‘Cripes!’
Joe let go of the post. He flung himself against the stench, the sour, into the coat, onto the vile beneath. And the man opened his arms to let him in, but did not hold him.
Joe roared. He yelled. He retched. Then he pushed himself away and crawled to the opposite sill, and sat, his wrists on his knees, shaking; his head drooped.
‘It was a hurlothrumbo of winter,’ said the man. ‘A lomperhomock of night. Nothing more.’
Joe could not speak.
‘But summer is nearly come.’
Joe lifted his head. ‘Treacle.’
‘Treacle.’
‘Walker.’
‘Treacle Walker I have in this land.’
‘What sort of a name is that?’
‘I heal.’
‘Heal. Make better.’
‘All things; save jealousy. Which none can.’
He opened his bag, and took out a bone. It was a shin; narrow; old; hollow; yellow; crazed with black lines; polished; and holes cut in, and a slit at one end.
‘What’s that?’ said Joe.
‘I made it from a man that sang.’
‘Can I have a see?’
Treacle Walker passed the bone to Joe. He held it and felt its shape.
‘What’s it for?’
Treacle Walker took back the bone, put his mouth to the slit, his fingers on the holes, closed his eyes, and played. The chimney filled with tune.
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.
Joe sat and did not speak. The chimney was silent.
‘It is the way for him to sing now,’ said Treacle Walker.
‘Can I have a go?’
Treacle Walker passed the bone across the fire basket.
‘What must I do?’
‘Hold. And breathe.’
Joe put the bone to his lips. ‘Like this?’ He blew. The notes came, pure; the call of a cuckoo.
Across the valley, a cuckoo answered.
‘Did you hear that? Cuckoo!’
‘Unfound bones sing louder. Draw a pail of water.’
‘You what?’ said Joe.
‘Draw a pail of water.’ Treacle Walker held out his hand for the bone.
‘You’re daft. You are. Daft.’
‘Joseph Coppock. Draw the pail.’
‘That’s you. Daft. Right enough.’ But Joe went out to the well and pumped a bucket of water. He came back and banged it down. ‘You and your hurlolomperjobs. I near cacked me.’
‘Stone the step,’ said Treacle Walker.
‘How do you mean, “stone”?’
‘Put the donkey stone to the water, then rub the step.’
‘All of it?’
‘All.’
‘Why?’
‘To keep the house.’
‘I don’t get you,’ said Joe.
‘Do it.’
‘Show me.’
‘Not I. The stone is yours,’ said Treacle Walker.
‘Oh, ta very much I’m sure.’
Joe opened the door, and knelt. The stone fitted his hand, the horse against his palm, and he dipped it in the water.
‘Eh up!’
‘What is it?’ said Treacle Walker from inside the chimney.
‘My name again! On the stone! Silver! Letters! At the side. All round! My name!’
‘The stone is for you. You are for the stone.’
‘They’ve gone. I can’t see them.’
‘And why should you, once you know?’
‘But they were there.’
‘Do it.’
‘They were. You’re daft. Like I said.’
‘Do it.’
‘Daft as a brush.’
Joe rubbed the donkey stone on the step. The grey left a white mark. He dipped and rubbed, dipped and rubbed, until the step was all over white and shining.
‘Is it done?’ said Treacle Walker.
‘Yes.’
Treacle Walker came from the chimney and looked at the step.
‘Keep it so.’
‘Why?’
‘“Every why has its wherefore.” Or hasn’t it?’
‘Get away with your bother,’ said Joe.
Treacle Walker looked out across the valley.
‘“Iram, biram, brendon, bo,
Where did all the children go?
They went to the east. They went to the west.
They went where the cuckoo has its nest.”’
He looked down.
‘Such tarradiddles, Joseph Coppock. Such macaronics. Such nominies for a young head. And if I had been young? If. If I had been. If I had.’