Joe got off the settle and sat in the chimney. The sick headache had cleared. He took the paper out of his pocket, and spread it on his knee and read what he had written.
H
IC
LAP
ISEX
ILISE
XTATPR
ETIOQVO
QVEVILIS
SPERNITV
RASTVLTISA
MATVRPLVS
ABEDOCTIS
What the dickens?
Outside the door, close by, a cuckoo called. Joe stuffed the paper back and opened the door. Nothing.
‘Where are you?’
A call came from the alders.
‘Wait your sweat!’
Joe put his wellies on. He took his catapult and went into the yard, picked up small pebbles and dropped them in his pockets. He went through the gate and down Big Meadow, climbed over the earth bank that bordered the trees and onto the bog, catapult at the ready.
The copse was old and had long not been worked. The stems from the root stools had grown to full trunks, making islands of clumps with the roots running and twining among dead leaves, and black water beneath. Where light came through there were thickets of undergrowth: nettles, brambles and whatever else could live.
He put his catapult in his pocket and moved from stool to stool, feeling for roots to stand on. If he slipped, his leg sank in deeper than his wellies and he had to grab and pull himself out against the suck.
‘Where are you?’
The cuckoo called to his front. He went on into the bog.
The bog dragged at him. Soon he had to stop and rest against a tree. Mosquitoes whined and bit. The only sounds were the wings of insects. The air was heavy with marsh smells. There was no wind, and what sky there was showed all one bronze.
The cuckoo called to his left. He turned. It called to his right. He splashed towards it. Now it was behind. Joe braced himself between two trunks to get his breath.
‘Give over messing!’
The cuckoo answered from another side. Then another. It was all around him. And another. Another. Another. Another. Another. ‘Give over!’ Another.
‘Right, then! If that’s the game, I’m out! No barleys!’
Joe looked for his tracks to go back, but there were none; only the black water, the red veins of root, the dead leaves and mire. The sky was no guide. He moved his patch to use his good eye in the gloom. The alders stood so close he could not see the fields; but the copse was small, and if he walked straight he would come to the earth bank or find the brook and follow that. Joe set off, keeping to each tree in front for his line.
And the cuckoo was all about him, in the air, in his ears, in his lungs, in his head.
His bones hurt from the pull of the mud, and his hands stung on the roots and lost their feeling so that they did not grip. His wellies were full and heavy with water. But he went on.
He went on. He went till he could not go. He put his arms round a trunk. Everywhere was the same. He had walked straight, he knew. The copse was not big. But however he moved there was nothing beyond: no bank, no brook, no field, no end; only cuckoo, wet, and slutch.
He fell on the alder stool. ‘Help!’
A man sat up in the bog. ‘Why the stramash, Joseph Coppock,’ he said, ‘and you with the stone in your pocket?’
He wore a close hood made of leather, tied under his chin. The rest of him was bare. Hood and skin and eyes were all the same copper brown.
Joe lay across the stool, held between the trunks.
‘May a body not rest in his bog?’ said the man.
‘Can’t …’
‘“Can’t never did.”’
‘… get.’
‘Is that it? Is that the hue and the cry you woke me for?’
‘No … way. All … over. Same.’
‘Move the dish clout and shut your glims.’
‘Damn …’
‘Do it.’
‘Bloody …’
‘Do it.’
Joe lifted his patch to his forehead and shut his eyes.
‘Are you seeing me?’
‘Bloody damn …’
‘Open a glim.’
‘Piss off …’ He opened his good eye.
‘Are you seeing me?’
‘Piss off!’
‘Off or on are one to me. Shut that glim and open the other. Do it.’
Joe grabbed a trunk. ‘Where are you? Where’ve you gone?’
He opened his good eye again. The man was there and had not moved.
The bog spun. ‘Where were you?’
‘Where I am, Joseph Coppock,’ said the man. ‘And where were you?’
Joe shut his good eye and looked with the other. He could not see the man. He changed over. The man was there. He changed again. He changed back. And changed again. It was always the same. His good eye saw the man; his weak eye saw only the bog. With both eyes open he saw, but not as clearly in the blur.
‘Are we going to be at peep-bo till night?’ said the man. ‘Or shall we be getting you out of here and me to me dreamings?’
‘What’s up with my eyes?’
‘You have the glamourie,’ said the man. ‘In just the one. And that’s no bad thing, if you have the knowing. She’ll be the governor while you learn the hang of it, and when you’ve got that you’ll be fine as filliloo. But you need the both of them. What sees is seen.’
The man stood. Water and leaves dripped from him.
‘Shut the glamourie and turn about. And when you’ve looked, open her again.’
Joe twisted his head round and closed his good eye. He saw the green of Big Meadow between the trees, and above it the house. The copse was small, and the bank near. He opened the good eye. The bog was everywhere.
‘And that’s the way to do it,’ said the man.
Joe kept his good eye shut, and worked himself upright. He left the alder stool and trod across to the bank and over into Big Meadow. He opened his eye and looked back. The man was standing behind him.
‘Use the two glims together,’ he said, ‘till we get you home. And after, don’t wear your clout. For though at the first you’ll be in a flustication with it all, you’ll be needing the both. I’ve tellt you. What sees is seen.’
‘Come with us,’ said Joe. ‘I don’t feel right.’
‘I’ll not,’ said the man. ‘I must have me bog and me trees, else I’ll be drying out, and that won’t do. The sweet smiling of a step will hold you safe. But we can sit here on the bank till you’re fit to go; and you can tell me why you were clanjandering in me bog at all.’
‘I wanted to see the cuckoo.’
‘Why heed cuckoo?’
‘I want to see it,’ said Joe. ‘It comes every year. But I’ve never seen. Only heard.’
‘Well, well.’
‘What’s that mean?’
‘Well, well.’
‘Anyroad, I collect birds’ eggs. I’ve got ever so many; all sorts.’
‘How?’ said the man. ‘An egg got is an egg gone.’
‘I’m not with you.’
‘Why, it’s eaten.’
‘You don’t eat them,’ said Joe. ‘You make a hole at either end with your knife and blow them. Then you put the shells in the case.’
‘For what?’ said the man.
‘So you can see at them.’
‘Why?’
‘To learn you. About birds.’
‘They do? And how are you to get cuckoo’s egg?’
‘You listen. Then when you hear it you follow it and pop it with your catapult and get the egg. But only one. You leave the rest.’
‘For cuckoo?’
‘Yes. If you took them all it wouldn’t be fair.’
‘Oh, you’re the very know-all of cuckoo!’ said the man. ‘You have the book of him!’
‘What’s so funny?’ said Joe.
‘I’m laughing for the joy of meeting such a high-learnt cuckoo young-feller-me-lad as yourself.’
‘I’ve been at it a while,’ said Joe. ‘That’s why. But I haven’t got a cuckoo yet.’
‘And I wish you the luck on it there,’ said the man. ‘So I do. But you’re the delight of the ages to me; for there’s little laughing in a bog. And less in dreaming.’
‘Why’ve you got no clothes on?’ said Joe.
‘And wouldn’t they be drenched, if I had?’ said the man.
‘What’s the hat for, then?’
‘Against the rain.’
‘Who are you?’ said Joe.
‘Thin Amren is the name. And that’s enough. I’m not the one to be out of the water. I need me wetness. Now think on what I’ve tellt you. And to show the meaning, put the clout to the glamourie and use the glim that’s in the mirligoes.’
Joe moved his patch down. ‘What’s mirlithingies?’ he said.
The man was not to be seen.
Joe ran.