Alan Garner - Thursbitch

High stones marched into Thursbitch from all around, gathering the ways from the hills down and through the valley: from Longclough, from Osbaldestone, from Jenkin, each to be seen by another, but none by all, marking every brink; Two-Johnny Goiker on Andrew’s Edge, and Sprout-kale Jacob over Redmoor; Biggening Brom under Catstair; each line and double way coming to Bully Thrumble at the fork at the ford below Thoon. And Lankin stood at the mouth.

“Where are we going?” said Nan Sarah.

“Pearly Meg’s,” said Jack. “I’ve that job to do.”

“Then you’ll go by yourself.”

“Whatever for?”

“There’s snakes!”

“Give over.”

“It’s thrunk wi’ ’em!”

“And who told you that?”

“Suit yourself.”

“Nan Sarah, have you ever so much as seen one mortal snake there in all your born days?” said Jack.

“You don’t have to see them. They see you. I’m not going in yon hole, not for love nor money.”

“You can watch, then,” said Jack.

The hills drew towards Bully Thrumble. It stood near the head of the valley, yet was its heart. The stone pillar, not the height of a big man, was the first and the last of the eye’s every journey.

Jack and Nan Sarah walked together. Once the way in had begun, it was no time for speaking.

They crossed at the ford. Bully Thrumble looked above them on its bank.

“You go. I’ll wait here.”

“Come on with you.” He took her hand and pulled her, stumbling, through the rushes, towards the trees.

“Jack! I’ll get slutched!”

“You’ll wash. There. Now what’s here to be feart of?”

“Them trees.”

The two thorn trees stood beside the brook, the only trees in Thursbitch. One of them was hung with cow chains and spancels, some still flecked bright, some rusted, but most webs of iron. On the other tree were ox yokes, horse shoes and collars. The yokes were worm eaten, the collars old, their leather rotten and the straw fillings snagged in the branches.

“Jack. It’s not the same, here. Them things. On the trees. And the nails.”

“It’ll not hurt. Now come on.” He held her wrist and she had to follow him over the bog to Pearly Meg’s. “You stand yonder and count snakes.”

He bent under the flag roof and down between the close walls to the running water of the well. At the bottom step he took the stem of grass from his hatband and held it before him. He dismembered it into four pieces and dropped them separately, and with each of them he spoke. “One for Crom. One for crow. One for Jenkin. One for grow.”

The water carried the ears into the hill. He raised his hat to the dark. “Thirsty work,” he said, and crouched to dip the hat in the well.

“Jack! It’s deadly poison!”

“So I’ve heard.” He drank.

“Deadly poison!”

“But only the one day in the year.”

“Do you not believe it?”

“I’ll believe it. But I’ve found no wag yet as can tell me when that day is. It’s not tonight, seemingly.”

He grinned, put his hat on his head and went up the steps to Nan Sarah.

She picked a drier way through the rushes towards Bully Thrumble. He followed in the single track.

“Are you that bothered by snakes?”

“There’s loads,” said Nan Sarah. “Little stone dead uns in the brook. So where’s the big uns if not in yon well?”

“I’ve not known anybody be hurt by owt here,” said Jack; “just so long as it’s done proper, and we mind us manners. It’s what ways are for. Do you not agree?”

“I need to know as how you do,” said Nan Sarah. “You’re forever full of oddments in the mind when you’ve been over them hills. Every time the bells are gone, a part of me fears I’ll not hear ’em again.”

He put his arm around her shoulder and hugged.

“Nan Sarah. I may leave in the crook of the moon; but I’m back in its every wild waning.”

They sat by Bully Thrumble and Jack took off her shawl.

“What’s this hard?” he said.

“A dog turd, I shouldn’t wonder.”

He laughed and lay back on the grass. She lifted herself on one elbow, and her eyes grew gentle and stern as she lowered her face on his.

“Nan Sarah.” He cupped the back of her head. “What makes you look so?”

She gave no answer.

“I’ve walked long,” he said, “and I’ve been in many parts, and I’ve seen things and heard tales and sung songs; but this here nook of the world, for me, smiles more nor any other. And the way you looked at me then has made me fit to skrike. Nan Sarah.”

She raised herself.

“Jack. I’m teeming.”

“Is it me?”

“Of course it’s you, you dimmock. You and maybe a bit of him.” She looked up at Bully Thrumble.

“What do you want to do?” said Jack. “Shove it under a stone?”

“It’s what do you want, Jack?”

“You’re definite it’s me? None of them down Saltersford?”

“You, Jack.”

“But you feel the same. You look the same. Thin as a rasher of wind.”

“Oh, Jack. Be told. Now what do you want doing?”

“Has Ma Mary ketched on?”

“There’s more nor nits in that one’s head.”

“What do you think?”

“Jack. Jack.”

“Nan Sarah. You’re all as I’ve ever needed in all this world. Did you not know?”

“You seem never suited. Forever agate. Like as you’ll never rest.”

“But that’s my way,” said Jack. “I’m a jagger born, me. I walk in my own shoon. And the more I see the more I want to be with you. Not some trollop else. And if you are teeming, and you’ll keep it and take me, then I’ll be a toad with two side pockets.”

“Now it’s me skriking,” she said.

“I’ve to be in Chester, night after tomorrow, so I’m off first thing,” he said. “And then there’s a four-seam jag to be fetched at Northwich. But the day I get back we go up Thoon. So you see to it as all’s ready.”

“It’s ready now,” she said.

She felt inside her shawl.

“You fause monkey!” said Jack.

“Better bad than bout’,” said Nan Sarah.

“You were reckoning on it all along!”

She smiled.

“You’ll do, Nan Sarah. You’ll do.”

She was holding the Blue John. Cheesecloth was tied over the top.

They left Bully Thrumble, crossed the brook and began the climb to Catstair. They held hands but did not speak. Thoon was the skyline of the ridge, and in their way was Biggening Brom. The stone stood on the moor side, as tall as Nan Sarah, its top weathered to a head and neck, its back straight and the belly nine months gone.

Nan Sarah undid the cheesecloth from the Blue John. Inside was a piece of honeycomb. She took it in her hand, and spread the honey over the top, and down and round until the stone shone in the lowering sun. Then she turned to face Jack.

With his knife he cut a button from his shirt and set the button on the honey. Next he cut a strip from the edge of his britches, and fixed it to the stone. He knelt on one knee and lifted the hem of Nan Sarah’s skirt. She did not move. He cut the same length from her petticoat and laid it crossways on the other strip. He took her hand and placed hers and his on the belly of the stone. Then, the hands holding, they went on up the moor.

Catstair was long and steep, and steeper; but always Thoon waited.

They reached the square slab of the top and stood looking out across Thursbitch. The sun was sliding from Andrew’s Edge into Redmoor.

“Set your foot there,” said Jack. “No. T’ other.”

There was a shallow print in the rock, and Nan Sarah’s shoe fitted. Jack spoke to the hills.

“I give up this button, and a bit of waistband of me own britches, and a taste of Nan Sarah’s petticoat, and a comb of the bees, in remembrance and mark of as how we made this holy station; and may they rise in glory to prove it for us in our last days.”