Alan Garner - Thursbitch

The reeds were high. But beyond was a patch of other ground, and the scraggy tops of thorn trees showed, a poor cluster beside the brook.

They rinsed their hands and faces in the water.

“Shall we go back?” he said.

“We must find your benchmarks. Where are they?”

“In the wall up there.”

“Come on, then. And what’s that?”

A circle of marsh ate at the bank, and on the far side there was an arch of stone.

They moved towards it on sheep walks. It was not a house of any kind, but a structure that had collapsed into the hill. Most of it was covered by a single broken and massive flag that had been its roof. Under it were low walls.

“Are those steps?” he said. “There’s water running.” He took out his torch and pushed it between a crack. “See anything?”

“No,” she said. “Yes. It’s a spring. Or a well of some sort. The steps go down to it. There’s a channel cut. The water’s coming out of the hill. It looks absolutely clear. Then it must drain out to the marsh. What does it remind you of?”

“Nothing.”

“Not that?” She pointed up to the ridge across the brook. The rock outcrop was opposite them, on the horizon, from where they stood; the only break in the smooth long line of hill.

“But this has been made,” he said.

“Then there’d be no point in building the other well for the farm. If this is good water, they wouldn’t have put up with that muck for the sake of a few metres.”

They left the well and found the wall. Whole lengths of it were no more than two courses high, and in places there were only gaps and lines in the thin soil.

“The first one should be just beyond a sheepfold,” he said. “I’m going to complain about this map. That well’s not shown, either. The one at the farm is.”

They came to the remnant of a wooden enclosure lying against the drystone wall.

“It’s in the right place for the sheepfold. Look for a benchmark in about one hundred and fifteen metres. It’ll be on something obvious that can’t be shifted easily.”

“Like this?”

It was another big stone, a pillar set in the wall, with a hole running through.

“That’ll be it. Where’s the benchmark?”

“I can’t see one.”

They pulled the grass down to where the stone met the ground.

“Nothing.”

“The next should be about one hundred and ninety metres.”

They tramped up beside the wall.

It was another holed stone, and this time pointed at the top. There was no benchmark.

“I can’t see any function for these big stones,” she said. “Walls aren’t built that way.”

“There should be one more at the watershed. How are you feeling?”

“Fine. Nearly dry. How’s the hand?”

“It still hurts.”

“You poor thing.”

They followed the wall. Another tall holed stone was where it should be. Something had broken it off at its base and it lay on the ground; but again no mark.

“Have some glucose.” He offered her a tablet. “Do you want to go back, or shall we pick up the ridge at Shining Tor?”

“Back. I’m intrigued.”

“By what?”

“The whole place. Look at it.”

“It’s a terrific – ?”

“View,” she said. “I’m not all Upper Carboniferous.”

“Hic, hoc, the carrion crow,

The carrion crow I see.

As I walk by mysen

And I talk to mysen,

Mysen says unto me:

Look to thysen,

Take care of thysen,

For nobody cares for thee.”

Jack climbed out of Goyt by Embridge Causey, over Withenlach and passed through Old Gate Nick. The road dropped straight to Saltersford.

“Hic, hoc, the carrion crow,

The carrion crow I see.

I talk to mysen

And I say to mysen,

In the sen-same nominy:

Look to thysen,

Or not to thysen,

The sen-same thing shall be.

Hic, hoc, the carrion crow,

The carrion crow’s for me.”

He went down the road over Shudder Brow and Hog Brow Top, along by the high stones, and rested at Shady to take in the valley.

“Home now, me lass.”

The lead horse shook her mane and the bells rang.

He saw the men below him, mowing The Halls. Higher Hall and Lower Hall had been cut, and the team was in Little Hall. He saw his father and Edward, and Clonter Oakes had come from Green Booth, and Sneaper Slack had come from The Dunge, and Tally Ridge from Hulley Hey; and the Lomas women were tedding the swaths as they fell.

The mowers paused to whet, and the stones’ ringing on the blades carried to him in the quietness. He cupped his hands to his mouth.

“Hic! Hoc! The carrion! Crow!”

They heard him and waved. He waved his stick. The cows on Todd Hill lifted their heads. He started down the last stretch.

“The carrion crow! The carrion crow! The carrion crow!”

Mary and Nan Sarah ran out into the yard and swung their aprons. He whirled his hat high. The feather caught the sun. The farm dogs barked, and Bryn answered them.

He stopped in the yard, loosened the panniers and put them in the brewis, fed and watered the horses and went into the houseplace to the table. Mary was by the fire. Nan Sarah came to him, holding a mug of buttermilk. He drained it at a swig, and Nan Sarah sat on his knee. They kissed.

“Now then, our Jack,” said Mary. “Where hast tha bin this journey?”

“Oh,” he answered, as he always did, “up a-top of down yonder, miles-endy-ways, tha knows, at Bog o’ Mirollies, where cats kittlen magpies.” They laughed; his bigness filled the room.

“What have you fetched us?” said Nan Sarah. It was all a part of the game.

“Fetched you?” said Jack. “And why should a man be fetching things for the likes of you? It’s enough for a man to walk from Derby, without being mithered with fetching. I could sup some more buttermilk.”

Nan Sarah brought the mug again, excited. Jack took the satchel from round his neck and put it on the table.

“But who knows?” he said. “Who knows what’s in the old powsels and thrums? Ay. Now then. What have we here?” He felt around among the contents of the satchel. “Powsels and thrums. Powsels and thrums. No. It seems there’s nowt of consequence. Eh up. Wait on.” He took out a lace bonnet and threw it across to Mary. “There’s that. I got it off a chap from Nottingham way.”

Mary put the bonnet on, crimped it with her fingers, turning her head from side to side. “How’s it look?” she said.

“It suits you well, Ma Mary.”

“What’s for me?” said Nan Sarah.

“What’s for you? I don’t know. I do not.” He felt around again. “Powsels and thrums. Powsels and thrums. Eh up. There’s this here dishclout.”

He proffered the grubby rag.

“Now see as you don’t drop it. They come expensive, do dish-clouts.”

He put it into her hand.

“It’s a weight,” she said. “What’s in it?”

“A dog turd, I shouldn’t wonder.”

She unfolded the cloth.

“Oh, Jack. Whatever is this?”

It was a stone cup. A hollowed stone cup. Outside it was rough rock melted wax, grey, yellow, dark. Inside was polished deep with crystals white blue purple.

“Hold it against the sun,” he said.

The rough rock glowed from the colours within.

“Jack, it’s gorgeous.”

“Down Derby, they call them ‘grallusses’. Leastways, that’s what the chap I got it from said. But he could’ve been twitting me. What took my fancy is the way as how, one road, it’s nowt, and t’other road, it’s all sorts.”

“What’s it of?” said Nan Sarah.

“Blue John.”

“And what’s that?”

“Stone as is found at Castleton, and nowhere else in all the wide world, so they say. You’d think, if that’s true, it’d be worth more nor gold nor silver. But I got it for a hoop of salt. Nobbut a hoop.”