Boneland. Alan Garner

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      Colin held the screen frame at arm’s length and shut his eyes against the facts. He swung his head one way, then the other, and began to shake. The doctor loosened the fingers from the computer. Colin clapped his palms to his face and slouched on the desk.

      ‘Help me.’

      The doctor waited.

      ‘There’s nowhere. Nowhere to go. I’ve nowhere. Else.’

      ‘You had to admit it yourself, Colin. It had to come from you. If people get too close you act the goat; and you’re so damned clever and devious you run rings round any argument you don’t want to hear. You’d run rings round me, if I let you.’

      ‘I can’t manage any more.’

      ‘If you mean that, there is somebody you wouldn’t con.’

      ‘Alone. Inside. I am so alone.’

      ‘Did you hear what I said?’

      ‘Yes. All right. Yes. Anything. Whatever you want.’

      ‘She’s not to everyone’s taste; but she gets results.’

      Colin looked up. ‘“She”?’

      ‘Is that a problem for you?’

      ‘Is she a witch?’

      ‘What on earth do you mean? Don’t talk such rubbish, man. Of course she isn’t a witch. She’s a highly qualified psychiatrist and, in my opinion, if you’re the least bit concerned, an even better psychotherapist. Colin, sometimes you say the strangest things.’

      ‘She could still be a witch,’ said Colin. ‘Does she like crows? Carrion crows? Corvus corone corone?’

      ‘I’ve no idea. I haven’t asked her.’

      ‘OK,’ said Colin. ‘OK.’

      ‘What are you talking about?’ said the doctor. ‘What’s bothering you?’

      ‘Nothing. Nothing. It’s all right.’

      ‘It clearly is not all right. You’ve got a tremor.’

      ‘It’s nothing. I concur. Just let’s stop. This. Please.’

      ‘Leave it with me, then. I’ll cancel the hospital.’

      ‘As you wish. Whatever you want.’

      ‘It’ll be rough.’

      ‘I understand the implication.’

      Colin got up to go.

      ‘Eric.’

      ‘Yes?’

      ‘You were spinning the chair anti-clockwise. That’s unlucky. Always turn with the sun.’

      The sun worked, and the cold gripped more; but it would pass. He had to travel the White Rocks before the clonter of spring began and the waters blocked his return.

      The time came when day and night moved the world from winter. He took a bag of skin and went in the dark to the Bearstone and smelt the wind. It was in the Flatlands, where the sun now set. He watched Crane climb the sky, pulling the day up from below the hills, and as it reached above his head, night became empty of black, Crane faded into the light, and the coming sun hardened the edges of the hills as it rose behind him.

      He took the leg bone of a crane from the bag and he went down into Ludcruck and faced the wall of the bird spirits. He danced the day and put the bone to his lips and played. He played the cranes from their sleep. The bone made their cry, and the cry answered from the spirit wall and joined with the sound, growing, back and to, back and to, so that his playing was lost in the greater cry. He stopped, but the sound went on, until all Ludcruck was a waking of cranes.

      Over the Flatlands black lines and dabs rose in the sky cave, swirling, bulls, shifting, hinds, horses, antlers, horns, haunches as the cranes rose, wheeled and firmed into heads of spears.

      He danced in the sound, and the sound of Ludcruck was loud and louder as the cranes flew above. He danced and he danced. He danced to join them. The spear shadows darkened. He danced. He danced his spirit wings, and lifted out of the rock into the company of the birds.

      The cranes flew beyond the Bearstone, and he with them. His legs lay behind, his head stretched before, and his throat called. He flew in the spearheads over the Black Peaks towards the White Rocks, and across the White Rocks, by ridges and ice and down to the Lower Lands where the pines grew; on and on, calling, calling in the gale of feathers, through the day, until the Valley of Life showed.

      Strength left him. The Valley was his journey. The cranes flew above, but he sank beneath, and his voice lost the music of the greater cry; and with the last beat of his wings he came to the edge of a crag and was a man.

      Colin built momentum to above Beacon Lodge so that he freewheeled from there. The gradient as far as the lay-by at Castle Rock could be cancelled by the wind. It depended on the camber, and cars blared at him as he wobbled to the crest of the Front Hill; but he made it and began the drop past Armstrong Farm.

      ‘Down in Pennsyltucky where the pencils grow

      There’s a little spot I think you ought to know.

      ’Tis a place, no doubt, you’ve never heard about;

      It isn’t on the map, I do declare.

      It’s a spot they call the Imazaz,

      Nestling itself among the hills.

      ’Twas there I learnt my prayer.

      ’Twas there I learnt to swear.

      ’Twas there I took my first two Beecham’s pills,

      Ta-rah-rah!’

      He passed the notice at Whinsbrow. THIS HILL IS STILL DANGEROUS. Straight down from Rockside to the five-lane-ends and the roundabout.

      ‘There’s a cottage so sweet

      At the end of the street,

      And it’s Number Ninety-Four.

      Oh, I’m going back to Imazaz:

      Imazaz a pub next door!’

      At the bottom he braked to lessen momentum, so that by leaning hard over and trailing his foot he cleared the roundabout and veered right into London Road and the traffic. He worked among the flocks of cars. They all had black glass in the windows. Then the station approach made him pedal. Two point zero four kilometres; approximately.

      After the station he went by Brook Lane and Row-of-Trees, urging past Lindow Moss, along Seven Sisters Lane to Toft. The house stood at the end of a drive, among rhododendrons. He lodged his bicycle and rang the doorbell.

      ‘Whisterfield. Colin Whisterfield.’

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