Alan Garner - Thursbitch

“Nay. Rutchart, nay!”

“Leave me!”

The door of the houseplace was opened and a dim light was on the stair.

“Jack!” Richard Turner called from below. “Yon’s Great Mortality! Get her from here! Out! Now! Be told!”

“She’s badly!”

“Be told!”

Jack went to the stair again. There was a flash and an explosion and the smell of powder.

“Rutchart!”

“Be told, youth!”

“I’m on the stairs.”

“Come no nearer!”

“He’s got both guns!” shouted Mary.

“Out! Now!”

Jack went back to Nan Sarah.

“Me father’s mad. I fear he’ll shoot us. There’s no reasoning with him. Dress, wife. Take some things, and we’ll try again in daylight when he’s mebbe come to his senses.”

He went to the stair again.

“Father?”

“Out!”

“We’re going now. I’m taking the dog, and two of me beasts, and some bread and cheese.”

“Nay!”

Shadows changed in the dimness, and Jack heard Richard Turner go to the brewis door and open it. Then he went back to the houseplace.

“You touch dog or beast, and I must shoot ’em!”

The door of the houseplace closed. Mary was talking to Richard Turner. His voice did not soften. His words were muffled, but Jack heard the fear.

He took Nan Sarah down the stair and through the brewis. The houseplace door opened, and he stopped. The silhouette of Richard Turner showed a levelled gun.

“You’ll not do this, Father.”

“Yay but I must, youth. For all on us. We’ll know soon enough who’s safe.”

“What is it?”

“There’s not time. Get you gone.”

Jack heard the cocking of the flint.

“Don’t you hurt Ma Mary.”

“I shall not that.”

“Father?”

“What?”

“I think a lot on you.”

“And same on you, youth, never fret.”

Jack put his arm about Nan Sarah and left the house. When they were out of the yard, the door was banged shut.

“Where can we go? What shall we do?”

“Come up, wife. It’s a fine night to take some air. It’s good for you, so they say. I know a place as’ll suit us well. Soft now, love.”

A clear, waning moon was in the sky, and they walked at Nan Sarah’s pace towards Old Gate Nick between the high stones.

“Me legs are wrong,” she said. “Moon hurts.”

Her steps had begun to jerk, then sometimes dance, and sometimes she strode, and sometimes tottered. Jack held her firm and they rested often.

At Old Gate Nick they went along gentle Cats Tor and down the ridge.

“I do believe I can’t go no further, Jack. Me back aches.”

“No need, love. We’re there.”

They had come upon Thoon from above. He helped her down the side of the rock, took off his black goatskin coat and laid it on the shelf for her to sit, and held her close for warmth.

“I’m that spent,” she said.

“Then rest, love. Jack shall watch you.”

She put her head on his shoulder.

“Oh, bonny Bull,” he whispered. “Bless us and keep us this night.”

Thursbitch was silver below them.

Nan Sarah slept; but she twitched and her breathing was rough. Jack was holding her now to stop her from falling off the rock as much as to comfort her. She was sweating, though her brow was a dry heat. Her limbs flexed. Yet she slept.

“Jack. I’m thirsty.”

“Hush, love.”

“I must drink.”

“Let me settle you, so as you don’t fall, while I fetch some in me hat.”

“I brought Blue John. Me shawl.”

Jack felt for the stone and took it. He moved Nan Sarah so that her back was held by the crevice in the middle of the hollow, and tucked her around with the goatskin.

“Bide still as you can, love. I’ll be back directly.”

He ran sideways down Catstair, on land so sheer that a trip would kill him; but each place for his foot shone in the light every step to the ford. He ran to Pearly Meg’s and filled the cup. Then he ran back, scrambling up the steep, one hand on the slope, the other spilling not a drop.

Nan Sarah had slumped. He held her upright, and sat by her.

“Here, love, drink this; and I’ll fetch you more.”

He put the cup to her lips and she drank without pause until the cup was dry. Then he propped her, and set off again.

He was near the ford when he heard her scream. It was no small pain that cried. He ran. She lay out of the shelter. He lifted her. She screamed at every touch and move. “Jack! Jack! It burns! Jack! It burns! Burns! Burning!” Her body went into spasm stronger than he could hold and a stinking warmth flowed from her.

“Jack.”

“Wife.”

She was dead. She was dead, but her body had not done. He felt the spasm again and her legs and hips moved. Again. Again. Again. Again. Again. Again. Again. He gathered all onto the goatskin. Then he stood. He looked up into the red eye of the Bull, with the moon in its horns, and he roared and lifted rocks from the ground and hurled them at the sky.

“You nowt! You nowt! False have you flummoxed me! You never said! You never said as this was yon night! You never said as poison was tonight!”

He flung the cup from him into the valley.

“Wife!”

Thoon answered: “Wife.”

He picked up the goatskin in his arms and ran. He ran along the ridge, over Cats Tor to Old Gate Nick and Hog Brow Top, along by the high stones down to Saltersford.

He kicked at the door and banged with his head. Voices were on the other side. He kicked and banged and shouted, but no words. The door opened, and Mary stood there, Richard Turner beside her with his flintlock.

He held out the goatskin.

Mary put her candle aside and took the skin and opened it.

“Quick, Rutchart. A clean gown. Fetch blankets. More sticks. There’s two on ’em; and they’re breathing.”

Jack picked up the goatskin from where Mary had dropped it and put it on.

“Jack has seen a black sun.”

“Come in and wash you.”

“Torn to bits in the wits of his mind. Left only the knowing heart. And the green leaves they grow rarely.”

He stepped away.

“Snake and stone. They live for ever. And for why? They never care owt. And what is us but blood and soot?”

“Jack?”

“Jack? Him’s a headless carcass and a nameless thing.”

He went into the shippon and picked up a sledgehammer. He went up the lane to Jenkin. The pillar caught the light. He lifted the hammer and smashed it onto the face of the white rock. “Snake. Stone. Snake. Stone.” He swung until Jenkin cracked and fell. “Snake. Stone. Snake. Stone.” He pounded the shaft to lumps, the lumps to fragments. “Snake. Stone. Snake. Howl ye!” He threw the hammer at the moon, and fled.

“A QUESTION, IAN.”

“Yes?”

“Am I still compos mentis? Legally?”

“In my opinion.”

“Would you say that in court?”

“Yes.”

“Thanks.”

“Why do you ask?”

“Just checking.”

“And?”

“I’m having the same dream every night, or nearly, or so it feels.”

“I’m listening.”

“It goes back to soon after I learned to read. Not the dream. It was a fairy tale. I can’t remember what it was called or where I found it.”

“It doesn’t matter.”

“It’s about a Prince, who was so vain that he was interested only in himself and his clothes and looks.”

“Tell me in the present tense.”

“Why?”

“It’ll help.”

“Oh. We’re doing Abreactive Therapy, are we?”

“Please, Sal.”

“Anything you say, Ian. It’s about a Prince who is so vain that he is interested only in himself and his clothes and how he looks. So his father has a round tower built for him, and the wall of the top room and the roof are made of alternate panels of mirror and window. The view from the windows shows all the world and the sky.