Boneland by Alan Garner Read Free Book Online Page A

into the tube. There was light, and the curve closed over him. A pause, and then he was lapped in clanging, calling sound. The sound stopped. It came again. It was a sound that pierced. And stopped. And came again. He felt himself a part of its din.
    ‘Good heavens.’
    ‘What’s the matter, Colin?’
    ‘Nothing. Nothing.’
    ‘Are you all right?’
    ‘Yes. Please continue.’
    The call rang in the tunnel and became him, so he could not tell which was him, the cry, the tunnel. ‘It is.
Grus grus
.’
    ‘What, Colin?’
    ‘
Grus grus
.’
    ‘Do you want to come out?’
    ‘No. Go on.
Grus grus
. The common crane.’
    ‘That’s fine. Relax.’
    ‘
Grus grus
.
Grus grus
.’
    He closed his eyes. Although he did not move he flew, and the tunnel was a turning sky with stars, five-pointed, red; against his lids. His legs stretched, his throat held the calling; and Time was still.
    ‘We’ve finished, Colin. You’ve done very well. We’re bringing you out now.’
    He did not want it to end. He floated in the night and was one with stars and birds. ‘Don’t stop. Don’t stop the music.’
    ‘Don’t worry. I’m here, Col. I’m not leaving you.’
    The bench slid back. He opened his eyes. The tube passed, and the nurse was standing by. She lifted the cover from his head. ‘Lie there a moment, Colin. That racket can make you dizzy; and we have to check the scan. But you were very good. I thought you’d dropped off to sleep. It’s surprising how it affects different people sometimes.’
    ‘Oh, where? Where are you? Tell me.’
    ‘I’m here, Colin. You can get dressed and go home now. Give me your hand, and we’ll ring for your taxi.’
    Each year he sang and danced in Ludcruck and cut between the worlds to make the beasts free and bring their spirits from behind the rock so that they could spread across the land. And in winter he watched the Bull climb the wall of the sky cave and the Stone Spirit riding to send out eagles to feed the stars. All this he did, though it brought no woman. But every year the sun turned, because of the dance.
    Colin rolled the empty oil drum along the floor of the quarry to the hut. He went back and rolled another. He brought out a notebook, callipers, a flexible rule and a pair of dividers, and put them on the table. He tipped the first drum upright and set it level and fixed rocks about it to hold it steady. Then he lifted a stone in both hands and, using it as a maul, began to beat the flat top, moving round the rim and inwards, depressing the surface with dimples. The banging echoed on the rocks.
    Round and round he went, so that the metal bent evenly without rupturing the join to the rim. The head of the drum became a dish. He dropped the maul and picked up a mallet and continued round, smoothing the dimples and working the middle down so that the dishing grew steeper. When it was the right depth he took a soft-faced ball-peen hammer and worked more gently, removing the irregularities, making the skin smooth.
    He looked at his notes, and measured the hollow, checking with the callipers and marking points with the dividers. Next, he scored a line about the side of the drum, keeping one leg of the dividers against the rim. He lifted the drum, laid it down and worked along the line with mallet and a blunt chisel, driving slots, until with a single knock the top was free. He took it and threw it onto a fire of pallets he had stacked, and he sat and drank water from a can while the fire died.
    He pulled the drum head from the ashes and quenched it, and when it had cooled he sat on the ground with it between his legs, read his notes and scored more lines inside the dish with callipers and dividers, turning, checking, turning, checking.
    He linked a piezo tuner to the rim and went on tapping.
    ‘Da-di-dum, ti-dum-ti-dumti—’ He tapped to the readings of the tuner. ‘—Dove an-drò senza il mio ben?—’ The metal showed the physics of the scoring. The lines drew together as