by Alan Garner
‘I didn’t want to overcook the lamb.’
‘That was quick thinking on your part. Your eyes swerved every which way.’
‘I’d rather not.’
‘Tough titty. I rather would.’
‘I’ve things to do. Some other time, perhaps.’
‘Do them later. I don’t want to waste my petrol.’
‘All right. All right. But you could have phoned. I must wear my robes.’
‘Suit yourself. I’ll wait outside while you change.’
‘No. The top covering will be enough.’
‘Need any help?’
‘No. No, thanks.’
Colin opened the box and eased the shirt and bow tie from their tissues. He fitted the gold cufflinks and held the sleeves as he slid his arms into the black gown. Then he brushed the scarlet and blue silk chimere, fitted it over the gown and fastened it with the two buttons. To finish, he slipped the hood of green silk over his shoulders and set the bonnet on his head and adjusted the tassel. He checked in the mirror, and arranged his hair and beard.
‘Right,’ said Colin.
‘You definitely look the business,’ said Meg.
Colin locked the hut and they made their way from the quarry to the track. He lifted his gown and chimere to avoid snagging.
‘Do you mind if we stay on the track?’ said Colin. ‘It’s safer.’
‘How “safer”?’ said Meg.
‘It’s a bit less direct, but it’s wider and won’t catch on the silk.’
They walked with the wood to their left and the hills to their right.
‘You really have got it all, here, haven’t you?’ said Meg.
‘Yes, the landscape is varied.’
‘“Varied”? It’s spectacular.’
‘I suppose it is.’
‘What’s that over there?’
‘Shuttlingslow.’
‘It’s a stunning shape; iconic.’
‘You mean conical.’
‘What are you blathering at?’ said Meg.
‘There’s nothing iconic about Shuttlingslow. It is not an icon.’
‘Oh dear. Here we go. We’re off. What have I done wrong now?’
‘An icon,’ said Colin, ‘is a pictorial representation of a facility available on a computer system that enables the facility to be activated by means of a screen cursor rather than by a textual instruction. Its original, religious, meaning is the figure of Christ, the Virgin Mary or a saint, especially one painted in oil and gilded on a wooden panel and venerated in the Eastern Church.’
‘I stand corrected, O Master of Theology,’ said Meg.
‘Shuttlingslow isn’t remotely like an icon. Its form is the result of differential weathering of the Chatsworth and Roaches Carboniferous grits.’
‘Do you list swallowing dictionaries under “Recreations”?’
‘No.’
‘That would be lexicophagy, I suppose,’ said Meg.
‘Would it?’
‘Joke. That is a joke, Colin. Joke. Hah. Hah. Hah. Laugh. You can, if you try.’
‘I need to be accurate. I won’t put up with sloppiness and imprecision.’
‘I’ll tell you one thing,’ said Meg. ‘You certainly do not want to take me to Saddlebole. You do not.’
‘When I hear a student object that “Near enough is good enough,”’ said Colin, ‘I know I’m teaching a fool.’
‘Oh, you’re in a right bate.’
They walked on.
‘That tower spoils the skyline,’ said Meg. ‘Why’s it up there?’
‘Sutton Common,’ said Colin, not looking. ‘Radio relay. It’s impressive.’
‘It’s intrusive.’
‘No more than the telescope.’
‘I disagree. The telescope is both art and science. That tower is function only.’
‘Isn’t pure art pure function?’ said Colin. ‘Like the axe? The axe is the first step to the telescope.’
‘I need time out on that one,’ said Meg.
‘And think of Ethel.’
‘Why?’
‘The signals from Ethel were “nearly” here before the axe was made.’
‘Oh, I like it,’ said Meg. ‘That’s poetry. Not half it isn’t.’
They came to a T-junction. On one side was a squat block of conglomerate sandstone in a grassy bank, a clunched mass of pebbles glancing the afternoon.
‘What’s this?’ said Meg.
‘The Goldenstone.’
‘But it’s grey. And packed with quartz. What’s it doing here?’
‘It’s a merestone.’
‘A mere stone? I think it’s impressive. It’s huge.’
‘A boundary stone. About twelve tonnes. Come on. Boundaries aren’t safe.’
‘Why aren’t they?’
‘Because they’re not. They occupy neither space nor time. Boundaries can change apparent realities. They let things through. Come on. If we keep stopping we’ll never get to where you want to see before it’s too late. In the day, I mean.’
‘Right. Shut up, Meg.’
The broad way took them to Stormy Point. Across the waste a hollow path led back into the trees. As they entered, Meg picked up loose pebbles that lay on the ground.
‘They’re pretty. Hey, this here is a bit of all right.’
They were at a ridge, and the ground dropped to the plain. It was a beech wood, and the trunks were twisted green flames above brown fallen leaves that let nothing grow. The sunlight was shafts between. The path dipped to a saddle and rose beyond.
‘It’s a cathedral,’ said Meg.
‘There are your rocks,’ said Colin. ‘Help yourself.’ He kept back.
The rocks stood over the path. One was much taller than the others, a tapering wedge of sandstone. There was a shelf in front. Meg stepped onto it. She patted the stone. ‘This is one brute of a bloke, and that’s for sure. Come up.’
‘I’m happy where I am.’
Meg continued to examine the rock. ‘More pebbles,’ she said. ‘White quartz. Just like the Goldenstone.’
‘Yes. It’s possible it was fetched from near here.’
‘Wow. Some job.’
‘Quite simple, actually,’ said Colin. ‘Have you seen all that you want to see?’
‘Wait your sweat,’ said Meg. She took two of the pebbles that she had gathered on Stormy Point out of her pocket, and with one in each hand began to rub the quartz on the rock.
‘Don’t do that,’ said Colin. ‘Don’t do it.’
‘I’m trying to make that light,’ said Meg.
‘It’s not dark enough,’ said Colin. ‘Stop.’
‘But I like the sound.’
Colin jumped onto the shelf, his robes swelling.
‘Stop! I said stop!’ He grabbed Meg’s wrists.
‘Colin. Let go. Let go of me, please.’ Her voice was calm.
‘You mustn’t! Stop it! Stop!’
‘I said let go.’
Colin pulled her hands away from the sandstone. Meg moved her forearms in a twist against the joints of his thumbs, and Colin fell on the rock, covered by his robes. The bonnet rolled down the hill.
He pushed himself up. ‘Ground strike! Side splash! Assume the position!’ He crouched, curled, his head at his knees, covered by his crossed arms, balancing himself on the balls of his feet. ‘Don’t touch the ground with the hands!’
‘You’ve got the drill OK, but aren’t you shutting the stable door a bit late, chum?’ said Meg. ‘That nag bolted long ago.’
Colin whimpered.
‘Didn’t it?’
Colin put his hand to his collar and dragged it down. There was a line of thickened discoloured skin on his neck.
‘Here. Look.’
‘Good job it was raining when you were hit, Colin,’ said Meg. ‘The flashover may have saved your life.’
Colin moaned. ‘This is the mark of the blame I bear in my neck. This is the sign of loss, of coveting and cowardice that caught me.’ He pulled a
t the hood of green silk. ‘This is the token of untruth that I’ve been snared in, and there’s no getting out of it for me for the rest of my life.’
‘Oh, give over,’ said Meg. ‘You piss more than you drink. Come on. Up with you.’
She helped him to stand and get down from the shelf, and she sat with him on a bank of earth by the path.
‘No wonder you don’t come here, if that’s what it does to you. You really are a proper drama queen, aren’t you? I’ve said that to you before.’
‘You don’t know.’
‘I can’t if you don’t let me in. This isn’t the first time, Colin. What happened that day? Tell Aunty Meg.’
He cuddled up to her. ‘I never come here. Never since. I didn’t mean it.’
‘I think you did,’ said Meg. ‘But mean what?’
‘I didn’t mean to do it.’
‘Do what?’
‘Nothing.’
‘Have you got that stone in your pocket?’
‘Yes. Always, now. How do I get into the mind of who made this?’
‘Squeeze,’ said Meg. ‘Squeeze it. Shut your eyes. Squeeze hard.’
‘Why?’
‘Don’t ask. Do.’
He put his hand into his pocket, and shut his eyes. Lights came in the dark from his lids. Lights from within the stone.
‘Squeeze.’
‘Flashback! Flashback!’
‘Now, Colin. While it’s there. Now. It’s your chance. You may not have another. You’re safe. I’m holding you. Go for it.’
‘I can’t. I did so much wrong.’
‘You can. You’ve got to learn to forgive yourself. Whatever it is. No one else is blaming you. No one else cares. And you know I can’t be doing with whining self-pity. Set it free.’
‘Set it free?’
‘Set it free.’
‘Like the crow?’
‘Set it free.’
He looked at the pebbles in the rock, and shut his eyes again.
‘Silicon,’ said Meg. ‘Moonlight. You have the black stone. Black blacker than black. The Grail. The Question. “What is this thing? What does it mean? Whom does it serve?” Ask. Squeeze. Squeeze hard. Squeeze harder. As if carbon. Squeeze carbon. Squeeze carbon as far as it will. As far as carbon can.’
‘But if it’s not carbon …’
‘Faith.’
‘How?’
‘Belief, Colin.’
‘I can’t.’
‘Reality. You can.’
‘No.’
‘Truth.’
‘Yes.’
‘What do you get?’
‘Yes. Yes.’
‘What do you get?’
‘I get. I get. Get—diamond!’
‘At last. At final, bleeding last. Colin, you’ve done it.’
‘Diamond. Eternal.’
He lay against her. The Edge trembled with sobbing.
‘They say. They say.’
‘Yes.’
‘They say.’
‘Who say?’
‘They say. They say. They say there are. Men. In the hill. Horses. A king. In the hill. Here. Asleep. Waiting. Waiting.’
‘For what?’
‘Waiting. Until it’s Time.’
‘I understand.’
‘They mustn’t wake. Ever. Not till it’s Time.’
‘I understand you, Colin.’
‘But it is Time. It’s Time now. I need. I need them now. I must wake them. They’ll find her. They will.’
‘Oh, you poor lad.’
‘So I come. I come here. I hit the rock. The pebbles. I’m calling. “Wake up! It’s Time! Find her! It’s Time!” Then the lights. The lightning: blue, silver, blue silver. Lightning. All around. Thunder. “Wake up! You must find her!” Then. There’s a cloud above. Not big. Right over me. It’s starting to rain. Heavy. There’s the man. The tall man. Thin. He’s old. He’s very old. He should be dead. But he’s not. He can’t. He’s angry. He’s looking at me. His eyes. He curses me. His eyes! He curses me with forgetting and remembering, dreaming and waking! No! Flashback! Dreams! Always dreams! Always him! He puts his fate on me! To guard! To dream! For all Time!’
‘Wha-hey, you’re in lumber now sure enough, Colin, my love. You’re down in the collective now. Well down. You’re on Tom Tiddler’s ground, and there’s no picking up gold and silver for you here. There is not. And do you wonder? They’re the Sleepers. You don’t mess with those guys. You don’t mix it with them, my friend. Once they wake, it’s curtains.’
‘But are they real?’
‘Does it make any difference?’ said Meg. ‘With your mind, and your work and what you’ve said, the question shouldn’t worry you. “What were the fairy tales, they will come true.”’
‘You’re not laughing at me,’ said Colin.
‘I never laugh at. That’s not my job. And what’s the point? But don’t be too clever, Colin. You must not let yourself be prisoner to deep place; to the Edge. Or Ludchurch.’ She stood and gave him a hand up. ‘And hold fast on that stone. You’ve not done yet. At least we know now why you smashed the glass. Don’t forget your hat.’
I have a Story, he said.
Tell me, said the other.
When Crane set the Stone Spirit to send eagles to feed the stars and went back to fly for ever between Earth and Sky the world grew full of life; and the Stone Spirit made the Hunter to walk beneath to watch the herds, and the Bull to go before him to show the way. Then the Stone Spirit reached to the Hill of Death and Life and took red earth and shaped it to be people and opened their mouths so that they might eat, and gave them legs and hands so that they might hunt. And it parted the people, each to hold the other, so that they would grow more. Then it gave to the people spirits of the beasts, so that they would keep those spirits safe; and those beasts they did not eat. Nor could the people hold people that were of their spirit, for that would wrong the world.
What is your spirit? said the other.
I am of Crow and of Crane, and I call to Wolf.
What is your song?
To dance in Ludcruck to cut the rock and to keep the sun from death.
That is a true Story, said the other.
‘—“to light you to bed.”—’ Colin lifted the axe from the corner, wiped the edge of the blade with a rag, picked up an empty basket and went out to the log stack. ‘—“And here comes a chopper to chop off your head.”’ By the stack there was a treadle grindstone. He set one foot on the plate and pressed down, letting the plate lift at the end of the turn. When the stone was at the right speed Colin held the blade against it to lie with the spin, moving the steel to firm the shoulder. The noise clattered in the rocks, rang on the quarry side. Then he moved the blade to balance the shoulder, tested the blade with his thumb, and took a whetstone from his pocket and fined the edge. He looked along the line to check the curve.
He pulled logs out from the stack, ash, holly, thorn, and put them next to a block of elm, criss-crossed by hatchings of old cuts. He placed a log on end with care to firm it on the block, braced his legs apart, breathed in, and out, and in, loosened his shoulders, gripped the helve, and swung.
‘Chip.’
The log split into equal parts, each falling aside. He picked one and stood it upright, and swung.
‘Chop.’
He set the other, and swung.
‘Chip.’
He gathered the four pieces, dropped them into the basket and put another log on the elm.
‘Chip. Chop. Chip.’
He held and swung the axe so that it fell in an arc and its own weight did the work.
‘Chip. Chop. Chip. Chip. Chop. Chip. Chip. Chop. Chip. Stone. Dead.’
He went on until the basket was full. He took the axe back to the hut and brought in the basket and settled it by the hearth. He wiped the axe head and the helve and dribbled fine oil along the blade and smoothed it over with his fingers. Then he placed the axe back in its corner and cleaned his hands.
Colin lif
ted a toolbox from a shelf and left the hut. He went to the dishes, and stood before one of the focus rings. He looked at it for a long time, and smiled. ‘Hah. Yes. OK. Right. Now then.’ He opened the toolbox and picked two spanners, fitted them against a nut and bolt at the base and put pressure on to slacken the thread. ‘That’s the way to do it.’
‘Hang about, Colin. Half a sec.’
Colin let go of the spanners and jolted back.
‘You?’
‘’Fraid so, my love. You’re coming good, son. But not yet. You can’t disconnect yet. It’s not Time yet; for you.’
‘What? Meg? Is it? Meg?’
‘I couldn’t tell you until you made your mind up. But you’re acting a bit previous. You’re not there yet.’
‘Meg. What do you mean? What’s happening?’
‘You don’t need me now. You had to find it for yourself. I’m only a mirror. Think of the moon, Colin. That’s my job. It’s what I am. It’s all I can be.’
‘No. I do need you. I need you a lot.’
‘Not any more. It’s over and out now, my darling. The last bit’s all yours. I can’t go there.’
‘Meg. No.’
‘Colin. Yes. You’re OK. You’ve done us proud. And Colin, you just think on. Think on. If the Sleeper wakes, the Dream dies.’
‘Meg. Meg. Meg. You don’t say goodbye. You said.’
Silence.
Colin ran to the hut. He jabbed the telephone.
‘The number you have dialled has not been recognised. Please check and try again.’
He jabbed.
‘The number you have dialled has not been recognised. Please check and try again.’
Again.
‘The number you have dialled has not been recognised. Please check and try again.’
‘Shut up, you stupid cow!’
Colin laid the telephone down until he had control of his breathing. He picked it up and pressed each number firmly, and paused, with care.
‘The number you have dialled has not been recognised. Please check and try again.’
‘Damn you!’
Colin looked at the telephone file. He put in Bert’s number.
‘The number you have dialled has not been recognised. Please check and try again.’
He scrabbled among the papers on his dresser, but could not find Bert’s card.
‘Hello. Hello. Oh, come on! Hello.’
‘Directory Enquiries. Kay speaking, Professor Whisterfield. There is a charge for this call. How can I help you?’