Boneland. Alan Garner
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man. Do not go into the witch’s house. Do not. And whatever you do, do not go upstairs. You must not go upstairs. Do not go! You are not to go!’
The woman put her arm around the child.
‘You must not go upstairs!’
A receptionist came from her desk.
‘Professor Whisterfield.’
‘You must not go!’
‘Professor Whisterfield.’
‘He must not go upstairs! I have been upstairs! They are not hens’ legs! They are not the legs of hens!’
‘Professor Whisterfield. Please.’
‘He must not.’
Beep. The LEDs flashed. Colin Whisterfield. Room 5.
‘You mustn’t. They are not Gallus gallus domesticus,’ said Colin as he left the waiting area.
‘That man’s funny,’ said the boy. ‘He makes me laugh.’
Colin knocked on the open door.
‘Hi,’ said the doctor. ‘How was the hospital?’
‘Farce.’
‘Do you want to continue?’
‘If you like. Don’t let that boy go in.’
‘Boy?’ said the doctor.
‘The one outside.’
‘Go in where?’
‘The witch’s house.’
The doctor linked his hands behind his neck, pushed his chair backwards, and spun until it came to rest.
Colin leaned forward and turned the computer screen. ‘So what have we here? Well, these cocktails didn’t work, did they? That. And that. And that. Oh, I remember that. How I remember that. And that. And that. And as for that! I didn’t care. Chemically poleaxed. I’d rather be mad. Give me a healthy psychosis any day.’
‘All I can do is offer advice,’ said the doctor. ‘It’s up to you whether you take it. We’ve exhausted the pharmacopoeia. ECT isn’t ideal, but that’s where we’re at.’
Colin held the screen frame at arm’s length and shut his eyes against the facts. He swung his head one way, then the other, and began to shake. The doctor loosened the fingers from the computer. Colin clapped his palms to his face and slouched on the desk.
‘Help me.’
The doctor waited.
‘There’s nowhere. Nowhere to go. I’ve nowhere. Else.’
‘You had to admit it yourself, Colin. It had to come from you. If people get too close you act the goat; and you’re so damned clever and devious you run rings round any argument you don’t want to hear. You’d run rings round me, if I let you.’
‘I can’t manage any more.’
‘If you mean that, there is somebody you wouldn’t con.’
‘Alone. Inside. I am so alone.’
‘Did you hear what I said?’
‘Yes. All right. Yes. Anything. Whatever you want.’
‘She’s not to everyone’s taste; but she gets results.’
Colin looked up. ‘“She”?’
‘Is that a problem for you?’
‘Is she a witch?’
‘What on earth do you mean? Don’t talk such rubbish, man. Of course she isn’t a witch. She’s a highly qualified psychiatrist and, in my opinion, if you’re the least bit concerned, an even better psychotherapist. Colin, sometimes you say the strangest things.’
‘She could still be a witch,’ said Colin. ‘Does she like crows? Carrion crows? Corvus corone corone?’
‘I’ve no idea. I haven’t asked her.’
‘OK,’ said Colin. ‘OK.’
‘What are you talking about?’ said the doctor. ‘What’s bothering you?’
‘Nothing. Nothing. It’s all right.’
‘It clearly is not all right. You’ve got a tremor.’
‘It’s nothing. I concur. Just let’s stop. This. Please.’
‘Leave it with me, then. I’ll cancel the hospital.’
‘As you wish. Whatever you want.’
‘It’ll be rough.’
‘I understand the implication.’
Colin got up to go.
‘Eric.’
‘Yes?’
‘You were spinning the chair anti-clockwise. That’s unlucky. Always turn with the sun.’
The sun worked, and the cold gripped more; but it would pass. He had to travel the White Rocks before the clonter of spring began and the waters blocked his return.
The time came when day and night moved the world from winter. He took a bag of skin and went in the dark to the Bearstone and smelt the wind. It was in the Flatlands, where the sun now set. He watched Crane climb the sky, pulling the day up from below the hills, and as it reached above his head, night became empty of black, Crane faded into the light, and the coming sun hardened the edges of the hills as it rose behind him.
He took the leg bone of a crane from the bag and he went down into Ludcruck and faced the wall of the bird spirits. He danced the day and put the bone to his lips and played. He played the cranes from their sleep. The bone made their cry, and the cry answered from the spirit wall and joined with the sound, growing, back and to, back and to, so that his playing was lost in the greater cry. He stopped, but the sound went on, until all Ludcruck was a waking of cranes.
Over the Flatlands black lines and dabs rose in the sky cave, swirling, bulls, shifting, hinds, horses, antlers, horns, haunches as the cranes rose, wheeled and firmed into heads of spears.
He danced in the sound, and the sound of Ludcruck was loud and louder as the cranes flew above. He danced and he danced. He danced to join them. The spear shadows darkened. He danced. He danced his spirit wings, and lifted out of the rock into the company of the birds.
The cranes flew beyond the Bearstone, and he with them. His legs lay behind, his head stretched before, and his throat called. He flew in the spearheads over the Black Peaks towards the White Rocks, and across the White Rocks, by ridges and ice and down to the Lower Lands where the pines grew; on and on, calling, calling in the gale of feathers, through the day, until the Valley of Life showed.
Strength left him. The Valley was his journey. The cranes flew above, but he sank beneath, and his voice lost the music of the greater cry; and with the last beat of his wings he came to the edge of a crag and was a man.
Colin built momentum to above Beacon Lodge so that he freewheeled from there. The gradient as far as the lay-by at Castle Rock could be cancelled by the wind. It depended on the camber, and cars blared at him as he wobbled to the crest of the Front Hill; but he made it and began the drop past Armstrong Farm.
‘Down in Pennsyltucky where the pencils grow
There’s a little spot I think you ought to know.
’Tis a place, no doubt, you’ve never heard about;
It isn’t on the map, I do declare.
It’s a spot they call the Imazaz,
Nestling itself among the hills.
’Twas there I learnt my prayer.
’Twas there I learnt to swear.