Alan Garner - Thursbitch

He lifted two wooden pegs and drove them into the sockets of the eyes, and thrust pepper with his fist down the throat as it opened to roar.

The people ran. They fell upon the bull with their strength, tearing, baying, gnawing, as the bull flailed, held by the rope, five paces from the stone.

Jack sprang onto its neck and gripped the horns.

“The Bull I sing!

And for ever yon Bull shall last!”

Fodder Pott was lofted into the air, and leapt back, hanging under the throat.

“First song from the kettle, when was it spoken?

Is it not the kettle of the Moon’s heat?”

The screaming women laughed and never lost hold.

“We know not on what day the Bull arose!

We know not on what day, nor what was the cause!

Nor on what hour of that day the Moon was born,

Him as is first to die and first to be again!

Come! Come! Ne’er mind thy shape nor name,

O Bull! O mountain Bull! Snake of a hundred heads!

Flame! Beast! Wonderment! Come!”

The nails and teeth had pierced the hide. The men and women tore, ate, and the guts flew in the dance and the song.

The bull dropped. Jack ripped out the heart.

“Now have you died and now are born, twice happy Bull, in this one night.”

NAN SARAH COULD not see what was happening. Her back ached. She sat against a high stone, and above her were the shapes of the silent people facing Thursbitch and the risen moon.

She heard Jack’s voice up the field, talking at first, as if there was someone with him. The people rustled and jostled but made no other noise. Then Jack shouted, but what it was she could not hear. The people answered. Jack’s voice again. And then the people’s. Nan Sarah stood, but could not see past the height of the men. Jack called to them, and they called back more loudly still.

Jack called, but his voice sang, and the people surged forward up the field, so fast that Nan Sarah had to stop and watch them close upon the Belderstone.

Against the moonlight she could not make out the shapes. They were one swarm of noise. She heard Jack again, but his was the only mortal voice, and even for him Nan Sarah could not move. Something was in the field. It grew from the mass, and was it, yet made it more, drawing the dark writhing into its own purpose, the yelling to its own tongue. What was there grew to reach the moon and gave one cry such as Nan Sarah had not heard in all her days: the cry of both man and bull.

Then it fell apart and came towards her down the hill, turning back to those she knew: Oakeses, Swindells, Turners, Potts, Adsheads, Lomases, Slacks, Lathams, Ridges, all running, dancing, but alone, knowing of nothing but what they themselves had done and seen.

“Jack! Where’s Jack?”

No one stopped. They laughed. They sang. She saw their clothes streaming tattered. “Where’s Jack?” She tried to hold them, but their limbs slipped through her fingers in grease, and her hands became too wet to grip. She saw lame Martha Barber springing high. “Where’s Jack?” Martha answered, but gagged upon her speech. Then they were gone, down to Saltersford, and Nan Sarah was alone on the Butts, in the silence, beneath the moon, before the yellow stone.

“Jack!”

Nothing answered. She went to the stone.

He lay beside it. His clothes were torn, and he had been bitten and clawed. Even in the moonlight she saw the blood coming from his mouth and swollen eyes. She tried to clean him with her shawl, using the dew. He breathed, but the breath was slow and harsh. She kissed him, and he groaned. He coughed, but it was indrawn.

She pushed her fingers between his lips. A tooth fell back in his throat, lodged against his tongue and she caught it. Then she put his head between her knees and forced the jaw so that she could hook the tongue up and forward. He groaned again, but his breathing was stronger though still harsh.

“Jack. Jack, love.”

He lifted his hand. She took it, but he pulled it clear and blindly felt for her shawl.

He tried to speak.

“Graa. Graa.”

“What?”

“Graa.” His fingers moved along her shawl. “Graa.” He felt the Blue John.

“Graa.”

His hand was urgent, and she took out the cup. But he did not try to hold it. He pointed to the flap of his britches.

“Graa. Graa. Graa.”

Then to his lips.

“What, Jack?”

He pulled at the flap, but could not unlace it. She did it for him. His hand felt around for the cup. She gave it to him, but it slipped and he could not grasp. He pointed down again.

“Graa.”

She held it for him and he filled it. Then he pointed to his lips again and opened his mouth. She lifted the cup. The smell was sweet and fragrant, nectar. She poured drops onto his tongue and he swallowed, then opened his mouth again. She went on till he had emptied the cup. Nan Sarah dabbed his mouth with her shawl.

“Grallus.”

His head fell sideways. She smelled his breathing, cradled him and sat while he slept.

He slept until the moon had set, and day broke.

Dew covered them both.

He moved, and lifted his head and spat. Nan Sarah kissed his brow. He opened one eye as much as he could.

“Now then, love,” he said.

“Jack. Whatever did they do at you?”

“By. Yon piddlejuice works wonders. Oh, me neck.”

“Jack. What did they do?”

“Them? Nowt.” He coughed. “Was it right? Was it seen right by? Did we mind us manners?”

“Jack, you’ve been half killed! They were for murdering you!”

“Never. Not them. Was Bull we served.”

“What bull?”

“Summat on me chest.” He went into a spasm of coughing, blood at first, then with one heave he stopped. He felt inside his mouth and dragged something from his throat.

He held a stained, matted lump of coarse white hair.

“Wife. We did it by right ways.”

“You put your right arm in!

You put your right arm out!

In, out, in, out,

Shake it all about!

You do the Okey Kokey

And you turn around;

And that’s what it’s all about!

Yeh!

Oh, Okey Kokey Kokey!

Oh, Okey Kokey Kokey!

Oh, Okey Kokey Kokey!

Knees bend, arms stretch,

Ra, ra, ra!”

They bowled along Pike Low, swinging together as they sang. The windows were open.

“You put your right leg in!

You put your right leg out!”

“Mind the gears!”

“In, out, in, out,

Shake it all about!”

At the brow of Pike Low the hills leapt up.

“Open the roof, Ian! We need more room!”

As they curved down towards Blue Boar, he folded the roof back with one hand.

“You put both legs in!

You put both legs out!”

She waved her feet in the air, her hands above her head.

“And that’s what it’s all about!

Yeh!”

From Blue Boar up Ewrin Lane to Waggonshaw Brow.

“You put your whole self in!

You put your whole self out!”

“Sit down! Fasten your seat belt!”

“Seat belt! Sit down!

Ra, ra, ra!”

He slowed and stopped at Buxter Stoops. They could not see for the tears. She slipped as far down onto the floor as the seat would let her, and pulled at the grab handle and the steering wheel to get herself up. His head was resting on the wheel, tears of laughter running down his cheeks, and when the wheel turned he fell across her lap. They lay until he could sit straight. His neck bounced on the headrest. He took a handful of tissues and passed the box to her. They mopped and wiped and spluttered. At last they had control to stay upright. They turned to each other, red eyed, gasping.

He closed the roof, and then the windows. “I’m not switching this engine on, woman, until you behave yourself. From here, I need my wits, without your bawling demotic rubbish in my ear.”