Boneland (15 page)

‘It’s flapping. It’s dead. But it’s flapping. The feathers are alive. The bird isn’t.’

‘Worse than that.’

‘Its eye.’

‘Worse than that.’

‘The lid. Half closing and opening.’

‘Worse than that.’

‘Nothing.’

‘Look closer.’

‘No. I can’t.’

‘Look closer, Colin.’

‘Meg.’

‘Closer, Colin. Closer.’

‘What’s happening?’

‘Look. Go to where it hurts most and say what it says to you.’

‘—Black.’

‘Yes?’

‘Black. Shining. Eye.’

‘Tell me again.’

‘Black. Shining. Eye.’

‘Tell me again.’

‘Black. Shining—No. Shining. Shining. Ink! Black ink!’

‘Go to the ink and say what it says to you.’

‘Ink.’

‘Tell me again.’

‘Ink. Black ink. Shining. Ink.’

‘Tell me again.’

‘Black. Shining. Ink—No! Not ink! Water! Black shining water! A river! I can’t swim! I’ll drown! A cave! No! Shining! Shining sky! Stars! No! Galaxies! I see galaxies! Galaxies! More! More than—More! I see! I see! Wonders!’

Colin opened his eyes. ‘Meg! Oh, Meg!’

‘Where is the crow now?’

‘It’s gone. It’s not there. It’s not there.’

‘And the other crows?’

‘Not any. Gone. All gone. All.’

‘Not gone,’ said Meg. ‘Free. Not hurting. That crow is not hurting. It knows, Colin. It knows you were trying to help. And you? What do you want to do now?’

‘Get back to my work. There’s so much to be done. So much.’ Colin began to cry. ‘So much. The wonders.’

‘And that’s how you start to squeeze,’ said Meg, and reached round his back to give him the box of tissues. ‘But it’s only the start. You’ve healed the crow. Now you can pass on.’

‘I don’t understand,’ said Colin.

‘You’ve begun; but that’s all. You have to end. Else you can forget your wonders.’

‘I don’t understand.’

‘The Grail Question. That’s for you to ask; and to find the answer; not me.’

‘“Only the start.” You’re kind. But please not yet. I have to think about it.’

‘Kind? Me kind? You dimmock. You dithering dimmock. You’re all the same. Every one of you. Each time. It’s there before you, in clear. But you won’t see. You say you want help, but as soon as it really bites you try to chicken out. You’ll “have to think about it”. I can live with that. But don’t think you can call the shots. And don’t you ever, ever doorstep me again, pal; not even with stone axes. I’m not here to be switched on at a whim.’

‘I’m sorry.’

‘This time, “sorry” is needed,’ said Meg. There was a knock. ‘Come in, Bert. We’re through.’

Bert put his head round the door. ‘Let’s be having you. I’ve stuck your bike in the boot.’

Colin sat and did not speak. Bert was silent. They came to the turn to the wood. Bert stopped on the road. ‘You’ll do at this,’ he said. ‘I’ll not can go with you no further.’

‘Yes,’ said Colin. He lifted his bicycle from the back of the taxi. ‘Thanks.’

‘Eh. Youth.’

‘Yes?’

‘Thee think on, and then.’

Bert drove away.

He slept, and turned, calling to the beasts in Ludcruck. They answered him, the beasts and the cranes, and he was not afraid to hear their singing.

Colin heard the sound of an engine in the quarry and looked out of the window. It was Meg in her black leathers. She stopped at the hut, took off her helmet and gauntlets and shook her hair.

Colin opened the door.

‘Hi, Colin. How are you doing?’

‘Better,’ he said. ‘Better, I think. Why are you here, Meg?’

‘I want a word with you. On your own midden.’

‘You’re angry over yesterday,’ said Colin.

‘Who? Me? I’m never angry. I tell it how it is; that’s all I can.’

‘And I did something to vex Bert. I don’t know what it was.’

‘Bert’s not vexed,’ said Meg.

‘He was very short with me.’

‘He was not.’

‘You don’t know what he said.’

‘We’re both in there rooting for you, Colin, you twerp. And now you’re on a roll at last you’ve got to see it through. Now. Not tomorrow. Not when you’ve “had a think”. Now. You must go for it. And stuff the crows.’

‘But you could have phoned.’

‘I was afraid you’d do a runner. Can I come in?’

‘Please,’ said Colin. ‘But what’s it about?’

Meg pulled the bike up on its rest and lifted a file from a pannier. They went inside.

‘Do sit down,’ said Colin. ‘May I have your jacket? It’s warm in here.’

‘No thanks. We’re not stopping.’ Meg put the file on the table and took out a clipboard. She did not sit.

‘I want to check on a few things first,’ she said. ‘It’s about your brain scan. When I asked you whether you’d ever been struck by lightning you overreacted. You said, and I quote, “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it. I didn’t mean it. Promise I didn’t. How can you tell? You weren’t there. Why don’t you go away? Leave me alone.” So I did. And I have done. But, now you’ve had time to let it soak in, is there anything you want to say about that?’

‘No.’

‘Nothing at all? Think.’

‘I can’t.’ He wiped his palms on a handkerchief. ‘I don’t want to.’

‘Why are your hands sweating?’

‘I don’t know. I’m scared.’

‘Mm,’ said Meg. ‘Now then. The other day I called up your earliest medical records. I should have done that first off; obviously. As should the others. Fool that I was and am. You could sue me for negligence, and win.’

‘But I wouldn’t do that. I wouldn’t do that, Meg.’

‘You’re too generous.’

‘But I wouldn’t.’

‘And ingenuous.’

‘I wouldn’t, Meg.’

‘Anyway, clear as clear, in black and white, there you are, aged twelve, being treated for cardiopulmonary arrest, which had more or less righted itself by the time you reached hospital, though your pulse rate was low and your extremities were mottled. These also resolved over several hours. There’s a query marginal note: lightning. Oh, Meg Massey. You ought to be struck off. How dim and stupid can you be not to come up with that from the start? Does it help you?’

‘No.’

‘I think you’re playing silly sods again, Colin. Anyhow, that’s when I had a rush of brains to the head. I went to the library and trawled through the local papers after that date. Have a look at this.’

She handed him a copied sheet. Colin took it, and read.

LOCAL BOY’S MIRACLE ESCAPE

Youth Cheats Death on Edge Thanks to Walkers

Double Tragedy Narrowly Averted

He glanced at a photograph of rocks and handed the sheet back. ‘No. You read it.’

‘As you like,’ said Meg. ‘“On Wednesday last week, twelve-year-old Colin Whisterfield, of Highmost Redmanhey Farm, Hocker Lane, Over Alderley, had a miraculous escape when he was hit by lightning in a freak thunderstorm near Stormy Point. He was found unconscious by two walkers on a ledge by the Iron Gates rocks on Saddlebole. They summoned help, and young Colin was stretchered to a waiting ambulance on Stormy Point and rushed to Macclesfield Hospital, where after three days of observation and tests he was declared fit to go home. One of the walkers, who does not wish to be named, said that he and a companion were on Stormy Point, admiring the views, when they saw a small black cloud form over Saddlebole. Before they could take shelter from what they thought would be a storm, there was a sudden flash of lightning, accompanied by a clap of thunder, and the cloud vanished. They proceeded to Saddlebole to look and were shocked to find young Colin lying on the ledge in front of the rocks. He and the rocks were wet, but astonishingly the trees and the path around were bone dry. ‘I’ve never seen anything like it in all my life,’ said the other walker, who also does not wish to be named. ‘I thought the lad was gone. He was such a dreadful colour.’

‘“The prompt action by the medics almost certainly narrowly averted a double tragedy for Hocker Lane. During the night of 21st November last year, as reported in these pages, Colin’s twin sister”—and they do mention her name—“disappeared from Highmost Redmanhey Farm together with a horse that had been tethered in the stable. The horse was discovered safe next morning on an island on Redesmere, but despite frantic efforts by the police, using sniffer dogs, and an inch by inch search of the mere by frogmen, with local volunteers combing the surrounding rhododendron woods, no trace of the young girl was ever found. On both occasions Mr and Mrs Gowther Mossock, the boy’s guardians, who farm Highmost Redmanhey, were too upset to comment about the events.”’

Colin turned his head aside.

‘I wonder why witnesses never want to be identified,’ said Meg. ‘I bet these two were having it off in the bracken.’

Colin looked back at the photograph of the rocks. He was trembling.

‘So it did happen, Colin. And it was you. And it could explain the anomaly in the brain scan. Has that helped?’

‘Not really.’

‘Well, it’s helped me. It makes the episodic memory and isolated retrograde amnesia credible. The hypothetical hyperthymesia’s still the Joker in the pack, but there are other sporadic anomalous claims in the literature concerning the after-effects of lightning strike in humans. One man said it brought on satyriasis, which didn’t please his wife; another blamed it for priapism; but I don’t think we need go there. A woman in Illinois said she had become psychic after being struck in bed, and that her powers were used by police agencies in locating missing persons. You takes your pick. But one published report caught my eye: a case of alleged significant increase in intelligence on psychological testing after prolonged cardiac arrest in a paediatric patient. If there’s anything in that, it could explain a lot. What do you think?’

‘I don’t know,’ said Colin.

‘So why are you still sweating?’ said Meg.

‘I don’t know.’

‘I’d like to go and have a look at Saddlebole,’ said Meg. ‘Will you take me there?’

‘Now?’

‘Yes, please.’

‘No,’ said Colin. ‘I’d rather not.’

‘I did say please.’

‘Why? Why do you want to go?’

‘A hunch. Mainly you. When we went for that walk the night I came here you obviously shied away from showing me when I asked what it was.’

‘I didn’t want to overcook the lamb.’

‘That was quick thinking on your part. Your eyes swerved every which way.’

‘I’d rather not.’

‘Tough titty. I rather would.’

‘I’ve things to do. Some other time, perhaps.’

‘Do them later. I don’t want to waste my petrol.’

‘All right. All right. But you could have phoned. I must wear my robes.’

‘Suit yourself. I’ll wait outside while you change.’

‘No. The top covering will be enough.’

‘Need any help?’

‘No. No, thanks.’

Colin opened the box and eased the shirt and bow tie from their tissues. He fitted the gold cufflinks and held the sleeves as he slid his arms into the black gown. Then he brushed the scarlet and blue silk chimere, fitted it over the gown and fastened it with the two buttons. To finish, he slipped the hood of green silk over his shoulders and set the bonnet on his head and adjusted the tassel. He checked in the mirror, and arranged his hair and beard.

‘Right,’ said Colin.

‘You definitely look the business,’ said Meg.

Colin locked the hut and they made their way from the quarry to the track. He lifted his gown and chimere to avoid snagging.

‘Do you mind if we stay on the track?’ said Colin. ‘It’s safer.’

‘How “safer”?’ said Meg.

‘It’s a bit less direct, but it’s wider and won’t catch on the silk.’

They walked with the wood to their left and the hills to their right.

‘You really have got it all, here, haven’t you?’ said Meg.

‘Yes, the landscape is varied.’

‘“Varied”? It’s spectacular.’

‘I suppose it is.’

‘What’s that over there?’

‘Shuttlingslow.’

‘It’s a stunning shape; iconic.’

‘You mean conical.’

‘What are you blathering at?’ said Meg.

‘There’s nothing iconic about Shuttlingslow. It is not an icon.’

‘Oh dear. Here we go. We’re off. What have I done wrong now?’

‘An icon,’ said Colin, ‘is a pictorial representation of a facility available on a computer system that enables the facility to be activated by means of a screen cursor rather than by a textual instruction. Its original, religious, meaning is the figure of Christ, the Virgin Mary or a saint, especially one painted in oil and gilded on a wooden panel and venerated in the Eastern Church.’

‘I stand corrected, O Master of Theology,’ said Meg.

‘Shuttlingslow isn’t remotely like an icon. Its form is the result of differential weathering of the Chatsworth and Roaches Carboniferous grits.’

‘Do you list swallowing dictionaries under “Recreations”?’

‘No.’

‘That would be lexicophagy, I suppose,’ said Meg.

‘Would it?’

‘Joke. That is a joke, Colin. Joke. Hah. Hah. Hah. Laugh. You can, if you try.’

‘I need to be accurate. I won’t put up with sloppiness and imprecision.’

‘I’ll tell you one thing,’ said Meg. ‘You certainly do not want to take me to Saddlebole. You do not.’

‘When I hear a student object that “Near enough is good enough,”’ said Colin, ‘I know I’m teaching a fool.’

‘Oh, you’re in a right bate.’

They walked on.

‘That tower spoils the skyline,’ said Meg. ‘Why’s it up there?’

‘Sutton Common,’ said Colin, not looking. ‘Radio relay. It’s impressive.’

‘It’s intrusive.’

‘No more than the telescope.’

‘I disagree. The telescope is both art and science. That tower is function only.’

‘Isn’t pure art pure function?’ said Colin. ‘Like the axe? The axe is the first step to the telescope.’

‘I need time out on that one,’ said Meg.

‘And think of Ethel.’

‘Why?’

‘The signals from Ethel were “nearly” here before the axe was made.’

‘Oh, I like it,’ said Meg. ‘That’s poetry. Not half it isn’t.’

They came to a T-junction. On one side was a squat block of conglomerate sandstone in a grassy bank, a clunched mass of pebbles glancing the afternoon.

‘What’s this?’ said Meg.