by Garner, Alan
“Eternity?”
“Your kind? I find that queasy. Where’s it all going to end? I ask. I’d be happy just to let my fingernails grow.”
He stood, and walked on the sheer edge of the path and looked down at the confluence of the ford.
“My hypocritic oath,” he said.
“The next great joy of Mary Anne,
It were the joy of nine:
To see her own son Little Jack
Pluck up the bilberry fine;
Pluck up the bilberry fine to give
Himself to thee and me.
Euoi! Euoi! Io! Euoi!
Through all Eternity.”
Jack hauled his way back along Ewrin Lane towards Buxter Stoops. The bend near the top told him where to turn off to find the pillar of Osbaldestone in the white bees of snow. He swam to it and sat next to its strength, facing Thoon. He pulled his hat down against the blizzard and was still.
The wind about the stone spoke to him. “Towards the place into which you enter, the path from which there is no return, all light is withdrawn.”
“Get off with your bother,” said Jack. “You shall pass, and then we shall make a bonny moon and a laughing sky.”
A warm wetness came under his hat. The dog licked his face.
“Now then, Bryn.You’ve been quick. Did you see ’em home? There’s a good lad.” The dog lay next to him and he patted it. “And what did I say? What did I tell you?” The wind had dropped. He pushed up his hat. The cloud was passing, and stars floated in the gaps.
“Now, Bryn. We have a job to do tonight. We have and all. We must put the stars and moon to rights. How’s that, you say? Well, times have been a terrible rough auction of late, have they not? I recollect ’em all, the good wi’ the bad, and every word true. The reason is, the sky’s slippy; and every so often yon moon and stars get out of sorts, and it’s given to folks same as us to fettle ’em and put ’em back on their high stones. And what wi’ yon caper at Jenkin, and land man promising all sorts, Bull needs a hand, a bit of a hutch up, to set him back in his place; else each night of winter we can’t see the grandest tale as is ever told in these parts, or any other, I shouldn’t wonder: the tale as shows as how Bull shall never die, choose what ranters and land man do.
“And how shall we fettle, you ask me? Corbel bread. Yon’s the truth of corbel bread, and why we always gather it up each back end down along the saltways and fetch it here. Corbel bread; same as tonight.”
The sky had cleared.
“See at Nick.”
A small cluster of stars rose from Old Gate Nick.
“Yon Bees are on Bull’s shoulder. They’re there to watch o’er him and feed him honey. Now see at Cats Tor.”
To the right of the Tor shoulder, a red star showed.
“There’s his eye, Bryn. It must ever peep out of yonder first, to see as all’s well. And now he’s seen, up he comes, sithee, to look on us. Isn’t that a bonny sight, him with his highmost step?
“And now look ye at him proud above Thoon. But Thoon’s a two-folk rock, it is that: a place of heaming and of dying. Yon’s the bury-hole in life and life in the bury-hole. It is that. And now who’s that coming out of there? This Big Chap with his club. He’s after Bull; for he’s the very cut-throat of cattle.
“But Bull sees him, and up he climbs to get rid. And the Big Chap’s thrutching his belt out of Thoon; so he’ll not be held long. Bull had best be doing. And now he’s at his highmost, and the Big Chap’s out and walking the ridge. And now he’s striding into the sky off Shining Tor; and look ye; there’s Old Goibert coming from Tor, but he’s under the Big Chap’s feet, and the Big Chap hasn’t seen him. But, oh dear! What must Bull do now?
“And look ye! The Big Chap’s getten a Dog, same as you, and he’s been hid aback of Tor, and he’s seen Old Goibert and he’s going for him!
“But I’ll tell ye what shall happen, though it won’t happen this minute. Bull’s going to nip down t’other side of Andrew’s Edge to have a quiet crack wi’ Crom in his sleep, and the Big Chap will think as he’s getten him. But no. He’ll ketch his foot above Long Clough, and down he’ll plump. Same wi’ Old Goibert. He’ll drop in the grass, and the Dog’ll never find him there. While Bull shall sneak round under Pike Low to peep at Cats Tor tomorrow night. As long as he peeps at Cats Tor, land man can never catch him. And that’s a fact.
“And Deaf Harry, sithee, on Pike Low. He’s watching the North Star again, at last, after ever so long and ever so many years of being wrong road. And all’s well.
“We have done, Bryn. Bull’s in his sky above Thoon, look ye. O bonny Bull. And all along of corbel bread.”
Jack sat against Osbaldestone and saw the moon in the horns of the Bull. He was faint with effort, but warm, and he did not shiver.
“The last great joy of Mary Anne
It were the joy of ten:
To see her own son little Jack
Afire wi’ flame, and then
Afire wi’ flame of corbel bread
Unlapping from the tree.
Euoi! Euoi! Io! Euoi!
Through all Eternity.”
Ian came back and sat with her and put his arm around her and held her hand.
“You are right.”
“What does that mean?” she said.
“I shall stay with you. Here. Now.”
“Ian, you can’t. I won’t let you. It would destroy you. It’s against everything you’ve ever lived by.”
“That is for me to deal with.”
“No. Even I can’t be so selfish.”
“I am the selfish one,” he said. “You have called into question all that I had come to accept without hesitation or consideration. And I have no answer.”
“I’ve lost you your Faith.”
“No. But you may have found me some Grace.”
“You have never made me cry before.”
He stroked the hair outside her helmet.
“This is where you feel the need to be. You hold here to be sentient. It is only proper for this place to take you.”
“You’re talking as the priest.”
“My particular Mafia does tend towards the cecumenical. For you it is a religious experience. The doctor in me can tell you hypothermia is kind: kinder than choking or drowning.”
“I can’t handle this. I wasn’t expecting it.”
“But is it what you want?”
“Yes.”
“Are you sure?”
“I’m sure. And. Thanks. Keep the cup. It must mean something.”
“It must.”
“Right, then.”
“Do you want a drink?”
“Yes.”
“Do you want to eat?”
“No.”
“I shall hold you.”
“No. Ian, I feel such an ungrateful shit. But because you’re right about this place, it would be wrong for you. I need to meet it myself; to find whatever’s here for me. I shall dance till I swarm. What I’m saying is: please go. As one last gift, please go. I know how it sounds, but the feeling is the opposite, my dearest dear.”
He kissed the top of her helmet.
“Ian. Do not look back. Whatever else you do with your life, do not look back.”
“I love you, Sal.”
“You always have. Turn.”
He pulled himself from the rock and walked. He walked over the blanket bog and the cotton grass. He reached the point where the shoulder of Cats Tor began to hide the outcrop. He stopped.
She was not in the cave. She had got herself out onto the slab. She stood, leaning forward on her poles, her right foot in the print, striding above the valley. She had shed her helmet and her hair was free. He walked to the north.
“Eh up.”
Light had appeared in Thoon, and grew as it left the cave and broke into points that formed as they moved across Thursbitch towards Jack, not in the sky but of the sky, clustered as the Bees, but golden and no shape that he had ever known of stars. The light dr
ifted and changed; and he saw.
“Nan Sarah.”
Her spun form grew above him, and, smiling, sank down. He lifted his face to hers, and she set her foot beside him as they kissed.
“Wife.”
He laughed, holding her for a moment for ever. She smiled that they would not part, though her shape of light drew back into Thoon.
“Wife.”
He looked out across the snows of Thursbitch, and his jagger’s heart saw peace, through Nan Sarah’s peace, at last.
“Bryn. If I’m to rest tonight in this flowery valley, tell them to put me in me own fold, so as I’m close to you. Then, tell them, put at me head a pipe of hornbeam, for sweetness; a pipe of holly, for sadness; a pipe of oak, for wildness. Then when the wind blows it must play. And tell them in good truth as how I wed the wench of this world; and a star fell.
“Tell them as how Sun and Moon held crown for me; as how Cats Tor and Shining Tor were me parsons, quickthorns me witness; and all to the singing of a thousand brids and the sky my torches.”
And out over Thoon above Bully Thrumble the high lord hanging holy under heaven. And Crom asleep in the ground.
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Epub ISBN: 9781448162925
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Published by Vintage 2004
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Copyright © Alan Garner 2003
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First published in Great Britain in 2003 by
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ISBN 9780099459361