Boneland. Alan Garner
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nod off, mate, else we’ll never get home.’
‘Sorry. Go by Trugs.’
‘Got you.’
They left the town into the falling sun, away from the straight walls, the corridors without shadow, the flatnesses, along roads and lanes that bent, dipped and lifted, copying the land. Colin’s head drooped.
‘What line of business are you in, then?’ said the driver.
‘Sorry?’
‘What’s your job?’
‘Ah. Survey. M45. At the moment.’
‘It wants widening.’
‘I’m measuring it.’
‘Comes in handy sometimes.’
‘Yes?’
‘M6, M42, M45, M1.’
‘How do you mean?’
‘It misses the worst of the traffic.’
‘May I have a little air?’
‘Sure. So what’s this survey you’re doing?’
‘Plotting dwarfs.’
The driver looked at him.
‘Only the anomalous. Bear right at The Black Greyhound,’ said Colin.
‘Bloody Norah.’
‘The main work is MERLIN.’
‘What’s that?’
‘Acronym.’
‘Oh. To keep them bridges up.’
‘Turn right here,’ said Colin. The taxi wove between potholes along a farm track beside the wood. ‘At the next tree will do fine.’
‘You all right, mate?’
‘Perfect,’ said Colin. ‘Thank you very much.’
He walked into the silence of the wood and the quarry and his Bergli hut. He put the key to the door but he could not feel the lock. Sweat ran and his mouth was dry. Light shone on the log planks. He turned his head towards it in the dusk. It was a torch, dazzling him.
‘You sure you’re all right, mate?’ said the driver.
‘Perhaps a little help,’ said Colin. He slid down the doorframe. ‘How remiss of me.’
‘Come here. Let’s be having you.’ The driver took the key, unlocked the door and opened it. ‘Where’s the switch?’
‘For what?’
‘The electric.’
‘I don’t use it.’
‘By the cringe.’
The driver put his arms under Colin’s shoulders and lifted him across the threshold. He swung his torch to see the room, then hefted Colin along the floor and laid him down on a bunk that was against the wall.
‘The lamp’s on the table,’ said Colin. ‘Matches in the drawer.’
The driver looked. ‘And what’s this effort?’
‘Tilley. Loosen the pump to release any pressure.’
‘What pump?’
‘The knurled projection on the top of the reservoir. Give it a quarter turn to the left and retighten. Open the jar of meths and dip the preheater in. When it’s soaked, clip the preheater around the vaporiser stem, light it with a match and slide it up under the glass. When the meths begins to expire, give four full firm rhythmic strokes on the pump, like so: “Here comes a candle to light you to bed”; then as the flame dies, turn on the lamp and the mantle will ignite audibly and burn yellow. After thirty seconds give several strokes on the pump until the mantle is white and the lamp is making a steady hiss. What’s the matter?’
The driver was laughing. ‘Stone the crows! You’re summat else, you are!’
‘What? Where? How many?’ Colin got himself to the table. He pulled a chair across, sat heavily, and lit the Tilley lamp. His hands shook but his pumping brought the hissing white.
‘How many?’
‘How many what?’ said the driver.
‘Crows.’
The driver’s phone rang. ‘Hi, Fay. I’m with a customer. The job from the hospital. Eh? You’re breaking up.’
‘A figure of speech,’ said Colin. ‘Of course.’
‘I’ll ring you back. Cheers.’
‘So selfish of me to detain you,’ said Colin.
‘You’re all right, mate. Part of the service.’
‘Thank you. Thank you. That’s generous. Most generous. Should I need a taxi in the future, will you be able to drive me?’
‘Sure. Here’s our card. Give us a bell.’
‘But I’d like you to do it, personally. What’s your name?’
‘Call me Bert.’
‘I mean your full name.’
‘Bert Forster. But ask for Bert.’ He wrote on the card.
‘Thank you. Bert.’ Colin held out his hand. ‘Whisterfield. Colin Whisterfield.’
‘Pleased to meet you, Colin. Now, how are we going to sort you?’
‘I’m feeling better; much better. I’ll be fine.’
‘Can I get you owt?’
‘No. No. I’ll sit here a while and then go to bed. If you’ll pass me a glass, there’s a rather good malt over there. I only wish I could invite you to join me.’
The driver put the glass and the bottle on the table and Colin poured the whisky with a steady hand.
‘Right then, Colin. I’ll be off.’
‘Yes. Thanks for all you’ve done, Bert. Good night. If you could close the curtains …’
‘No problem.’
‘I hadn’t finished answering your question.’
‘What question?’
‘I was saying. Multi-element-radio-linked-interferometer-network.’
‘So you were. Cheers, mate.’
Colin made a fire and sat at the table through the night until the day showed. Then he put out the lamp, sprawled on his bunk; and he slept.
He woke, drank, blew a fire heap, ate meat, and left the lodge. He took smouldering moss and the lamp and went into Ludcruck from the Bearstone so that he did not cross the icefall.
He lit the lamp and worked through the grit past the nooks of the dead. The beasts trampled, but he did not stay. He lowered himself over the lip of the cliff inside the hill and climbed in the flicker, seeing nothing outside the globe in which he hung, hearing only the waters below, down to the great cave that was night, and the Stone that was its being, though it could be held in a fist.
The Stone was the womb of things. Nothing before it was made, and with it the spirits had chopped the marrow from the rock. It lay among the glint of its making; and the shining river ran beneath.
He put the lamp aside and sat a while, moving his thought. Then he stood and he stamped and he danced on the flakes and he sang. The chinking filled the cave, answering between the walls and the sky of the roof. He turned about the black Stone. He became the sounds, and was with the voices of the old, and the voices of the old were with him.
His step pressed the flakes; and from them under