Alan Garner - Thursbitch

He was bearded, and wore gaitered boots, knee britches, a red anorak with PARK RANGER sewn on it and a two-way radio slotted next to his chin.

She did not look at him, but fixed her eyes unmoving on the valley.

“Yes, splendid,” said Ian.

“You do know you’re off the public footpath, don’t you?” said the Ranger.

“Yes. But does it, in reality, matter?” he said.

“We have to be careful of the sheep in the lambing season,” said the Ranger.

“Which is why, surely, there are no sheep up here now. They’ve been taken down to the bottom, where the public access is clearly marked.”

The Ranger laughed.

“OK. It’s as much routine to keep the litter under control. Help yourselves, please. And enjoy the day. But, in future, I’d be happier if you cleared things with the farmers first.”

He turned to go.

“Of course we shall. That was unthinking. But talking about people being stupid: I should tell you that there was a bull loose in the valley when we were here last.”

“A bull? There can’t have been,” said the Ranger. “It’s illegal in a public place.”

“That’s my point.”

“Where did you see it?”

“We didn’t see it. But the droppings were north of the ford, on this side.”

“I’m afraid you must have been mistaken. No bull has been reported.”

“I’m reporting it. And I assure you, I am one that knows his turds.”

The Ranger grinned, then frowned. “When was this?”

“Two weeks ago today.”

“The only bull is at Longclough,” said the Ranger. “It’s kept up, and I check regularly. Do you want me to file an incident report?”

“I think it might be as well.”

“I’ll double check that fencing now, in any case.”

The Ranger lifted his stick in greeting and left them.

“Thanks, Ian.”

“He was doing his job. And I’m used to being an escaped goat.”

“I was with the valley. Of the valley. And the valley was with me: of me.”

“I know. And where is the place of understanding?”

“All right. But don’t start getting professional now. Please.”

WITH THE FIRST nine stars, the people led their cattle towards Jenkin from the farms around. Across the lane, wood and bones were stacked together, and cut turves piled apart. The cattle were penned with hurdles as they arrived, and the people gathered in silence before Jenkin.

Martha Barber gave a bundle of cloth to Jack. He unrolled the bundle and held the two sticks that were in it. One was flat, with a charred hollow at its centre; the other was rounded and the charring was at one pointed end.

Jack laid the flat stick on the ground and knelt on one knee, holding the stick firm with the other foot. He took the rounded stick, placed the sharp end in the hollow, and began to roll it between his palms, backwards and forwards, fast, not stopping. The people watched. The only sounds were the restless shifting of the cattle and the whirling of the wood. Though small, it made a noise that echoed from Jenkin’s face: a rhythm of the air itself breathing, roaring.

Jack did not falter, but watched. He nodded, and Martha Barber crumbled dried heather into the hole. Soon a smoke rose, and she trickled more of the heather dust. The smoke became white, and at the last pale of the day a glow appeared in the wood. Martha lifted grass in her hand and held it close. A brief flame ran; but before it died she bent over with heather sprigs and caught the flame. Mary Turner brought more; and between them they passed the flame from thicker to thicker sprigs, until Martha Barber held a torch. She gave the torch to Jack, and he lit the heather inside the stack of wood and bone, so that the fire took and the stack became a blaze.

The fire shone from the whiteness of Jenkin, and the curled stones in the rock gleamed.

Then the people sang, and the young men and bigger boys jumped through the flames, and, laughing, chased the girls and dragged them to leap hand in hand with them back over the bones.

When they had caught all that they could, they opened up the fire and drove the cattle through. The light was in the bellowing and the eyes, and the panicked beasts scattered to the pastures.

The people gathered the embers, and each family lifted a turf from the stack and carried the turf to the fire. Then, still singing, they walked back to their hearths, spreading out from Jenkin under the stars, holding stars in their hands, kindling summer.

Martha Barber wrapped the two sticks into their bundle and went her way.

“I AM NOT happy about this.”

“I am,” she said.

“It is impractical.”

“Ian, it’s the opposite. And it’s pragmatic. No one can say how much more my legs have got, and still less about me. It’s warm and fine, but the days are shorter. Next month it won’t be possible. I’ve not seen the valley at night, and this could be my last chance. Get that bull out of your bonnet, and at least let’s give it a try. I promise not to argue.”

“Is it so important?”

“It is so important.”

“Why?”

“It’s the only thing I can remember. Time is breaking,” she said. “I can’t read any more. Three pages and I’ve forgotten what the book’s about. It’s the same with the telly. I can watch a film over and over, and don’t know what’s going to happen next. I can’t keep enough in my head to follow a reasoned paper, not even when it’s written by someone I once taught. Music still works. And here. At first it was as bad as anywhere. But I’ve remembered even what I’d forgotten. Don’t you see what that means to me? Outside, all I have is what I knew before this started. Now, nothing stays. I feel safe with the valley. And I want to know its stars.”

Thursbitch was in shadow by the time they reached the entrance. Only the high tops and the ridge held the sun. Andrew’s Edge was black. The first sheets of mist were lying among the reeds. The sky was blue metalled above and in front, and behind them red without cloud. The smells of the valley were stronger, and bees worked the flowers to the last of the light.

They went slowly, not talking. The poles bore most of her weight and he held her arm and the belt around her waist to steady her. It was as though her body were struggling to walk and to dance at the same time, so that her feet placed themselves, whether right or wrong, and her head turned from side to side, making her move her eyes to keep a straight way.

He climbed over the stile. She lay upright against it and he lifted her and brought her across.

“I must go to the well,” she said, “before the light fades.”

“Will you be able to manage on the wet?”

“Yes. I remember the well. And the big stones where we got lost. And the outcrop on the ridge. Didn’t I forget it once?”

They laughed.

“See. It’s not all bad. I remember forgetting. But I can’t remember whether I was always forgetful.”

“I don’t think we should try for the row of stones,” he said. “The ground is too rough.”

“The well is what matters.”

They passed over the ford and went around the reed beds as far as they could to reach the well. They stood above the fallen masonry. The water running under the roof slab was louder than the brook next to it.

She looked up at the opposite ridge. The line was dark against the darkening blue, and the outcrop sharp.

“When we first came, you saw a connection,” he said.

“Between what?”

“Here and there.”

“Did I?”

“A connection of difference, you said. Two same shapes, two features, but one natural and the other made. You were right. The outcrop’s high and hollow and moves outwards. The well’s here and hollow and moves in.”