Boneland. Alan Garner
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Col.’
‘What?’
‘Where’ve you been all this while?’
‘What?’
‘You know.’
‘You? Is it you?’
‘Who else?’
He turned. There was no one at the dish. The girl was playing with the others.
‘You!’
There was no answer.
‘Don’t go! Don’t leave me again!’
The Valley of Life was safe, but under the ice he heard the first waters. He could not stay.
Colin stumbled between the dishes, calling, listening, calling, calling. There was only ambient sound. He sat on the steps, his head in his hands, past tears.
‘Professor Whisterfield.’
One of the staff of the Discovery Centre had come out to him.
‘What, Gwen?’
‘I’d like a word with you. You’re all right, son,’ she said to the boy, who was peering through the treads.
‘He’s bloody mad! He wants locking up! I’ll tell me mam!’
‘You do that. Now off. Go on. Imshi. Pronto. Vamoose. Scoot. Shoo. Skedaddle.’
The boy ran.
‘Colin, what the hell do you think you’re at?’
‘Survival.’
‘We can’t afford this.’
‘Me neither.’
‘Inside, and no messing.’
Colin stood and walked with her, back to the Centre. He held her sleeve between finger and thumb. She took him to her office and sat him down.
‘Sorry, Gwen.’
‘“Sorry” won’t do, Colin. Any more of that and there could be a shitstorm.’
‘“Bonkers boffin bloodies blockhead beef-wits”?’
‘Shut your trap and get off site. You’re not supposed to be here. You and the other barmpots, you think you own the place.’
‘But I must be here. I have to be here.’
‘Well, I’m telling you straight. You’re useless. Nothing but a frigging nuisance. If I see you near my patch again your feet won’t touch the ground.’
He took moss and blew a brand at the fire heap and went down, swinging the brand to keep its flame.
Between the river and the crags there were no lodges nor any sign of being. He broke dead branches from fallen trees and went to a cave. He called, but only the rock spirit answered. He looked around at the earth and the floor. No one had sat here. No one had passed by. There were bones with cut marks, but they were old, gnawed by wolves and beasts and long ago. Earth covered the ashes.
He walked from cave to cave of the Valley of Life until the last. It was thin. He made a torch of pine, moved into the gap and eased himself along. The way grew wider, and there was a place where a hearth had been, but nothing now. He moved on. The passage closed again, and he came to people; but beasts had splintered their bones and cast them about, and no one had come back to care; nor were any of them new. And beyond the people there were the bones of cranes, and the cave end.
He went back to the light and the sky. He looked across the Valley to the other shore and the cave there. He had to go.
He stepped over the ice.
The cave faced the star that did not turn, and he sat at the cave mouth through the day and sang the sun along until night filled with black and the sky River ran into the cave of bones, then lifted above the crags so that Crane could fly. He sang Crane round from its lowmost up to its height to bring the day. And when he saw that the sun had woken he made the fire heap strong and lit the pine, stood, and went to the cave.
He entered the chamber and raised the torch to the bird cut nesting in the roof. He saw it, and its eye saw him. He passed the slots of women, which made the tracks of birds, along the walls and by beasts that he knew in Ludcruck.
He left the cave, into a passage to where he had to crawl, to the place of the Dark and of the Woman. She had no head, but her breasts were rumps, and her legs were two cranes plunging.
There was nowhere else for him, nothing else to do. He had to reach the life within her. He slid his hand along the necks into the cleaving. He felt. He drew his hand out from the wall. His fingers were dry. There was no blood. The rock was dead.
Wolf! Wolf! Grey Wolf! I am calling for you!
Far away the Grey Wolf heard, and came.
Here am I, the Grey Wolf.
There is no one to be; no one to give my flesh to the air, to take my bones to the cliff and the nooks of the dead. No one shall cut the bulls. No one shall watch. The Stone Spirit shall not send eagles. The stars must end. The sun must die. Crane shall fly alone. All shall be winter the wanderers and the moon.
That is not Trouble. The Trouble is yet to come. Sit up on me, the Grey Wolf.
He sat up on the shoulder. The Grey Wolf struck the damp earth and ran, higher than the trees, lower than the clouds, and each leap measured a mile; from his feet flint flew, spring spouted, lake surged and mixed with gravel dirt, and birch bent to the ground. Hare crouched, boar bristled, crow called, owl woke, and stag began to bell. And the Grey Wolf stopped.
They were in Ludcruck at the wall of the bird spirits. The skin bag was before him, and a crane bone lay beside.
Get down from me, the Grey Wolf. Cut. Dance. Sing. Bring. Do not forget.
How shall I cut dance sing bring and not forget when the end is nothing?
Long hair, short wit. I, the Grey Wolf, am speaking. Do it. I come three times. No more.
The Grey Wolf struck the damp earth and was gone.
‘Hello. This is Colin Whisterfield. May I speak to Doctor Massey, please?’
‘Can I take a message, Professor?’
‘No. I’m afraid not. I must speak to her. Now.’
‘Please hold.’
‘Hi, Colin.’
‘Meg. I need to see you. Today.’
‘Well, that was quick. Of course you can.’
‘What time?’
‘Whenever. Take care.’
‘Hello. Is that High Forest Taxis?’
‘It is indeed, Professor Whisterfield.’
‘I have to go from Alderley to Toft. Now. As soon as possible. And I’d like the driver to be Bert. He knows where I am. Thanks. Thanks very much. You’re so kind.’
He left the quarry for the road and paced until the taxi came.
‘Eh up, Colin. Are you all right? What’s it today, then?’ said Bert. ‘The nut house?’
‘It’s not as far as Barcelona.’
‘No worries.’ Colin sat in the front. Bert whistled as he drove, and kept winking at Colin. They turned onto the drive. Meg was by the house, lopping holly branches.
‘Hi, Colin. Hi, Bert.’
‘Hi, Doc,’ said Bert.
‘Go in, Colin,’ said Meg. ‘I’ll stow the gear and be with you.’
‘Watch them gullantines, Doc,’ said Bert, ‘else they’ll have you.’
Colin