Alan Garner - Thursbitch

He raised his hand to the window. The bee flew out into the valley and scents of flowers. He looked around the walls and at the people.

“From life to life.”

He saw them through a dark web of holes with six sides, and in each hole was a face that he did not know. He tried to back away, but he was against rock; and against rock he dragged himself. No one moved or made a sound. They watched the black coat slide along the white wall.

He put his knuckle in his mouth, against the stone tongue, and bit through, knowing only the Bull’s truth, the wisdom of the Bee.

THEY TOOK JACK by the arms and led him down the lane. He did not speak.

Mary went into the houseplace, and Richard Turner and Edward stripped him and sat him in the brook. They cut his hair and beard and nails and scraped and scoured his flesh, and then Edward went to bring him clean clothing, and they dressed him, cleansed and bound the wound, and took him to the fire. He sat, shivering, gazing at the flames. Mary gave him a cup of hot raspberry vinegar with honey and salt. He drank.

Still no one spoke.

“I never once was stung by a bee,” said Jack.

He was silent again. His eyes moved, watching in the flames, and his face showed what he saw. Mary looked at Edward and nodded, and they left the room. Richard Turner stayed at the table and followed the story in Jack’s eyes.

Jack lifted his head.

“When a man sees on his hand his own living honey-eating sen, maker of what was and what must come, she never looks to hide from him.”

“All’s well, youth,” said Richard Turner.

“Her as was born afore fire, afore water was born, her as knows every mortal thing and things as never die. Her as we know in the cave of us hearts, and see sitting now.”

“Ay.”

“But what were yon lot huzzing there? What wanted they to have to do wi’ me?”

“You’re home, youth. Never fret.”

“Outside is mad. Mad is Outside.

“And Great Mortality. It didn’t take.”

“What didn’t take?” said Jack.

“Do you not recollect?”

Jack shook his head.

“Nobbut pockets.”

“Where were you gone all winter?”

Jack shook his head.

“Fury of the black goatskin. It took me. And Fury of the black goatskin. It fetched me. I did tread an iron gate. I did see horrors. I did eat me childer. Me own childer.”

“Nowt of the sort,” said Richard Turner. “Lomases were breeding, and they took ’em in to rear.”

“Outside is mad. Mad is Outside. You do not see Them. I do.”

“As you please.”

“I did eat me childer.”

“You did not.”

“Then where’s their mother? I keep thinking as I ketch her through the side of my een. But when I look she’s gone.”

“Try pockets, youth.”

“Pocket. Ay. Pockets.” Jack stared into the fire again, and Richard Turner watched. “Pockets. Pockets. I ketch ’em. I do. I do that. And summat. Biggening Brom. Petticoat. Honey. Blue Nan? Grallus. Wife!”

Jack surged from the fire and flung himself onto Richard Turner. Richard Turner held him, cradled him, felt the wracking of his strength as his body cried out. It was the cry of beast and man, shaking the houseplace, mortal and undying. Richard Turner held. The body thrashed and slowed and was still.

“I’ve been lost in the star-sodden wits of me mind, Father. Left nobbut an unknowing heart.”

“Yay, but you’re back now, youth.”

“How must I mend? Bull shall be vexed, and Crom.”

“Then you’d best ask ’em. It’s your time o’ day now, none else’s. But tha conner fart gen thunder, think on; and bliss in this world it is a seldom thing.”

“All the crueltiness I’ve done at Saltersford and at folks.”

“Thee never you mind that,” said Richard Turner. “That’s for us to mend. And what you’ve done is mebbe Bull’s road as he’s chosen for us. Though I see no road round what’s-his-face, land man, and his big ways. He’ll do as he pleases, that one. But Bull’s bigger nor ways, and bigger nor all. Now folks have getten their little ark, their minds are not on Bull. No matter o’ that. Ranting’s nobbut cluntish talk, as any a one can do. I’ll keep watch on ’em, so as they don’t grow nowty. And one thing about stone. It keeps in. As long as they’ve got yon for chelp on, they’ll happen not spoil the land. And then we must next breed it out on ’em. Nay, youth. It’s for you to addle more. You must pay Bull full dole, and lay Nan Sarah to her peace, and set the stars by rights. Night’s older nor day.”

“I never ought to have chucked the grallus. There was that much hurt. Now it’s done. Happen it’s for others.”

“Happen.”

“Where’s corbel bread for opening een and ears and tongue?”

“Where it’s always kept,” said Richard Turner. “You picked plenty last back end; and though it’s a bit over fresh, to my mind, I don’t doubt but what you’ll thole.”

“Why did you have to break Jenkin, Father?”

“Why me, are you asking?”

“Ay.”

“I can’t rightly answer you there, youth. It’s a question. But what’s done’s done; and that’s the top and bottom of it.”

“Me head’s going round like cocks and hens.”

“It seems as you’ve a whealy mile ahead yet,” said Richard Turner.

Jack lifted the bag from above the mantle beam and took out a cap and stem. They were dry, but still spongy. He took another, chewed and swallowed, using the last of the raspberry vinegar. Then, without speaking again, he went out and climbed up the Butts, over the brow and down into Thursbitch.

It was the end of a day of sun and showers. The black goatskin had not been cleaned, but he wore it against the wind. As he passed by Lankin he glimpsed a man on the ridge walking towards Thoon. something draped over his shoulder. Jack went to sit by Bully Thrumble and waited.

The sun did not sing, and he heard no cloud bells. The brook flowed by.

He waited. The stone was hard against his back. “Walk and do. Walk and do. Walk and do till all is done.” He sat.

“Old Bouchert. Old Bouchert.”

Nothing moved but a raven down the sky.

“O sweet Bull. O noble Bull. O worthy Bull. O bonny Bull.”

He sat and waited, and saw no answer.

“O Bull, as lives on hill tops. Lord over all as close the eye. Your step full of honey. In your highmost step is honey. O Bull with mighty voice. Mask of Bull, kindled for beauty. O Bull striding the sky, shine down. For there is nowt as you are not.”

There was no answer, but a darkness grew, greater than the light.

Jack rose and went down from Thrumble. He saw only what was black in the valley: the shales, the shadows. All else was a blur.

Then, as he came towards the finger of Lankin, he heard a voice out of Thoon.

“Turn.”

It was the strong voice of a woman.

He stopped and looked. He could not see. “Nan Sarah?” No answer. “Nan Sarah!”

He left the track and stumbled and scrambled up Cats Tor to the ridge. The sun was setting and, with the dusk, his sight grew clearer. He moved along the bog. A man came towards him. When they met, they looked into each other’s eyes, faltered, but did not speak. Each walked with a driven gait. Jack hurried to Thoon. “Nan Sarah?” Thoon was empty.

Richard Turner was waiting in the yard in the last of the light.

“Well, youth?”

“Nowt. I reckon as how I was too previous with yon corbel bread.”

“Or was it you, Jack?”

“Bull was sulky, anyroad. He neither gave nor told.”

“Or you didn’t hear?”

“I thought, once, I did. But it was nowt. I did see a chap, though. And that was queer.”

“How?”