Alan Garner - Thursbitch

They left the ruin and crossed the green field. At the top of the field a low, broken wall separated the pasture from the steep rough beyond.

“Head for the track we came down,” he said.

“Came down?”

“Head for that brown track to the ridge. It goes past the outcrop.”

They were nearly at the wild moor. Sheep scattered.

“There’s another stone,” he said. “How are you doing?”

“We’ll get to it on the next traverse.”

When they reached the stone, she rested on her poles. “Extraordinary. Nature improving on art.”

“Is it?” he said. “It looks sculpted to me.”

“It’s natural erosion. There isn’t a mark on it.”

The stone was the figure of a heavily pregnant woman; peaked head; a straight neck running to a straight back down into the ground; a massive, rounded belly.

“Why build it into a wall?” he said.

“That may be your answer.”

“What may?”

“Perhaps the wall was built to it.”

“These walls are old.”

“They are.”

“That would imply that this is older.”

“You always were the bright one, Ian.”

“You’re sure it hasn’t been shaped?”

“Only by the wind. I’m not saying it wasn’t chosen.”

“And brought up here? Why? When?”

“I’m just a simple geologist.”

He looked back across the valley.

“Yes,” she said. “I’d guess about point seven of a tonne, like the others.”

She settled on a piece of wall and ran her hands over the gritstone. He did the same, putting his on hers.

“It’s beautiful.”

“But what is the context?” he said.

“I’m sure you’ll come up with one,” she said. “For a start, it makes sense of the stone by the ford. If this is Effect, then the other’s well equipped to be Cause. Let’s sit and be quiet, shall we?”

“Wake up.”

“What?”

“You’ve been asleep for twenty minutes.”

“Have I? Ouch. Creeping crud. I’ll believe you.”

Still with one hand on the stone, she looked to the ridge.

“I think my eyes were bigger than this one’s stomach. If we’re to get back to the car, we’d better save the top for another day.” She levered herself up. “The muscles are feeling it. And this is enough to remember.”

She turned away from the stone and the ford and began towards the track out of the valley. “You were right. Definitely. Down is tough.”

She moved more slowly, even when they were off the hill.

“Sorry. I’ve got to rest again. No need to sit. And you may find me less willful at the stile. Old age, you know. It comes to us all. Well, most of us. Mind where you’re standing.”

He looked down. “Oh, good grief,” he whispered. He scanned the valley, took out his binoculars. “Don’t talk. Keep moving. You must keep moving. To the stile. Come on. Now.”

“Why?”

“This is marked as a public right of way. But some idiot. Sal. Move. We could be killed.”

“Bullshit.”

“Not funny. It’s still warm.”

He part carried, part dragged her, ignoring her pain, along the empty valley with its hidden folds, until they reached the stile. He picked her up and dropped her on the other side.

JACK LAY ON the settle as he had for the past three nights. Mary put cold compresses on his face and replaced them, and spooned water between his lips.

“Is sun up?” he said.

“Well up.”

“How’s day?”

“Mizzling.”

“I must go get him home.”

He swung his feet to the floor and pulled off the compresses.

“You’re not taking no one nowhere,” said Mary. “Not with that face. You favour a rotten mawkin.”

“Give us me bag, Ma Mary.”

“I will not,” she said. “You lie down.”

Jack stood and found the wall with his hands and worked his way to the door. He took his satchel from its peg and went back to the settle. He opened the satchel and felt around inside and brought out a wooden tube with a lid on one end. He lifted off the lid and shook three dried toadstools onto his palm. The stems were pale and the caps brown blotched white.

“Fetch us a jug of water,” he said and pushed the three pieces between his split lips and began to chew. “Haste, woman.”

Mary brought a jug. He put out his hands and she fitted them round. He lodged his upper teeth over the rim, tipped his head back and swallowed. He felt for the table, set the jug on it, then lay back on the settle and was quiet. Soon he slept.

Mary looked at the tube, without touching. She had seen it before, but never so near. Jack had always kept it covered. The tube was old and there were patterns carved on it: stars, dots, diamonds, crossed lines; a tree with some leaves on lopped branches between a hare and an animal with a long neck. On the other side was a cup or dish, and in it the stump of a tree with three sprigs; or, the other way up, it was a toadstool on its one leg.

Mary sat with Jack while he slept. He slept peacefully, the only movements were slight twitches of his limbs, which became a smooth rippling. She looked inside the tube, making no noise. It was packed with dried toadstools. She shook her head.

“Buckets for wells again, Ma Mary?”

Jack still lay on his side, his face blank with swelling, his mouth a purple cushion between moustache and beard, his nose a smear, his eyes bulged, marked only by the inward lashes of the turn.

He sat up and put the cap on the tube and the tube in the satchel, without pause or fumble.

“Jack. You can never see.”

“A man must see to do a job, mustn’t he?” He stood, put on his coat and hat, slung the satchel on his shoulder and opened the door. The fine rain was drifting, hiding the slopes in cloud. “Crom’s dew,” he said. “You’ll have good harvest.” He picked up the sack, a pat of butter and the remaining water pail from the brewis, and set off.

When he came to the Butts, he paused and listened. He moved forward and sat on the Belderstone and listened again. “Sup, me lads. Sup, me wenches.” The air of Thursbitch was still and full of bright cloud. He heard the brook. And behind the brook, near and far in the valley, a noise, the same noise wherever it was, faint or loud, the sound of a drum in the earth, each a slow march for the water.

He went up to the corner and beyond to Lankin. Lankin was not there; only the socket, and beyond, down the slope, a dent and flattened reed, and another further off; and from all Thursbitch the thump of a tread in the ground.

Jack left the track and climbed straight for Cats Tor.

When he came near the line from the Broster Rocks he stopped and listened again before moving. He saw the dents, and crossed over.

He changed direction and struck along the tor up to the level ridge and to Thoon. The stone head in the cave looked out to the rain and the cloud. He sat next to it and stroked its carved cheeks.

“Now then, old Crom. How hast tha been this journey? Did the light hurt thine een? Never fret. It’s done; while next time. We shall burn bonny fires for thee. And Jenkin shall hold stars right running.” He felt his own lids and the stone. “Eh dear. We must look a pair, you and me. But did you see at all your land and did we mind us ways? I’ll take you down and put you in your bed, as soon as stones have done supping at the brook. We don’t want to be trod on by them great lummoxes. Hush now.” He listened to the valley. The sound of the earth had stopped. “Come up, old youth. They’ve done.”

He pulled the sack over the head. He slung it over his shoulder, took up the pail and began the way down Catstair. He paused at Biggening Brom. She was firm in her reeds. He went to cross the ford. Bully Thrumble stood above him, and the other stones around. There were dents in the shale and mud everywhere about the ford.