Boneland
A major novel from one of the country’s greatest writers, and the crowning achievement of an astonishing career, ‘Boneland’ is also the long-awaited conclusion to the story of Colin and Susan – a story that began over fifty years ago in ‘The Weirdstone of Brisingamen’…‘A woman was reading a book to a child on her knee.‘“So the little boy went into the wood, and he met a witch. And the witch said, ‘You come home with me and I’ll give you a good dinner.’ Now you wouldn’t go home with a witch, would you?”‘Colin stood. “Young 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!”’Professor Colin Whisterfield spends his days at Jodrell Bank, using the radio telescope to look for his lost sister in the Pleiades. At night, he is on Alderley Edge, watching.At the same time, and in another time, the Watcher cuts the rock and blows bulls on the stone with his blood, and dances, to keep the sky above the earth and the stars flying.Colin can’t remember; and he remembers too much. Before the age of thirteen is a blank. After that he recalls everything: where he was, what he was doing, in every minute of every hour of every day. Everything he has read and seen.And then, finally, a new force enters his life, a therapist who might be able to unlock what happened to him when he was twelve, what happened to his sister.But Colin will have to remember quickly, to find his sister. And the Watcher will have to find the Woman. Otherwise the skies will fall, and there will be only winter, wanderers and moon…
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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
‘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 driver reached over and ran the belt across Colin’s chest between his arms and the backpack and locked it. They drove round the car park to the road.
