Both Joes yelled. Treacle Walker moved from the sill and put himself between them.
‘Stand apart.’
He gripped one in each hand by the neck, his arms wide, and hefted them into the chimney. From the alders a cuckoo called, over and over.
Cuckoo. Cuckoo. Cuckoo. Cuckoo. Cuckoo. Cuckoo. Cuckoo.
He sat the two of them across from each other with the fire basket between.
‘Do not touch. Do not speak. Do not look in the eyes.’
He took the bone from his bag, and he played.
It was a tune with wings, trampling things, tightened strings, boggarts and bogles and brags on their feet; the man in the oak, sickness and fever, that set in long, lasting sleep the whole great world with the sweetness of sound the bone did play.
‘What the heck was all that about?’ said Joe. He swung his feet round on the settle, put his head in his hands.
‘Tell me,’ said Treacle Walker.
‘I can’t –’
‘Tell me.’
‘I – can’t.’
‘Tell me.’
‘I’m – asleep,’ said Joe. ‘And I’m dreaming. I know I am. There’s hoof prints in the yard. Silver. All silver. I follow them. Through the tunnel. To Common Dean. It’s moonlight of a sudden. I follow them. Every step. To Round Meadow. Then they go. I can’t see them. Then I hear you playing that bone thingy. Under the ground. It wakes me. But I’m not in bed. I’m at Round Meadow still. And it’s day. I come back. You’re sat in the chimney. We’ve been talking. About Noony. And a doings. And Stonehenge Kit. And Knockout. And this house. You, going on about ragbone and stars. Then door opens. And it’s me. Stood there and sat in chimney. There’s two of us. Him and me. The same. And I’m frit. More than I’ve ever been. Then there’s two of you. Catching hold. One on either side. Then I hear cuckoo. Then you’re playing thingy again. I’m being dollied and mangled. Then I’m on the settle. I’ve got a sick headache. Where’s Whizzy?’
‘Come to the chimney,’ said Treacle Walker. He sat back on the sill and picked up the Knockout.
‘Why?’ said Joe.
‘It is better.’
Joe got up from the settle and went to sit opposite Treacle Walker.
Treacle Walker reached into his bag and took something and put it by him on the sill.
‘What have you got in there?’ said Joe.
‘My little Corr Bolg?’ said Treacle Walker. ‘This and that. The other and which. Now consider yet again.’ He opened the Knockout. ‘I hold in my hand a semblance of the house, where Whizzy is depicted. But we are in the actual house, in the chimney, looking at that semblance. And here there is no Whizzy.’
‘So we’re all right,’ said Joe.
‘Are we?’ said Treacle Walker.
‘He can’t get in,’ said Joe. ‘The Brit Basher can’t cross the step. I stoned it. See.’
‘There, in the semblance, he cannot,’ said Treacle Walker. ‘Where did you first meet him?’
‘He came down a pole with Whizzy. On to my bed. Then they were in the room, chasing Kit. He’d run into the mirror, and they went after him.’
‘Into the looking-glass?’
‘Yes.’
‘Did the glass not break?’
‘No. I felt it. After. It’s hard.’
‘Yet they passed through.’
‘Somehow.’
‘Some how,’ said Treacle Walker. ‘Some how. Joseph Coppock. What was in is out. And what was out is in.’
‘I stoned the step! You told me to!’
‘I did,’ said Treacle Walker. ‘They cannot cross. Either way. Therefore if they were to come from the glass the step would bar them.’
‘But in Knockout they can’t get in.’
‘And here, where the glass is, they cannot leave. There is the crux.’
‘So what must we do?’ said Joe.
‘“We”? The burden is yours.’
‘Why me?’
‘It is you that dreams.’
‘I’m not dreaming! I’m awake! I am!’
‘How do you know that?’
‘I do know! I knew I was dreaming when I went to Round Meadow!’
‘And then you woke. And where were you but in your dream?’
‘You’re set on flummoxing me!’
‘And if I am not?’
‘You are! You! You! You big soft Nelly!’
‘That is an appellation new to me,’ said Treacle Walker. ‘How may it be construed?’
‘Sod off!’
Treacle Walker stood and ducked under the mantel beam.
‘Where are you going?’ said Joe.
‘To observe the imperative,’ said Treacle Walker. ‘If I may.’ He went to the door and out into the yard.
‘Hang on!’
Treacle Walker sat at the front corner of the cart and took up the reins. Joe ran to him.
‘I didn’t mean it.’ He held the bridle. ‘Don’t leave us.’
‘Come up, then, Joseph Coppock.’
Joe climbed onto the cart and sat next to Treacle Walker.
‘Can I have a go?’
‘Do as you will.’
Joe took the reins.
‘What’s her name?’
‘She has no name,’ said Treacle Walker.
‘Why not?’
‘She has no need.’
‘That’s daft.’ Joe slapped the reins. ‘Gee up!’
The pony put its head down to graze.
‘Gee up!’
It flicked its ears again.
‘Gee up! Gee up!’
The pony did not even look.
‘What’s to do with her?’
‘Nothing,’ said Treacle Walker.
‘Then why won’t she shift?’
‘You do not have the Words.’
‘What words?’
‘The Words that give you leave.’
‘What “leave”?’
‘To command,’ said Treacle Walker.
‘What are they?’
‘Who knows?’
‘Oh, we’re on that game, are we?’ said Joe. ‘Well, I’m not playing.’
‘As you wish,’ said Treacle Walker.
Joe dropped the reins and looked behind him.
‘You’ve still got that box.’
‘True,’ said Treacle Walker.
‘Can I have another see at it?’
‘You may.’
Joe went to the back of the cart.
‘It’s not the same.’
‘How is it not?’ said Treacle Walker.
‘There’s no name on the plate,’ said Joe. ‘There’s no nothing.’
‘Why should it hold a name?’ said Treacle Walker.
‘I saw it. It was my name.’
Joe lifted the lid. The chest was empty.
‘There’s nowt there! Where’ve they gone?’
‘Where have what gone?’ said Treacle Walker.
‘All them jugs and plates.’
‘There was one,’ said Treacle Walker. ‘You took it.’
‘There was lots! It was full!’
‘They were shimmerings. You chose the true.’
‘I don’t get you,’ said Joe.
‘A rainbow is not the light.’
‘I could have taken summat else.’
‘And you would have held nothing.’
‘Flipping heck.’ Joe shut the lid.
‘There are more matters than philosophy,’ said Treacle Walker. ‘Go down. I’m to my sod.’
Joe climbed off the cart and stood in the yard. Treacle Walker took the reins, and the pony lifted its head and walked to the gate.
‘Then what about my jamas? What did you want them for?’
The pony turned along Big Meadow.
‘They are against the day,’ said Treacle Walker from beyond the hedge.
‘And the lamb!’
‘Delectable.’