Alan Garner - Thursbitch

“Thanks, Ian.”

“We can still come here.”

“I’m glad you told me. I mean. I’m glad it was you.”

“Now it’s my turn to thank.”

“You made another promise.”

“I haven’t had to keep the first one yet.”

“This changes things. I may need to activate the second before the first.”

“You’ve not told me what it is.”

“Dear heart, methinks you already know.”

RICHARD TURNER AND Edward stood before the building. It was new in the sun; every fresh cut block of stone, every roof slate, twinkled and glittered. The glass of the windows shone. Whitewash was unblemished on the door in the gable end.

“By, yon’s fine as Filliloo,” said Richard Turner. “But it’s to be hoped we see nowt on land man for a year or three, else Jack may have a roof o’er his head, but we shall likely not.”

“Have you done the right thing, Father?” said Edward. “Are you certain sure?”

“I believe so, youth. I do believe it. There’s no going back on it now, anyroad, is there? But we’re ploughing a narrow adlant, I’ll grant ye.”

“When I see at it,” said Edward, “and then see at land and how it’s cost, yon clack box is no bonny thing, but two bays o’ beggary; and ruination of Saltersford. There’s not a ditch been scoured, nor a drain rodded, nor a shippon nor a house roof stopped gen rain and snow sin this effort began. And when roof’s shotten, house is gone. There’s places no more nor wind holes for want of new raddle and daub in the wall frame.”

“Do you think as how I need telling of that?” said Richard Turner.

“And see at the kyne, Father. We scarce got one bite of hay for winter, all on account of mither for fetching purlin timbers. And Bean Croft’s seen no liming.”

“Nay, Edward. That’ll do. You’re speaking feart o’ far enough now. By hulch and stulch, we’ll live till we die, if the pigs don’t eat us. And I did mix a gallon of bull’s blood wi’ the mortar. So it’s not all wrong road. Look ye. Chimney draws a treat.”

The first fire had been lit, and a white smoke rose into the sky. They turned their backs on the shining build and went down the lane through the sorry land.

Jack was sitting in the houseplace, talking to himself, and turning the bead and drum. Mary had put on her Nottingham lace cap.

“Folks are ready for you, Jack.”

He did not answer, but stood and left the houseplace into the lane. Richard Turner, Mary and Edward followed him back to the glint of stone. There was the smell of fresh timbers and newly cut blocks, and of whitewash and strewn rushes. The box pews were filled with silent people, except for one pew bigger than the rest. Here Sneaper Slack and Clonter Oakes sat. Richard Turner and Edward sat with them, and Mary found a place with the women.

Jack mounted the steps of the pulpit in the middle of the far gable, and looked at the people. He held the silence. Everyone watched as he turned his head to the walls and ceiling, then down to the pews.

“So,” he said. “God has spared you to build this house and tabernacle to His glory in this here one thousand and seven hundred and thirty-fourth year sin yon Vulgar Dionysian Years of Christ, and five thousand six hundred and eighty year from yon Creation of this World. It will help you not at all. Your labours are as nowt in the scale of your evils. He has permitted you to do this thing so as you may better hear of terrors as await you in the judgments of Hell.”

There were moans.

“It avails you nowt to lament. Skrike ye, O ye foredoomed. Think you to escape His great wrath, His almighty anger? It cannot be, seeing as how God, as knows all things and can do no wrong, has seen from the start as how you, His creatures as He made, would turn to Sin; and of for that He is angered. Therefore, seek no mercy, but prepare to die in the fire as dies not.”

His voice was soft. Weeping broke out among the people.

“I see you now, you agen hearthplace yonder, hutching and thrutching so as to be near its warmth. I think on as how this night of the year you would light your bone fires and jump in ’em. Think you as them are the flames of Hell? No. No more nor a grain of sand to a mountain. No. Much less nor that. For bone fires you can jump through, and when you are warmed by yon hearth you can shift away. But in Hell you can neither jump nor shift. You shall be bound for evermore and laid on griddles as are never quenched, and for you there shall be no shifting.”

“Hallelujah!”

“Yay. Well may you call upon His name. But even now you do not ketch on. Draw near. Hearken ye to the words I have to tell of torments for to come.”

He leaned forward and beckoned them towards him with both hands, and lowered his voice. The air had lost its sweetness.

“God holds you over the pit of Hell, of fire, of brimstone, same as He holds a spider or some such loathsome insect. He abhors you and is dreadfully provoked. His wrath towards you burns same as that fire. He looks upon you as worthy of nowt else but to be cast in yon pit. He is of purer een nor can bear to have you in his sight.”

“Amen!”

“Yay. You are ten thousand times more abominable in His een nor the verymost hateful snake.You have offended Him; and yet it is nobbut his hand as holds you from falling every moment into the fiery pit. It is nobbut else as kept you out of Hell last night, so as you were suffered to wake again in this world after you shut your een.”

“Glory!”

“Jehovah!”

“Yay. And there is no reason to be given as why you did not drop into Hell when you got up this morning, but that the hand of God has held you.”

“Blessed be!”

“Yay. There is no other reason to be given as why you have not gone to Hell when you sat yoursen down here, provoking His pure een by your wicked manner of attending His solemn worship. Ay, there’s nowt else as can be given as the reason for why you do not at this very moment drop down into Hell.”

Women and men were screaming and fainting. But Jack drew them in further, his voice a whisper.

“O Sinners. Consider what fearful danger you are in. It is a great furnace of wrath, a wide and bottomless pit, full of fire of wrath, as you are held over by the hand of that God whose wrath is provoked and incensed as much agen you as agen many already in Hell. You hang by a slender thread, wi’ flames of divine anger flashing about it, and ready every moment to singe it, and burn it asunder. And you have nowt to lay hold on to save you; nowt to keep off the flames of wrath, nowt of your own, nowt as you ever have done, nowt as you do to make God spare you one moment.”

Some were trying to get out of the pews, but could not open the doors in their panic.

“You cannot escape. You shall be same as burning lime, as thorns cut up in ovens shall you be burnt. And you must suffer it to all Eternity. There shall be no end to this misery. You must wear out long ages, many and many ages, with this almighty and merciless vengeance. And then, when you have so done, you shall know as all is but a point of what remains. Your punishment shall indeed be without end.”

Jack put his hand over the edge of the pulpit. Pain struck into his palm. A bee was embedded in the flesh. He lifted it close to his eyes.

“Nay. Not you. Not you. Never you. Never you as first fed.” He held the bee and turned it to unwind the sting from his hand.

He was sweating, and his head thumped with the charge of the Bull.

Jack got down from the pulpit, his step unsure on the lurching wood. The people were silent. The air became the smell of a hive, and a noise of wings.

He opened a light of the window, still looking close.

“From death to death she goes.” Crom’s tongue filled his mouth and rasped as he forced it to speak.