snake. Stone. Snake. Stone.” He swung until Jenkin cracked and fell. “Snake. Stone. Snake. Stone.” He pounded the shaft to lumps, the lumps to fragments. “Snake. Stone. Snake. Howl ye!” He threw the hammer at the moon, and fled.
24
“A QUESTION, IAN.”
“Yes?”
“Am I still compos mentis? Legally?”
“In my opinion.”
“Would you say that in court?”
“Yes.”
“Thanks.”
“Why do you ask?”
“Just checking.”
“And?”
“I’m having the same dream every night, or nearly, or so it feels.”
“I’m listening.”
“It goes back to soon after I learned to read. Not the dream. It was a fairy tale. I can’t remember what it was called or where I found it.”
“It doesn’t matter.”
“
It’s about a Prince, who was so vain that he was interested only in himself and his clothes and looks.”
“Tell me in the present tense.”
“Why?”
“It’ll help.”
“Oh. We’re doing Abreactive Therapy, are we?”
“Please, Sal.”
“Anything you say, Ian. It’s about a Prince who is so vain that he is interested only in himself and his clothes and how he looks. So his father has a round tower built for him, and the wall of the top room and the roof are made of alternate panels of mirror and window. The view from the windows shows all the world and the sky.
“The Prince loves the room and won’t leave it. All he does is look at himself in the mirrors and at the reflections from every side. He never looks out of a window.
“The next day he’s woken by a creaking sound. And the creaking wakes him every morning. He thinks nothing of it; then after several days he notices that the mirrors are becoming wider than the windows. Am I boring you, am I?”
“Far from it.”
“Well, the Prince is chuffed with the bigger mirrors, and every morning he wakes at the creaking and goes to see how much more they have widened. This goes on until, one day, he thinks the mirrors are getting dirty, because he can’t see himself clearly, so he sets about polishing the glass. But it makes no difference. Then he sees what’s happening.
“The mirrors aren’t dirty. It’s the windows that are getting narrower and letting less and less light in. He tries to force the windows apart, but he can’t. Outside, the sun is shining and he sees all the bright colours. And when he looks in the mirrors all he sees is a dimming reflection.
“Each day he presses his face against the mirrors, but he can see no more than his own self fading. Then there is one last creak, and the wall and roof become all mirror, and the Prince is alone in the dark. That’s the story.”
“What’s the dream?” he said.
“I’m in that room, but I’m not the Prince. I’m me. The mirrors are what is now. The windows are what is going. There’s no door. It’s getting so bad that when I wake I’m scared to open my eyes. Would you still say I’m sane?”
“Of course you are sane. But it is significant.”
“Obviously. I want you to explain more of it. I need help, Ian.”
“I can’t, Sal. It is your dream, not mine. It would not do any good if I were to suggest a meaning. It would be my response, not yours. Start by asking why it is this particular fairy tale you are turning to. What is in it that you need so much? Find that, and the dream will stop. In the meantime, there is no need to be scared.”
“I knew that’s what you’d say. You’re infuriating. But thanks. I feel better for telling you and you not back away.”
“Do you want to tell me again now?”
“Not now. I’m knackered.”
“That is good, Sal.”
“You have to say that.”
“I do not.”
“OK. So I can go to the next thing. I want you to make two promises.”
“And what are they?”
“The first is that you’ll give me plenty of warning before I reach the point where I can’t think straight.”
“I promise. What’s the second?”
“I’ll tell you that after you’ve kept the first.”
“Fine.”
“Why haven’t you asked me what I’m up to?”
“It’s none of my business, Sal. I shall find out when the time comes, presumably.”
“You will.”
“So that’s all right.”
“I used to think that you were a bit of a cold fish, you know.”
“Perhaps I am.”
“You’re not. It’s just one part of your nature. You’re the only friend who has never shown any impatience with me over this thing, and never been irritated by my clumsiness. You don’t talk down to me. You show no sense of pity. You don’t hit back at my tantrums.”
“Why should I? They are not meant. You forget so quickly that you can’t get to the end of them as often as not.”
She laughed. “There you go.”
“How could I do otherwise? What would be the point? And haven’t I always been like this? I thought I was consistent.”
“Yes, but then, Ian, dear heart, it was as though you were refusing to engage. Observing from outside, but never joining in, in case you had to show emotion.”
“Not at all. Just the opposite. It depends on how you view whatever we call reality. Is the fish in the sea, or is the sea in the fish?”
“That’s mere bloody Jesuitical pyrotechnics, dodging the issue as usual.”
“Is it? I don’t mean it that way.”
“Of course it is. And you know it. You always did try to get a rise out of people; find how gullible you could make them; see how far you could lead them by the nose, and see who ducked first. It used to piss me off, but now it is oh so refreshing. Such a change from: ‘How are we today? Are we comfortable? What are we going to watch on television?’ Forever the sodding plural. I want to shout: ‘I don’t know how you are today! I don’t know whether you are comfortable! I do know that I am going to watch pretty futile pabulum! I am feeling lousy! This chair is fit only for the scrap heap! I am longing for some abrasive company!’.”
“Do you ever say that?”
“Frequently.”
“How do they react?”
“‘Have we taken our medication?’.”
“Oh, Sal!” The laughing drove the raven from the rock.
25
THE LAST SNOW traced Thoon and the Tors, marking Catstair and the cattle gates. Light after winter was coming back into Saltersford.
Mary kept peering out through the windows.
“What’s to do with you?” said Richard Turner. “Can a man not take a pipe o’ bacca without you being up and down with your mither?”
“Don’t you be three-cornered with me, Rutchart. There’s a chap down yonder. He’s been skulking in the lane and round about up bank all morning. Have you not heard the dogs?”
“Where? Let me see. Fecks, yay! We don’t want his kind o’ sort hereabouts.”
He went to the door and opened it. Across the lane in Little Hall there was a man looking at the house. His hair and beard merged below his shoulders, and one hand was moving away from his side in a palsy.
“Hey! Shape for shift thisen! Else I’ll raddle thi bones for thee!”
The man gestured with the palsied hand, and moved off towards Nab End. Richard Turner went back to his chair by the fire.
“If yon allsorts shows him again, see to it as you tell me. We don’t want none o’ them foreign parts.”
“No need o’ that,” said Mary. “Here he comes.”
“Right, master, right! Let’s find what the dogs make on you.” Richard Turner went to the yard. The dogs were barking. He opened the gate and whistled them out. “Come up! Fetch him!” They ran out into the lane. Richard Turner watched with Mary from the window of the houseplace.
The man stood still as the dogs approached.
“They’ll have him,” said Mary.
The man crouched before the pack. They leapt into his arms, licking his face, yelping, all their tails wagging. He had to stand, so that they did not knock him over. They were on their hind legs, paws on his back and chest, and he was ruffling their heads and necks.
“He’s Jack!” Richard Turner ran into the lane. “Jack! Jack! Wherever have you been? See at the state you’re in! Come thy ways, youth! Wash and change thisen!”
Only the black goatskin was the same. His hat was misshapen on his head, the band and feather gone. His satchel was stained with dirt and grease, his britches too, and rent. His stockings were torn, and his shoes gaped. His gaunt skin was as dark as his matted hair and beard. Salt was crusted round his mouth. His eyes shone, but they had changed. They were both beast and Jack.
“Come thy ways!”
He calmed the dogs and pushed them down. Then, w
ithout moving towards the house, he spoke in a hoarse voice.
“Rust, dust, tarbottle, bagpipolorum hybattell. Nettles grow in an angry bush. I saw a woman full of names and blasphemy. And the woman was bedight wi’ gold, and held a cup in her hand full of abominations and filthiness of her abominations and filthiness of her fornication. And on her head was writ Mother o’ Harlots, or some such.”
He was holding the stick with the carved drum and bead, and spun it all the while.
Mary came out and went to him and took him by the arm.
“I’m sure as how there was. But you’re home now, Jack.”
“Woe unto us that we have sinned. For this us heart is faint. For this us eyes are dim. All along as how mount of Zion is desolate and foxes walk on it.”
“Thee come thy ways.”
“Tear off this garment as you wear; this cloak of darkness; this web of ignorance, this prop of evil, this bond of corruption, this living death, this walking corpse, this bury-hole as you carry. Beware the flesh into which you have entered, the path from which there is no return and from which all light is parted. For your veins, even your mortal veins, are the net wherein Satan shall trap you.”
“We’ll do that, Jack; never fret. But come thy ways now; there’s a good youth.”
“Do thorns prick today?”
“Fecks,” said Richard Turner. “His tongue’s going on wheels.”
26
HE SAT AT the top of the lane across from the stump of Jenkin and spun the wooden drum.
Tally Ridge came down from Pym Chair. “Is that you, Jack Turner? By, but you’ve been gone a while. And what a sight! You’re that beshitten. What’s to do wi’ you?”
“Fetch folks,” said Jack, not looking at Tally.
“Fetch folks? Whatever for?”
Jack did not answer. He turned the drum and stared at the stump.
Tally Ridge shook his head and went on his way. “Fetch folks. Ay, we’ll do that. They’ll want to see what sort o’ notimaze you’ve turned out to be sin last back end.”
Jack sat through the morning, not speaking, as the people began to drift towards Jenkin, and into the afternoon. They were quiet among themselves, muttering and whispering at what they saw and what he had become.
“Nay,” said Sneaper Slack. “Get up wind on him. We could take a nest o’ wasps wi’ that one.”