by Garner, Alan
“Hallelujah!”
“Yay. Well may you call upon His name. But even now you do not ketch on. Draw near. Hearken ye to the words I have to tell of torments for to come.”
He leaned forward and beckoned them towards him with both hands, and lowered his voice. The air had lost its sweetness.
“God holds you over the pit of Hell, of fire, of brimstone, same as He holds a spider or some such loathsome insect. He abhors you and is dreadfully provoked. His wrath towards you burns same as that fire. He looks upon you as worthy of nowt else but to be cast in yon pit. He is of purer een nor can bear to have you in his sight.”
“Amen!”
“Yay. You are ten thousand times more abominable in His een nor the verymost hateful snake.You have offended Him; and yet it is nobbut his hand as holds you from falling every moment into the fiery pit. It is nobbut else as kept you out of Hell last night, so as you were suffered to wake again in this world after you shut your een.”
“Glory!”
“Jehovah!”
“Yay. And there is no reason to be given as why you did not drop into Hell when you got up this morning, but that the hand of God has held you.”
“Blessed be!”
“Yay. There is no other reason to be given as why you have not gone to Hell when you sat yoursen down here, provoking His pure een by your wicked manner of attending His solemn worship. Ay, there’s nowt else as can be given as the reason for why you do not at this very moment drop down into Hell.”
Women and men were screaming and fainting. But Jack drew them in further, his voice a whisper.
“O Sinners. Consider what fearful danger you are in. It is a great furnace of wrath, a wide and bottomless pit, full of fire of wrath, as you are held over by the hand of that God whose wrath is provoked and incensed as much agen you as agen many already in Hell. You hang by a slender thread, wi’ flames of divine anger flashing about it, and ready every moment to singe it, and burn it asunder. And you have nowt to lay hold on to save you; nowt to keep off the flames of wrath, nowt of your own, nowt as you ever have done, nowt as you do to make God spare you one moment.”
Some were trying to get out of the pews, but could not open the doors in their panic.
“You cannot escape. You shall be same as burning lime, as thorns cut up in ovens shall you be burnt. And you must suffer it to all Eternity. There shall be no end to this misery. You must wear out long ages, many and many ages, with this almighty and merciless vengeance. And then, when you have so done, you shall know as all is but a point of what remains. Your punishment shall indeed be without end.”
Jack put his hand over the edge of the pulpit. Pain struck into his palm. A bee was embedded in the flesh. He lifted it close to his eyes.
“Nay. Not you. Not you. Never you. Never you as first fed.” He held the bee and turned it to unwind the sting from his hand.
He was sweating, and his head thumped with the charge of the Bull.
Jack got down from the pulpit, his step unsure on the lurching wood. The people were silent. The air became the smell of a hive, and a noise of wings.
He opened a light of the window, still looking close.
“From death to death she goes.” Crom’s tongue filled his mouth and rasped as he forced it to speak.
He raised his hand to the window. The bee flew out into the valley and scents of flowers. He looked around the walls and at the people.
“From life to life.”
He saw them through a dark web of holes with six sides, and in each hole was a face that he did not know. He tried to back away, but he was against rock; and against rock he dragged himself. No one moved or made a sound. They watched the black coat slide along the white wall.
He put his knuckle in his mouth, against the stone tongue, and bit through, knowing only the Bull’s truth, the wisdom of the Bee.
30
THEY TOOK JACK by the arms and led him down the lane. He did not speak.
Mary went into the houseplace, and Richard Turner and Edward stripped him and sat him in the brook. They cut his hair and beard and nails and scraped and scoured his flesh, and then Edward went to bring him clean clothing, and they dressed him, cleansed and bound the wound, and took him to the fire. He sat, shivering, gazing at the flames. Mary gave him a cup of hot raspberry vinegar with honey and salt. He drank.
Still no one spoke.
“I never once was stung by a bee,” said Jack.
He was silent again. His eyes moved, watching in the flames, and his face showed what he saw. Mary looked at Edward and nodded, and they left the room. Richard Turner stayed at the table and followed the story in Jack’s eyes.
Jack lifted his head.
“When a man sees on his hand his own living honey-eating sen, maker of what was and what must come, she never looks to hide from him.”
“All’s well, youth,” said Richard Turner.
“Her as was born afore fire, afore water was born, her as knows every mortal thing and things as never die. Her as we know in the cave of us hearts, and see sitting now.”
“Ay.”
“But what were yon lot huzzing there? What wanted they to have to do wi’ me?”
“You’re home, youth. Never fret.”
“Outside is mad. Mad is Outside.
“And Great Mortality. It didn’t take.”
“What didn’t take?” said Jack.
“Do you not recollect?”
Jack shook his head.
“Nobbut pockets.”
“Where were you gone all winter?”
Jack shook his head.
“Fury of the black goatskin. It took me. And Fury of the black goatskin. It fetched me. I did tread an iron gate. I did see horrors. I did eat me childer. Me own childer.”
“Nowt of the sort,” said Richard Turner. “Lomases were breeding, and they took ’em in to rear.”
“Outside is mad. Mad is Outside. You do not see Them. I do.”
“As you please.”
“I did eat me childer.”
“You did not.”
“Then where’s their mother? I keep thinking as I ketch her through the side of my een. But when I look she’s gone.”
“Try pockets, youth.”
“Pocket. Ay. Pockets.” Jack stared into the fire again, and Richard Turner watched. “Pockets. Pockets. I ketch ’em. I do. I do that. And summat. Biggening Brom. Petticoat. Honey. Blue Nan? Grallus. Wife!”
Jack surged from the fire and flung himself onto Richard Turner. Richard Turner held him, cradled him, felt the wracking of his strength as his body cried out. It was the cry of beast and man, shaking the houseplace, mortal and undying. Richard Turner held. The body thrashed and slowed and was still.
“I’ve been lost in the star-sodden wits of me mind, Father. Left nobbut an unknowing heart.”
“Yay, but you’re back now, youth.”
“How must I mend? Bull shall be vexed, and Crom.”
“Then you’d best ask ’em. It’s your time o’ day now, none else’s. But tha conner fart gen thunder, think on; and bliss in this world it is a seldom thing.”
“All the crueltiness I’ve done at Saltersford and at folks.”
“Thee never you mind that,” said Richard Turner. “That’s for us to mend. And what you’ve done is mebbe Bull’s road as he’s chosen for us. Though I see no road round what’s-his-face, land man, and his big ways. He’ll do as he pleases, that one. But Bull’s bigger nor ways, and bigger nor all. Now folks have getten their little ark, their minds are not on Bull. No matter o’ that. Ranting’s nobbut cluntish talk, as any a one can do. I’ll keep watch on ’em, so as they don’t grow nowty. And one thing about stone. It keeps in. As long as they’ve got yon for chelp on, they’ll happen not spoil the land. And then we must next breed it out on ’em. Nay, youth. It’s for you to addle more. You must pay Bull full dole, and lay Nan Sarah to her peace, and set the stars by rights. Night’s older nor day.”
“I never ought to have
chucked the grallus. There was that much hurt. Now it’s done. Happen it’s for others.”
“Happen.”
“Where’s corbel bread for opening een and ears and tongue?”
“Where it’s always kept,” said Richard Turner. “You picked plenty last back end; and though it’s a bit over fresh, to my mind, I don’t doubt but what you’ll thole.”
“Why did you have to break Jenkin, Father?”
“Why me, are you asking?”
“Ay.”
“I can’t rightly answer you there, youth. It’s a question. But what’s done’s done; and that’s the top and bottom of it.”
“Me head’s going round like cocks and hens.”
“It seems as you’ve a whealy mile ahead yet,” said Richard Turner.
Jack lifted the bag from above the mantle beam and took out a cap and stem. They were dry, but still spongy. He took another, chewed and swallowed, using the last of the raspberry vinegar. Then, without speaking again, he went out and climbed up the Butts, over the brow and down into Thursbitch.
It was the end of a day of sun and showers. The black goatskin had not been cleaned, but he wore it against the wind. As he passed by Lankin he glimpsed a man on the ridge walking towards Thoon. something draped over his shoulder. Jack went to sit by Bully Thrumble and waited.
The sun did not sing, and he heard no cloud bells. The brook flowed by.
He waited. The stone was hard against his back. “Walk and do. Walk and do. Walk and do till all is done.” He sat.
“Old Bouchert. Old Bouchert.”
Nothing moved but a raven down the sky.
“O sweet Bull. O noble Bull. O worthy Bull. O bonny Bull.”
He sat and waited, and saw no answer.
“O Bull, as lives on hill tops. Lord over all as close the eye. Your step full of honey. In your highmost step is honey. O Bull with mighty voice. Mask of Bull, kindled for beauty. O Bull striding the sky, shine down. For there is nowt as you are not.”
There was no answer, but a darkness grew, greater than the light.
Jack rose and went down from Thrumble. He saw only what was black in the valley: the shales, the shadows. All else was a blur.
Then, as he came towards the finger of Lankin, he heard a voice out of Thoon.
“Turn.”
It was the strong voice of a woman.
He stopped and looked. He could not see. “Nan Sarah?” No answer. “Nan Sarah!”
He left the track and stumbled and scrambled up Cats Tor to the ridge. The sun was setting and, with the dusk, his sight grew clearer. He moved along the bog. A man came towards him. When they met, they looked into each other’s eyes, faltered, but did not speak. Each walked with a driven gait. Jack hurried to Thoon. “Nan Sarah?” Thoon was empty.
Richard Turner was waiting in the yard in the last of the light.
“Well, youth?”
“Nowt. I reckon as how I was too previous with yon corbel bread.”
“Or was it you, Jack?”
“Bull was sulky, anyroad. He neither gave nor told.”
“Or you didn’t hear?”
“I thought, once, I did. But it was nowt. I did see a chap, though. And that was queer.”
“How?”
“He was up Cats Tor, going for Pym Chair; and I was going for Thoon. We passed each other as close as I am to you, but in a bit of a clatter, like; so we didn’t speak. But I looked at him. He had an oddstrucken sort of a twist to his face, full of grief and good. I swear as I saw a broken man, but one as could mend. And I swear, Father, I never did see a happier man. And he looked at me.”
“And what did this chap see, Jack?”
“How should I know what he saw?”
“I’m thinking: were you not hearing Bull? Did this chap see same as you? Did he see a broken man as could mend?”
31
“DEAR HEART, METHINKS you already know.”
“I don’t, Sal.”
“Bed wheels.”
“What about them?”
“The first time I was in hospital, for tests, I kept looking at the wheels on the beds. They were quiet and watching. Then they’d rattle away. But they always came back, and be there, looking at me, waiting, day and night. When I left hospital I knew they were still there. They were in no hurry. And when I went in again, there they were. Now they know I’m coming, and this time they’ll have me.”
“What’s the second promise?”
“I know what I’m saying, Ian. It’s so hard that you don’t have to answer. If you do answer, you must tell me the truth.”
“You have my word.”
“What is it, when the time comes, that will see me off?”
He put the back of his hand against her cheek.
“The most common causes of death are either dysphagia or the result of an opportunistic invasion, usually pneumonia.”
“So it’s choke or drown.”
“It is.”
“Thanks. I’m sorry I put that on you, but I had to know.”
“If you want it, I shall be there with you.”
“No, Ian. It won’t come to that. I’m a coward. I shall go through the windows before they’re too narrow and while there’s still light.”
He squeezed her hand and looked away.
“I’m a coward, Ian. I’m scared of the dark. I don’t want the mirrors without the sky.”
“Salt seasons all things,
Said Solomon the Wise;
And him as gets a good wife
He gets a goodly prize.
Him as gets a wrong un,
He falls into a snare;
And Old Nick plucks him by the neck,
As Mossy ketched his mare.”
Jack climbed from Sooker and the snow was drifting. He held Jinney’s reins to lift her. They passed Ormes Smithy, up Blaze Hill and along Billinge Side. The wind was full in their faces and the horses were trying to tuck into the bank for shelter, but Bryn kept them from shoving their panniers against the rocks. Now it was dark and the snow was swarming into his lanthorn and he could not see for the whiteness.
They crossed the four-went-way and began the drag up Pike Low. By Deaf Harry, Jinney reared. Jack shortened the rein and patted her neck and shoulder.
“Nay, nay, lass. Don’t you take boggart now. Yon’s a high stone, that’s all. He can’t hurt you. He can’t move, choose what Tally Ridge’ll say. Well, not tonight he won’t.”
He braced for the top of Pike Low.
“Blood and elbows! Oh, what a world. What a world. Summer hangs in a bag tonight; it does that. But we shall fettle it, shan’t we? We shall and all.” He led the train down from Pike Low by Drakeshollow; the wind and the snow still in his face. They climbed up Ewrin Lane and over Waggonshaw Brow. As he passed through the farmyard at Buxter Stoops, he saw Martha Barber at the curtain sack of her window.
“Is it you, Jagger Turner?”
“Ay, but it is, Widder Barber!”
“I thought I heard. Will you come thy ways?”
“Nay, Missis. But thank ye. If I let this lot melt I’d starve to death.”
“Hast any piddlejuice about you for such a time?”
“I have and all. Good to make a cat speak and a man dumb. Pass us your jug, Missis, then get that down you, and you’ll be as frisky as a tup in a halter.”
“I always say as how there never has been nowt like your piddlejuice, Jagger; and that’s a fact!”
“Ay, Missis! If you’re on the road all hours in these hills, you must be fit for owt, or you’ll find it’s when bum hole’s shut, fart’s gone. It’s there, you know. Oh, ah. When bum hole’s shut, fart’s gone.”
They laughed on either side of the door.
“Give us a tune, Jagger! I feel a little ditty coming on me and I’ve a flavour for to sing it.”
“Nay, Widder Barber. I must be getting down bank, and me beasts need their rest.”
He saw her shadow. She was hopping and began to dance for Jenkin. He
r voice was uncertain at first, but then it broke forth with a strength that not even the wind could quell.
“I must be getting down bank, Widder Barber! Wind’s in Thoon’s eaver, and me beasts’ll be bangled if they’re not moving!”
Martha Barber was now leaping in her dance; her head kecked backwards. The hollering wind took her voice from him, but the song was in the storm itself and came to him out of Thoon’s very own mouth.
“The next great joy of Mary Anne
It were the joy of seven:
To see her own son little Jack
Reap up the stars of heaven;
Reap up the stars of heaven and make
Of them the golden Bee.
Euoi! Euoi! Io! Euoi!
Through all Eternity!”
“How will you do that, Sal?”
“Get out? I’ll find a way.”
“You know where I have to stand on this.”
“Of course. I’m not asking you for anything.”
“Are you hoarding pills? A stomach pump is not a pleasant experience.”
“No. They’re wise to that one. I’ll find a way.”
“You won’t, Sal. You can’t. You are not strong enough; physically.”
“I must. It’s my choice.”
“Please reconsider. We can make all experience positive. We cannot know what will happen.”
“I always did think you lot were a bunch of sado-masochists. Why should I have to put up with this longer than I need because some mediæval mentalities have nothing better to do than to take odds over angels on pins? I’m the one in the bed, remember. And I’d rather you didn’t sit on it while you’re comparing mattresses.”
“In an ideal world –”
“Oh no. Please not that. It is not an ideal world.”
“What would you want?”
“If you must know, I would stay here. Here is my place of understanding. ‘And every stone and every star a tongue. And every gale of wind a curious song.’ At school. I remember.”