Boneland. Alan Garner

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      ALAN GARNER

       Boneland

       For the worth of two Marks and a Bob

      The dream was wonder, but the terror was great. We must keep the dream, whatever the terror.

      The Epic of Gilgamesh, Tablet VII, line 75

      The stones have no rosetta.

      Mark Edmonds, Prehistory in the Peak, p.96

      Hit hade a hole on þe ende and on ayþer syde,

      And ouergrowen with gresse in glodes aywhere,

      And al watz hol3 inwith, nobot an olde caue,

      Or a creuisse of an olde cragge …

      It had a hole on the end and on either side,

      And overgrown with grass in clumps everywhere,

      And all was hollow within, nothing but an old cave,

      Or a crevice of an old crag …

      Sir Gawain and the Green Knight, lines 2180–4

      Table of Contents

       Title Page

       Dedication

       Epigraph

       Boneland

       About the Author

       By the same author

       Copyright

       About the Publisher

      ‘Listen. I’ll tell you. I’ve got to tell you.’

      ‘A scratch, Colin.’

      ‘I must tell you.’

      ‘Just a scratch.’

      ‘I will.’

      ‘There.’

      ‘I shall.’

      ‘Done.’

      He cut the veil of the rock; the hooves clattered the bellowing waters below him in the dark. The lamp brought the moon from the blade, and the blade the bull from the rock. The ice rang.

      He took life in his mouth, spat red over hand on the cave wall. The bull roared. Around, above him, the trample of the beasts answered; the stags, the hinds, the horses, the bulls, and the trace of old dreams. The ice rang. He held the lamp and climbed among antlers necks ears eyes horns haunches, the limbs, the nostrils, the rutting, the dancers; from the cave to the crack. He pushed the lamp at the dark and followed his shoulder, his head twisted, through the hill along the seam of grit, by the nooks of the dead. He slipped out; pinched the lamp, and crawled between slabs into the gash of Ludcruck on snow.

      The colours and webs faded and he saw the world. The ice had dropped from the two cliffs flat in the gap. He braced himself against each side of stone, and moved over the fall.

      He found them lying together. He tried to touch her and the child through the ice. He saw his echo, but they had no echo. Though the eyes met, they did not speak. They were not him. Where the crag had shed, spirit faces looked down from the scar, rough, knuckled, green; and grass hung over the ledges.

      He passed where the cleft opened more than a spear length. The sky was blue, icicles shone; the sun played, but could not reach the floor. He went along, up, around, and left Ludcruck hole by the arch to the hill.

      He met the footsteps, woman and child, and walked against them, back above the river, cobbles banging in the melt of summer flood, until a fold of land shut off the sound and he came to the lodge. He opened the hide and went in.

      He lay for one day. He lay for two days. He lay for three days.

      ‘Colin. Colin?’

      A face was leaning over him, concentrated, checking. He heard and saw, but did not wake.

      Next, he was in the ward, and a panel in the ceiling rattled.

      ‘Cup of tea, diddums?’

      ‘No. Thanks.’

      ‘Coffee, my love?’

      ‘No. Thanks.’

      ‘Water, pet?’

      ‘Please. Yes.’

      ‘Chin up, chicken.’

      A hand lifted his head, and another put the hard glass between his teeth.

      ‘Thanks.’

      Someone wiped his beard. The colours and webs faded. He saw the world.

      ‘Hello, Colin.’ A doctor looked down at him.

      ‘Hello.’

      ‘Well, all seems to be fine. You can go home tomorrow.’

      ‘Why not now? Now. Please. That was the agreement.’

      ‘I don’t advise it.’ The doctor went to the desk and spoke to the sister. Colin worked a finger under the plastic strip around his wrist that showed his name and number and date of birth and tugged to snap it. It did not move. He tried to force it over his hand. The plastic bit into the skin. He managed to get another finger through and lodged the plastic in the crease of each first joint, and pulled again. The white band did not slacken. He blocked his mind against it, shut his eyes and willed the hands apart. He held the pain as ecstasy. It could not feel, and he would not give. He would not give. It could not feel. He would not give. He would not. The band broke, and he fell back, triumphant.

      ‘There we are, cherub.’

      He opened his eyes. A nurse had snipped the band with scissors.

      He reached behind the locker for his backpack, took off the gown and dragged on his clothes; no more a thing.

      ‘You’re discharging yourself, Colin. I’d be happier if you stayed until after breakfast tomorrow. You do understand?’

      ‘I understand, sister. But I’d like to have a taxi, please.’

      ‘It’s in your interest to stay.’

      ‘I know it is. But I want to go. I want to go home. I need to. I want to go now.’

      ‘Avoid alcohol until you’ve seen your own doctor. Remember.’

      ‘I’ll remember.’

      A porter wheeled him to the main hall. With each passage from the ward to the air he felt himself return. The taxi was waiting.

      ‘Where are we for, squire?’ said the driver.

      ‘Church Quarry, please.’

      ‘Where’s that?’

      ‘I’ll show you.’

      ‘Best sit at the front, then.’

      Colin got in and held the backpack on his knee.

      ‘Done your seat belt?’

      ‘Sorry.’

      The