donny-dossity,
Knickerty-knackerty, rustical quality,
Willow tree wallowty
Now, now, now.’
He attached the focus rings.
‘There’s bread and cheese upon the shelf,
Risselty-rosselty, now, now, now.
If you want any more you can sing it yourself.
Risselty-rosselty, hey bombossity,
Knickerty-knackerty, rustical quality,
Willow tree wallowty, hey donny-dossity,
Risselty-rosselty
Now, now, now.’
Colin brought a chair and sat facing in. He put his mouth at the focus. ‘Hello, I’m here. Hello. Hello.’
It hurt to turn the stick between his palms to blow a fire heap. It hurt to follow his shoulder and to twist his head through the hill along the seam of grit. It hurt to cut the veil to set the spirits free. His hand on the blade lost its grace, and it hurt to make a beast true. Yet if he did not make it true the spirit would not be true. Beasts would go into the world unmade. Wolves would feed until there were no more, and then wolves and all would pass because they had eaten life rough-hewn. The Stone Spirit and the Bull would see that the land was wrong and dead, and there would be no eagles sent to feed the stars; the sun would not turn from death, and there would be only wanderers and the moon and Crane flying in night.
There had to be a woman that he could hold, to grow a child that he could teach, to stop the dark. But where she was he could not dream.
He climbed down into the great cave, beneath the bulls and above the shining waters, seeing nothing outside the glimmer in which he hung. He came to the Stone and sat a while, moving his thought. Then he danced and sang. He became the sounds, and was with the voices of the old, and the voices of the old were with him. His step crushed, and under him rose light, which lifted into him and flowed from bone to bone along his spine and every rib, gleamed at his fingers, filled his skull, broke through his eyes, and brought pictures to his tongue.
The light threw a shaft across the wall, and he saw a way he did not know. He followed, turning to fit the crack. The waters were near. He stretched. He touched a nipple, hard in the rock.
Colin pressed the bell.
Meg opened the door. ‘Hello, stranger. Come in.’ She led the way to the library and curled up on the chaise longue. Colin stood by the window, looking towards Beeston. ‘I got your letter,’ she said.
‘I hope it didn’t cause offence,’ said Colin.
‘Was it meant to?’
‘No. I wanted to thank you.’
‘For what?’
‘Taking me seriously. And to say that I don’t need to waste any more of your time.’
‘So why are you here?’
‘Because you’re kind—’
‘Bullshit.’
‘—and a letter isn’t the right way to say goodbye.’
‘I don’t say goodbye.’
‘There’s nothing wrong now,’ said Colin. ‘I was a mess, and you sorted me out. I’m going back to work. As soon as I’ve seen my doctor.’
‘I can’t sort anyone out, dear heart,’ said Meg. ‘But so long as you’re happy that’s all that counts.’ She picked up a magazine and opened it. ‘Have a nice day.’
‘Yes.’ Colin went to the door. ‘Meg. Thanks.’
‘You’re welcome.’
He turned the handle.
‘Colin?’
‘Yes?’
‘One thing.’
‘Yes.’
‘Why did you smash the glass?’
Crow. Crane. Stone. Bone. Moon. Mother. Made. Blade. Bull. Blood.
‘Witch!’
‘Shush, laddie. No need to capslock. You’re all right.’ He sank in the deep leather and she held his hand. ‘What are you so scared of?’
‘You.’
‘That makes sense,’ said Meg.
He had found the woman. She was pressing to be brought. He had to free her spirit so that it could go into the world and come to him. If he cut wrong, she would not be whole, and no child could be made. The blade had to be pure, with no stain, so that it would lift the weight of the moon at its full.
He climbed back and took all the stone that he held in Ludcruck: stone that he had gathered from the torrent beds, stone that the old man
Knickerty-knackerty, rustical quality,
Willow tree wallowty
Now, now, now.’
He attached the focus rings.
‘There’s bread and cheese upon the shelf,
Risselty-rosselty, now, now, now.
If you want any more you can sing it yourself.
Risselty-rosselty, hey bombossity,
Knickerty-knackerty, rustical quality,
Willow tree wallowty, hey donny-dossity,
Risselty-rosselty
Now, now, now.’
Colin brought a chair and sat facing in. He put his mouth at the focus. ‘Hello, I’m here. Hello. Hello.’
It hurt to turn the stick between his palms to blow a fire heap. It hurt to follow his shoulder and to twist his head through the hill along the seam of grit. It hurt to cut the veil to set the spirits free. His hand on the blade lost its grace, and it hurt to make a beast true. Yet if he did not make it true the spirit would not be true. Beasts would go into the world unmade. Wolves would feed until there were no more, and then wolves and all would pass because they had eaten life rough-hewn. The Stone Spirit and the Bull would see that the land was wrong and dead, and there would be no eagles sent to feed the stars; the sun would not turn from death, and there would be only wanderers and the moon and Crane flying in night.
There had to be a woman that he could hold, to grow a child that he could teach, to stop the dark. But where she was he could not dream.
He climbed down into the great cave, beneath the bulls and above the shining waters, seeing nothing outside the glimmer in which he hung. He came to the Stone and sat a while, moving his thought. Then he danced and sang. He became the sounds, and was with the voices of the old, and the voices of the old were with him. His step crushed, and under him rose light, which lifted into him and flowed from bone to bone along his spine and every rib, gleamed at his fingers, filled his skull, broke through his eyes, and brought pictures to his tongue.
The light threw a shaft across the wall, and he saw a way he did not know. He followed, turning to fit the crack. The waters were near. He stretched. He touched a nipple, hard in the rock.
Colin pressed the bell.
Meg opened the door. ‘Hello, stranger. Come in.’ She led the way to the library and curled up on the chaise longue. Colin stood by the window, looking towards Beeston. ‘I got your letter,’ she said.
‘I hope it didn’t cause offence,’ said Colin.
‘Was it meant to?’
‘No. I wanted to thank you.’
‘For what?’
‘Taking me seriously. And to say that I don’t need to waste any more of your time.’
‘So why are you here?’
‘Because you’re kind—’
‘Bullshit.’
‘—and a letter isn’t the right way to say goodbye.’
‘I don’t say goodbye.’
‘There’s nothing wrong now,’ said Colin. ‘I was a mess, and you sorted me out. I’m going back to work. As soon as I’ve seen my doctor.’
‘I can’t sort anyone out, dear heart,’ said Meg. ‘But so long as you’re happy that’s all that counts.’ She picked up a magazine and opened it. ‘Have a nice day.’
‘Yes.’ Colin went to the door. ‘Meg. Thanks.’
‘You’re welcome.’
He turned the handle.
‘Colin?’
‘Yes?’
‘One thing.’
‘Yes.’
‘Why did you smash the glass?’
Crow. Crane. Stone. Bone. Moon. Mother. Made. Blade. Bull. Blood.
‘Witch!’
‘Shush, laddie. No need to capslock. You’re all right.’ He sank in the deep leather and she held his hand. ‘What are you so scared of?’
‘You.’
‘That makes sense,’ said Meg.
He had found the woman. She was pressing to be brought. He had to free her spirit so that it could go into the world and come to him. If he cut wrong, she would not be whole, and no child could be made. The blade had to be pure, with no stain, so that it would lift the weight of the moon at its full.
He climbed back and took all the stone that he held in Ludcruck: stone that he had gathered from the torrent beds, stone that the old man
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