Contents

Cover

About the Book

About the Author

Also by Alan Garner

Dedication

Title Page

Epigraphs

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Copyright

Thursbitch

Alan Garner

About the Book

HERE JOHN TURNER WAS CAST AWAY IN A HEAVY SNOW STORM IN THE NIGHT IN OR ABOUT THE YEAR 1755.

THE PRINT OF A WOMAN’S SHOE WAS FOUND BY HIS SIDE IN THE SNOW WHERE HE LAY DEAD.

This enigmatic memorial stone, high on the bank of a prehistoric Pennine track in Cheshire, is a mystery that lives on in the hill farms today.

John Turner was a packman. With his train of horses he carried salt and silk, travelling distances incomprehensible to his ancient community. In this visionary tale, John brings ideas as well as gifts, which have come, from market town to market town, from places as distant as the campfires of the Silk Road. John Turner’s death in the eighteenth century leaves an emotional charge which, in the twenty-first century, Ian and Sal find affects their relationship, challenging the perceptions they have of themselves and of each other. Thursbitch is rooted in a verifiable place. It is an evocation of the lives and the language of all people who are called to the valley of Thursbitch.

About the Author

Alan Garner is one of Britain’s outstanding authors. He has won many prizes for his writing and in 2001 was awarded the OBE for services to literature. His books include The Owl Service (which won the Guardian Award and the Carnegie Medal), Red Shift and The Stone Book Quartet, recognised by the Phoenix Award of America.

1

HE CLIMBED FROM Sooker and the snow was drifting. He held Jinney’s reins to lift her, and Bryn ran round the back of Samson, Clocky and Maysey, nipping their heels so that they would not drag on the train. They passed Ormes Smithy, up Blaze Hill and along Billinge Side.

The wind was full in their faces and the horses were trying to tuck into the bank for shelter, but Bryn kept them from shoving their panniers against the rocks. Now it was dark and the snow was swarming into his lanthorn and he could not see for the whiteness; but he knew the road.

“Eh. Jinney. Can you tell me this poser? ‘Luke had it in front. Paul had it behind. Phoebe Mellor had it twice in the middle afore she was wed. Lads have it. Wenches don’t. Yon’s in life, but not in death’.”

The bells of her collar jingled as she shook her mane, but she followed his voice in the snow.

They crossed the four-went-way and began the drag up Pike Low. Here the wind filled his eyes and nostrils and he had to suck at his beard so that the hair would not be ice around his mouth. By Deaf Harry the lead horse felt it, even though it was up the moor, and she reared, whinnying through her muzzle. He shortened the rein and patted her neck and shoulder. She was striking out with her front hooves.

“Nay, Jinney, nay, lass. Yon’s a high stone, that’s all. He can’t hurt you. He can’t move, choose what Tally Ridge’ll say. Well, not tonight he won’t.”

He braced for the top of Pike Low.

“Blood and elbows!”

The back end of Pike Low down to Blue Boar was the sharpest in all the hills, however the storm should go. If it was behind, it came round Billinge or out of Rainow hole. North, it came over Sponds. East, it mounted on Windgather. And south it upped past Shuttlingslow and along Lamaload. There was no getting from it. But Thoon was worst, and this was it.

“Oh, what a world. What a world. Summer hangs in a bag tonight, Jinney. Right enough. But we shall fettle it, shan’t we? We shall that.”

He led the train down from Pike Low by Drakeshollow; the wind and the snow still in his face.

“Eh, Jinney. Have you ever thought?”

He was talking to stop his skin from freezing in its white mask and to keep the train calm.

“Have you ever thought who made all this here? And whatever for?”

He checked to his left that he was on his track and saw a glim of light, which would be the candle in the window at Blue Boar.

“Come up, Jinney. Come up. Come up, lass. Nearly there. And what was at the start? There’s no use in asking them lot down Saltersford. They’d put a hat on a hen, they would. They’d daub a house with a hammer. They’d plough a rock, them and their ways. Them as crack on as how they know all sorts. Them as broke Jenkin.”

The horses were blowing. He had to keep talking, or they would not make the hill. But they would follow his voice. What he said did not matter; it did not matter: not to them.

“Well, that lot, once them preachifiers, once them lot gets hold, there’s neither end nor side to ’em. They must have it as how first was their roaring chap, and he was, like, borsant with being by himself. Ay. So he made all this here. But you ask ’em where the chap was agen he’d finished: did he stand or did he sit? And if he’s standing, where’s the floor? And if he’s sitting, where’s his arse? Or was he in bed or what? And they’ll land in such a festerment they’ll big dog you. I’ve seen ’em. But what right have they to tell Bull what to be doing? Them as have it all writ, and ever sin they got to shutting sky in a box of walls and stuck a lid on it same as it was a suit o’ coffin stuff, and then think as they can tell Bull, by the god!”

The anger added to his strength.

“As the fool thinks, so the bell clinks. I don’t know. Let there be light! Yay. But if there were no sun moon stars nor tickmijigs, what’s the odds? No. I’ll tell you as how a youth on market once told it me, if I understand him aright. Mind you, where he got it from, I can’t tell you. Some market else, I’ll be bound. But now then. Hearken ye. This youth, he says, at start, there were Night and Mither. That’s all it took. Night and Mither. And when Night and Mither met, it stands to reason as how there’d be these here clag-arsed journeys to be tholed. Night and Mither, Jinney; them didn’t have to own from nowhere.”

They climbed up Ewrin Lane and over Waggonshaw Brow by Buxter Stoops. As he passed through the farmyard, he saw Martha Barber at the curtain sack of her window.

“Is it you, Jagger Turner?”

“Ay, but it is, Widder Barber!”

“I thought I heard. Will you come thy ways?”

“Nay, Missis. But thank ye. If I let this lot melt I’d starve to death.”

“Hast any piddlejuice about you for such a time?”

“I have and all. Good to make a cat speak and a man dumb. Pass us your jug.”

She unbolted the door and opened it enough for her to hand him a small jug. Then she bolted the door. He filled the jug.

“Get that down you, Missis.”

She opened and closed the door at a snatch.

“I always say as how there never has been nowt like your piddlejuice, Jagger; and that’s a fact!”

“Ay, Missis! If you’re on the road all hours in these hills, you must be fit for owt, or you’ll find it’s when bum hole’s shut, fart’s gone. It’s there, you know. Oh, ah. When bum hole’s shut, fart’s gone.”

They laughed on either side of the door.

“Give us a tune, Jagger! I feel a little ditty coming on me and I’ve a flavour for to sing it.”

“Nay, Widder Barber. I must be getting down bank, and me beasts need their rest.”

He saw her shadow. She was hopping and began to dance. Her voice was uncertain at first, but then it broke forth with a strength that not even the wind could quell.

“I must be getting down bank, Widder Barber! The wind’s in Thoon, and me beasts’ll be bangled if they’re not moving!”

Martha Barber was now leaping in her dance.

He led the team into the road and set off from Buxter Stoops on its ridge and down the bank towards Saltersford. The lane was so steep that it had cut the hill, but any shelter it gave was of no use against the snow. He waded into the drift, thrashing right and left to make a softer, wider way for the team. The hollering wind took Martha Barber’s voice from him, but the song was now in the storm itself and came to him out of Thoon’s very own mouth.

He led them round the Nab End three-went corner, past Great Lowes; and Edward was not in bed. Now the lane was level, for the valley. He opened a pannier, took out a handful of salt and put it in his pocket. Then he closed the pannier and moved along the line of the team, rubbing the noses of each: Samson, Clocky, Maysey.

“Go thy ways, Jinney.”

He checked the buckles and bants.

“See them home, Bryn. I must do right by Nan Sarah. And by the stars. And then. Be good, Bryn.”

2

THE PEOPLE FILED out of the chapel into the snow. The catch of the sun lessened the stifle of coals in the stone walls. The air nipped.

“Spirit was in thee today, Dickun,” said Clonter Oakes.

“The Lord trod mightily upon my tongue,” said Richard Turner. “Now let’s be doing to fetch that young youth home.”

Edward Turner joined them. Clonter set off down Flake Pits, but Richard Turner called him back.

“We must go by Nab End.”

“This is aimest.”

“Yay.”

They took the lane past Saltersford and Great Lowes to Nab End three-went.

“There’s been me and Ridges this road,” said Edward. “See at foot marks.”

“He’s up bank,” said Richard Turner.

“Up bank?” said Edward. “He’ll not be up bank in this, Father. It’s deep as owt.”

Clonter lifted his arm.

“Hearken.”

“What?” said Richard Turner.

“Hearken ye.”

In the air there was the small sound of bells, jingling twice, above the drift-filled way.

“It’s him,” said Edward. “Daft beggar.”

They floundered through Ewrin Lane. It was a powder of ice, scarcely hollowed from the unbroken snow.

“Here,” said Clonter.

He had come to a recess, an overhang of the wind, and in it a body was showing dark. It was the lead horse of a train; and it was alive. Richard Turner checked it and moved on. A dog yelped.

“There’s another,” said Clonter.

“Leave them. They’ll thole,” said Edward. “There must be two more. Come up! Come up!” He whistled. The dog yelped again.

“I’ve got ’em,” said Richard Turner, without pausing. He forced himself through the crests.

“Where’s Jack?”

“Where he was shaping to be.”

They found him sitting against Osbaldestone below Buxter Stoops above the three-went. He was clarted with snow to his shoulders. Frost silvered each hair of the black goatskin. His arms stretched out to hold. His skin crackled yellow, and ice clad his beard, mouth, nose and eyes. The eyes were wide; and the dog lay by him and licked his face.

“Eh up. He’s laughing.”

“He’s not that.”

“Shut his een, Dickun.”

“No. Let him see. Worser had he flit; more better has he found.”

“You reckon?”

“Blood’s forever at a three-went.”

Edward leaned across and folded the lids. Splinters fell.

“He’ll do,” said Richard Turner.

“Poor as a rook.”

“I said he’ll do.”

“Look ye. On the stone here,” said Edward. “It’s all over honey.”

“Never,” said Clonter. “Them days are done.”

“Anyroad, it’s sweet.”

“Then whatever’s this?”

“Nowt.” Richard Turner reached forward and brushed the snow with his hand. It made a mark on the white.

“What is it?”

“I said: nowt.”

“But I saw,” said Edward.

“You didn’t see nowt,” said Richard Turner. “Be told.”

“I did see. I did that,” said Clonter. “It was a woman’s.”

“I saw it,” said Edward. “I saw.”

“Footprint. Just one. Print of a woman’s shoe.”

3

“THE MAP DOESN’T say we must keep to the path.”

The way along the ridge was strung with walkers in both directions, urging themselves on their trekking poles.

“Let’s get into Cheshire,” he said. “It’s quiet there.” He pressed down the tangled sheep wire between a break in the walls so that she could cross the boundary.

At once they were on blanket bog and cotton grass. Behind them woollen hats bobbed for a while. The wind was the same, but there was a stillness that the path did not have. Their feet squeezed peat water from the clumps and they kept falling between and catching each other; but it was their own pace at last. Hang gliders, jumping from the scarp of Old Gate Nick, drifted away over Saltersford and down Todd Brook.

They were below the ridge, on a shelving plateau, and beyond was the dark side of Andrew’s Edge, and, in between, a luminous air above the hidden valley. They plodded over the sprung land.

“Fantastic,” she said.

They were on the lip.

“Fan. Tastic.”

“Yes.”

“No. That.”

It was a cube of rock sticking out of the peat a little below them. Its back was buried, its top flat and tilted to give a launch out across the valley. The sides were layered bands, disturbed by running cracks. The front was an arch, and all was hollow within; a cave, a hive, an oven, curved round, with more layers lying on each other, and at the back an upright crevice in the crag, going into the ridge but not through the slab of roof nor through the slab of floor.

“It’s classic.”

“More Gothic. It’s not on the map.”

“Textbook Namurian. Chatsworth Grit.”

“We’re nowhere near Chatsworth.”

“You’re being stupid.” She moved around the rock. Her hands read every layer and fissure, caressed the ripples on the outside of the top and the smooth floor within. “My God, my God, I know this. Marsdenian R-Two.”

“Go on.”

“It’s a dream,” she said. “The recessed eroded scarp face and the dip slope.”

He followed her.

“And the sides. Freeze-thaw joints opening up on the bedding planes, and some cross bedding. The base of the trough. Am I gabbling?”

She looked at him, her hand stilled on the rock.

“No. No. Go on.”

She smiled, excited, nervous. Her hand moved.

“The freeze-thaw doesn’t penetrate through, nor does the sub-vertical master joint. Which suggests. Wait. Wait. I know. The master joint can’t be tectonic. So the horizontal layered joints have developed weaknesses in the bedding and the cross bedding by freeze-thaw processes. Which means. Am I still making sense?”

“Of course.”

“Really?”

“Keep going.”

“Right. Which means the weaknesses are stress phenomena. So the sediments would have been about three kilometres below the sea floor at the time. There’s forestepping here. And here’s a trace of the palæoslope.”

“Stop now.”

They had worked around to the top of the rock.

“What’s wrong?” she said.

“Nothing. Absolutely nothing. You were terrific.”

“Was I?”

“Promise.”

“Did I get it right?”

“You began to rev, that’s all.”

He looked out over the valley, the one ruin of house below, Andrew’s Edge beyond.

“Give me your hand, fair maiden,” he said. “Come and be Cinderella.”

She took his hand and stepped up to the ledge.

“This mark. Put your foot in. There. A perfect fit. So you shall go to the ball.”

“That, you idiot, is a transient artefact of weathering in the laminate.”

“Well, it fits your foot, en passant, as it were.”

They laughed, and went to the cave. They sat on the smooth floor, which made a canopied chair for them, holding them.

“Are you sure it’s natural?”

“Positive.”

They were silent. The wind. Distant sheep.

“There’s a front moving in,” he said. “Shall we be getting on?”

“Not yet. I want it all.”

Silent.

“You can see for ever from here,” he said.

“It depends which way you see it.”

“A womb with a view.”

“Don’t even think of starting that one,” she said.

“Sorry. Freudian lisp.”

“Ian!”

“Ah well. Another damp squid. Cheer up.”

“I’m not down. There’s so much. If you know how to look.”

“Show me,” he said.

“Well. For instance. How far is it to that next ridge?”

He took the map and measured. “About one point two five kilometres.”

She spread her hands on her knees. “Got a calculator?”

“Somewhere.”

“One point two five kilometres,” she said. “Watch this. Divide a million by eleven point two five and multiply by one point two five.”

“Good Lord. It’s exactly one hundred and eleven thousand one hundred and eleven point one recurring.”

“Neat.”

“You knew!”

“Of course I didn’t know. But I like it. Apt.”

“So what does that tell us?” he said.

She moved her gaze from her hands to Andrew’s Edge. “We both look, but we see differently.”

“Meaning?”

“You call it a view. But it’s a song. Such a dance. If I sat and didn’t move for one hundred and eleven thousand one hundred and eleven years, according to you, these fingernails would grow as far as that ridge. Everything’s moving. When here was under the water, it was south of the Equator. And ever since, all of it’s been travelling at about eleven point two five kilometres every million years. It’s still doing it. Here is just where it happens to have got to now. That’s the song. Pangæa. Gondwanaland. The song and the dance.”

“What’s that about your fingernails?”

“It’s another part of the song. Our nails grow at the same rate as continental drift.”

He smiled, but she did not.

“There’s the beauty. If we could only dance more, for longer.” She stood up. “Instead of games. Just word games.” Her eyes were bright. “But that would be selfish. Wouldn’t it?”

“Oh, perispomenon!”

He had been tracing the line of the vertical crack at the back of the cave while she spoke.

“I’ve been stung!”

“Don’t move. The bee’s all right. It’s still attached.”

“I know it’s attached!”

“Keep still. Don’t hurt it.”

She held the bee so that it could not fly. Then slowly, gently, she turned it on his skin until the sting was free. She looked at the bee to check. “There. Off you go. No harm done.”

“I’m harmed!”

“Spray it with some of that anti-histamine from your bag of tricks,” she said. “And let’s walk.”

A track cut down across the steep of the valley, brown on green, more than a path. It had been made, though rough; too mean and rushy to walk, but the bank thrown up to the side was firm enough to wobble on.

She put her arm through his.

“It still hurts.”

“You’ll live.”

“This track isn’t marked, either.”

“But it’s here. So you can put the map away and watch the real thing. Then you won’t sprain your ankle. How’s the hand?”

“Anaphylactic shock can be fatal. Do you think it’s swelling?”

“You tell me. I know you will.”

The track turned back on itself off the rough onto a more lush pasture sliced by gullies, reed lined and wet. Water gurgled all around and they splashed over stones towards a ruin higher up the brook, and the track merged with another, more broken, nearer the house.

“There’s a way out, up to the watershed, along that line of wall,” he said. “It’s nothing but benchmarks.”

They clambered about the ruin: two gable ends of stone, stone wall footings, rotten spars and beams, holes of windows, some still spanned by lintels of twisted, weathered, silver oak, as if a part of something else. Fallen masonry and rubble masked the flagstones. There were gateposts and traces of outbuilding. A silted-up tank, made from four slabs, collected the brown water that ran off the surface above and seeped towards the brook.

He checked on the map. “Thursbitch.”

They crossed the brook at a ford. The main flow came from the head of the valley, and a feeder had cut through the shale to join it. At the point where they met, the bank was higher, and on it a stone.

“This one’s odd,” she said. She ran her hands over it and looked closely. “The sedimentary structures are quite different. And it’s too big for a post; the wrong shape. That top feature has some strong stylisation.”

“Doctor Malley,” he said, “is there anything at all that you do not know?”

She looked at him.

“Let’s find those benchmarks of yours.”

She set off across the reed bog. He plunged after her, to her. They both fell together in the mire, on their knees, black splashing to their faces, hands under the water.

“Sal. I’m sorry. I am so sorry.”