Boneland. Part 5

The cave faced the star that did not turn, and he sat at the cave mouth through the day and sang the sun along until night filled with black and the sky River ran into the cave of bones, then lifted above the crags so that Crane could fly. He sang Crane round from its lowmost up to its height to bring the day. And when he saw that the sun had woken he made the fire heap strong and lit the pine, stood, and went to the cave.

He entered the chamber and raised the torch to the bird cut nesting in the roof. He saw it, and its eye saw him. He pa.s.sed the slots of women, which made the tracks of birds, along the walls and by beasts that he knew in Ludcruck.

He left the cave, into a pa.s.sage to where he had to crawl, to the place of the Dark and of the Woman. She had no head, but her b.r.e.a.s.t.s were rumps, and her legs were two cranes plunging.

There was nowhere else for him, nothing else to do. He had to reach the life within her. He slid his hand along the necks into the cleaving. He felt. He drew his hand out from the wall. His fingers were dry. There was no blood. The rock was dead.

Wolf! Wolf! Grey Wolf! I am calling for you!

Far away the Grey Wolf heard, and came.

Here am I, the Grey Wolf.

There is no one to be; no one to give my flesh to the air, to take my bones to the cliff and the nooks of the dead. No one shall cut the bulls. No one shall watch. The Stone Spirit shall not send eagles. The stars must end. The sun must die. Crane shall fly alone. All shall be winter the wanderers and the moon.

That is not Trouble. The Trouble is yet to come. Sit up on me, the Grey Wolf.

He sat up on the shoulder. The Grey Wolf struck the damp earth and ran, higher than the trees, lower than the clouds, and each leap measured a mile; from his feet flint flew, spring spouted, lake surged and mixed with gravel dirt, and birch bent to the ground. Hare crouched, boar bristled, crow called, owl woke, and stag began to bell. And the Grey Wolf stopped.

They were in Ludcruck at the wall of the bird spirits. The skin bag was before him, and a crane bone lay beside.

Get down from me, the Grey Wolf. Cut. Dance. Sing. Bring. Do not forget.

How shall I cut dance sing bring and not forget when the end is nothing?

Long hair, short wit. I, the Grey Wolf, am speaking. Do it. I come three times. No more.

The Grey Wolf struck the damp earth and was gone.

'h.e.l.lo. This is Colin Whisterfield. May I speak to Doctor Ma.s.sey, please?'

'Can I take a message, Professor?'

'No. I'm afraid not. I must speak to her. Now.'

'Please hold.'

'Hi, Colin.'

'Meg. I need to see you. Today.'

'Well, that was quick. Of course you can.'

'What time?'

'Whenever. Take care.'

'h.e.l.lo. Is that High Forest Taxis?'

'It is indeed, Professor Whisterfield.'

'I have to go from Alderley to Toft. Now. As soon as possible. And I'd like the driver to be Bert. He knows where I am. Thanks. Thanks very much. You're so kind.'

He left the quarry for the road and paced until the taxi came.

'Eh up, Colin. Are you all right? What's it today, then?' said Bert. 'The nut house?'

'It's not as far as Barcelona.'

'No worries.' Colin sat in the front. Bert whistled as he drove, and kept winking at Colin. They turned onto the drive. Meg was by the house, lopping holly branches.

'Hi, Colin. Hi, Bert.'

'Hi, Doc,' said Bert.

'Go in, Colin,' said Meg. 'I'll stow the gear and be with you.'

'Watch them gullantines, Doc,' said Bert, 'else they'll have you.'

Colin went to the library and looked out over the lawns.

'I didn't know you knew Bert,' he said.

'Bert and I go back a long way.'

Only, in all the world, he entered the lodge.

'Am I mad?' said Colin.

'Not yet,' said Meg.

'But a voice. That's psychosis.'

'Depends on the voice,' said Meg. 'Have you heard it before?'

'No.'

'Did you recognise it?'

'Yes.'

'A real person?'

'-Yes.'

'You don't sound too sure.'

'I think,' said Colin.

'Oh, you "think",' said Meg. 'Now. Let's unpick this. You hear a voice you've not heard before, and you "think" it's the voice of someone you recognise. Dead or alive?'

'I don't know. I don't know. I don't know. I don't know. I don't know. I must find her.'

'You just hold your water. So it's a "she".'

'Yes.'

'How can you tell? A whisper is voiceless. Hard to differentiate.'

'She calls me Col. No one else does. No one else knows. It's just between the two of us. At secret times.'

'"Did" or "does"? "Knew" or "knows"?'

'Does. Knows.'

'So it's all in the present.'

'It depends on whether time is linear,' said Colin.

'Who is she? Was she?'

Colin began to cry.

'Who, Colin?'

'My sister.'

'What's her name?'

'I-can't remember.'

Meg took Colin by the hand.

'Come up, love. Come up.'

She helped him from the chair and walked him across the room to the French windows.

'I'm sorry,' he said. 'I never cry.'

'Why not? I do. Does me a world of good. You're always apologising. Stop. Let it go. You're OK. Let it go.'

They stood, hand in hand, looking at the sunlit gardens of spring. Wrench by wrench Colin's tears turned to dew on his cheeks.

'What's that rock over there?' he said.

The distant flat horizon was broken by a bluff.

'Beeston,' said Meg. 'Shall we start now?'

'Start what?'

'Sc.r.a.ping off the crud.' She took him back to the chair, sat herself opposite and opened his file. 'This is the most G.o.d-awful collection of tunnel-visioned codswallop I've seen in all my born puff. There's not a trace of insight, imagination, flexibility, humanity, humility in it. Apart from Eric. It's you that has to conform to the preconceptions of others, and when you don't you're closed down with dope to make you go away. Wuthering dry w.a.n.kers. They don't want to learn. I'm being unprofessional, of course. You understand.'

'What does it say?' said Colin.

'What doesn't it? About the only thing missing is athlete's foot.'

'Oh, I have that,' said Colin. 'I have that, too. Tinia pedis. In summer, by and large, or when using occluded footwear for long periods. I treat it symptomatically. I wash the affected part first and dry it well; then either spray with a fungicide, avoiding inhalation and the eyes, or I can use a cream, twice daily; usually a miconazole nitrate base. It's important to continue the treatment for ten days after the symptoms have disappeared, to prevent them from coming back.'

'That's true,' said Meg. 'Most people do stop too soon. Shall we go on?'

'Yes, of course,' said Colin. 'But it can be a most aggressive itch.'

'It can. Meanwhile, back at the ranch,' said Meg, 'as far as there is a consensus, it's that you're an immature uncooperative hysterical depressive Asperger's, with an IQ off the clock, for what that's worth; which is zilch unless you use it.'

'I can't help being intelligent,' said Colin. 'I'm not contagious.'

'But that's what scares them: the IQ. Makes them defensive and aggressive at the same time. The pack turns on the outsider. Eric says you play games if you think anyone's getting too close. You tried it on with me as soon as we met, as well as now. Some of this, then, could be you farting about. Or are you? If it was as easy as that we could tank you up and all live happily ever after. But you would not. Cutting your emotional b.a.l.l.s off would solve nothing. Colin, has no one spotted the truly weird part of you?'

'What's that?'

'Your tail feathers. They're grotesque.'

He looked behind him. 'There aren't any.'

'Oh, come on. That doesn't wash with me. Concentrate, will you? MA, M.Sc. Clever boy. D.Phil. Fine. D.Sc. Right. FRS, FRAS. Congratulations. M.Theol. A bit de trop for an astrophysicist? Then, perhaps not.'

'It takes two lines to get your qualifications on an envelope,' said Colin.

'My inferiority complex,' said Meg. 'Nothing to write home about. But you, matey, you're something else. What's this truckload of Masters'? Archaeology and Anthropology? Geography? Geology? What's going on? It's barmy. How's your s.e.x life?'

'That's not important.'

'Does the thought make you puke?'

'No. I've got colleagues. They're good colleagues.'

'Have you talked to any of them about this?' said Meg.

'They wouldn't understand what's wrong. They don't think anything is. They don't know what it's like. Inside. For them it's only fun, even though I tell them it isn't. You see, I don't delete. Anything. Ever.'

'Are you saying you've got an eidetic memory?' said Meg.

'My colleagues think I have,' said Colin. 'But it's not that I don't delete. I can't delete. I can't delete. Not even dreams.'

'Oh, heck,' said Meg. 'What were you doing at half past eleven on the evening of November 7th two years ago?'

'Arthur's tracking an anomaly near 24 Tauri for me, and I'm supervising some postgrad researchers with the Mark II on the Taurids maximum at Right Ascension 53 Declination +24.'