“BONELESS!!”
He sat up, flailing his head and arms. The dog yelped and leapt to the wall, barking.
“Shurrup, Gyp!” Esther shouted. The dog whined.
“Boneless!”
“Wake up, love. You’re dreaming.”
“Boneless. It’s Boneless!”
She held him, and he stank of fear.
“It was a bad dream,” she said; but, awake now, there was terror still in him, and he shook and nestled into her, a child, sobbing.
“It’s him. It’s Boneless.”
“You make no sense.”
The sobbing died, and the only sound was his breath, deep and quick. She held him.
“What’s ‘Boneless’?” said Esther.
The words fell from him, without pause, broken only by the rasping air.
“It’s Boneless come for to ketch me, and Granny calls me a nowt and tells me get back to sleep, but I can’t, I’m that feart.
“Then me Grandad, he sends me go robmawkin on Tiddy Turnock. And Tiddy has this mawkin in his field, and it isn’t any old mawkin. No. Tiddy must have summat different; and he’s rigged up this contraption, like a gallows, sort of thing, with the mawkin hanging from it, and clog soles on its arms for clattering, and the whole lot turns in the wind. Well, me Grandad fancies the red weskit and the britches that are on this here mawkin; so he gives me his own weskit and britches and sends me for fetch Tiddy’s. So I go. I’m only little. And this mawkin is big. Tiddy’s made it out of old sacks and stuffed them with grass, and cut holes for the face, and the grass is sticking out of its eyes and its nose and out of its mouth, and I don’t like it, not one bit.
“Anyroad, I ketches hold on it, and I’m carrying Grandad’s weskit and britches, and I tries get weskit and britches off mawkin, but it won’t hang still. It keeps twisting and turning, and seems like it’s ketching hold on me instead. And then it falls over, on top of me, and its great face and all that grass are staring at me in the moon, and it’s soft and then it’s Boneless; and I let out such a skrike, and run all the way back home. And doesn’t Grandad tan my hide! But ever since, that mawkin comes at me, and I know it’s Boneless.”
“There, love,” said Esther. “It’s gone now. It was a dream.”
“It’s real,” said William. “But it’s different tonight. I know him. And sky’s purple.”
“Who is he, then?” said Esther.
“I’m his uncle. But I can’t be, can I? And he wants summat. He wants me to get him summat.”
“What?”
“A crow. He wants me get him a crow. That’s daft. Mawkins are for scaring crows, not fetching them.”
“Eh, dear. Best be doing, love,” said Esther. “It’s light already, see.” The day was shining through the cracks in the wall panels of the barn, between the timbers.
“And I’ve got a sick headache,” said William.
“Where’s it hurt?”
“Here. This side. I’m bilious.”
“You’re always the same, you, after sitting up.”
“I can’t help it. I’m bilious.”
“Come here,” said Esther. “Give us your head.”
William lifted his head out of her lap, and she cradled it, stroking his brow. She sang.
“‘Lu lay, lu lay,
Lu lara lay;
Bayu, bayu,
Lu lara lay;
Hush-a-bye, lu lay.’”
“Sing that again.”
“‘Lu lay, lu lay,
Lu lara lay;
Bayu, bayu,
Lu lara lay;
Hush-a-bye, lu lay.’”
“I like that.”
There was the clumping of boots outside the barn, and a stick banged on the walls.
“Come on! Let’s be having you! Cow wants milking! And you! Get the straw out of your arse and lay the fire!”
“He’s got a sick headache!” said Esther, trying to be loud without hurting.
“What the ferrips do you get up to, the pair on you?” shouted Grandad. “You must be a right un!”
“He’s bilious!”
“Bilious be buggered! I want my breakfast!”
Esther pulled her clothes together. “You stay there,” she whispered. “I’ll see to the old devil.” She went out of the barn, opening the door as little as she could, to keep the dark. “I’m coming! Wait your sweat!”
William lay in the straw, his hands to his head, moaning. The dog snarled. He opened his eyes.
“No.”
The timbers of the barn, wall and roof glowed and shimmered with rainbow patterns: lines, curved and crooked; dots, spots and twisted circles; some like the shapes he saw in his head when the pain was bad, but not all; and every one was on the timber, and on only the timber, leaving no space. The wood was carved with light. And the May dawn wind that was blowing around the barn carried a sound in it, like none he had ever heard, unless it was women wailing; but never as he had heard women; and it was faint, though near. And the dog heard it, he could see, and the dog was watching the light in the wood, too.
“Bloody no.”
He threw the door open and ran into the sun, which screamed in his brain, but this he knew, and he ran to the house and into the kitchen and threw himself onto the settle. The dog stayed in the barn, watching.
“Lie still,” said Esther; and she left the fire and poured vinegar into a bowl, steeped a cloth in the vinegar, squeezed it, and laid it as a poultice on William’s forehead.
“I’m badly. I’m badly.”
“Lie still,” she said again. “It’s best.”
And he lay still, all through the morning, his eyes shut, because of the light that was sound; and the sound that was lights slowly changed back to the right way, and the pain died, until he heard a thrush and a blackbird singing, clear as dew, the only sounds in the world, as they were when the sick headache left him.
Esther came and sat with him. She washed the china plate, and dried it with a clean cloth. “It’s beautiful,” she said. “Isn’t it? I wonder who all them folks are: him in the boat, and three on the bridge. And what are they doing? Fishing, or running or what? And they’ve all getten pigtails. Are they sailors?” But he was too weak to move, and he fell into a sleep.
The dog’s barking woke him. A horse stopped in the lane, and there was a knock at the door. Esther went to open it, and he heard her talking.
“Who is it?” shouted Grandad from beside the fire. “What they wanting?”
“It’s Mr Yedart.”
“Let him in!”
Grandad pushed Esther aside. He spoke a formal welcome, broadening his voice to the custom.
“Come thi ways within air o’ th’ fire, Mr Yedart, and get some warmship.”
Edward Stanley took off his hat and entered.
“Good day to you, Mr Buckley, sir.”
“Sit thi down. Tek thi bacca. Stick thi nose up chimney,” said Grandad, ending the ritual.
Edward smiled his thanks, but refused the man’s chair, taking one from beside the table. “And when and at what hour is the churching?” he said.
“That’s for you to ask and us to know,” said Grandad.
“Ah. Then what is wrong with you, William?” said Edward.
“It’s an allegar poultice for his sick headache,” said Esther.
“‘Sick headache’!” said Grandad. “Yay. And you ask him how he gets them Saturday nights regular! ‘Sick headache’, ay, bigod. He’s a right un. Soft as me pocket. ‘Sick headache’! So what’s he going to do with cockle-bread? ‘Sick headache’, as sure as a red pig for an acorn!”
William started to pull himself up, but Edward stopped him. “Stay there,” he said. “I’ve come for your hand practice, and to leave you some other.”
“Will Sir John not be vexed?” said Grandad.
“How shall he be vexed when he does not know?” said Edward.
“He doesn’t mind his servants reading,” said Esther.
“I’m no servant,” said Grandad, “and I don’t read.”
Edward laughed. “He suffers reading because servants may take instruction thereby. But with writing: with writing, one may instruct. There he is not so generous. And noise of revolution aids little.”
“Ay, well, here’s what youth wrote last night,” said Grandad, and opened the cupboard and gave Edward the sheets of paper and the emblazoned book. “And I’d be a sight happier if yon were out of this house. I’m not inclined to dance at the sheriff’s ball, me.”
“It would never come to that,” said Edward. “You have my word.”
“Yay,” said Grandad.
Edward looked at the sheets. His face stiffened. He looked again, closely.
“William. What is this?” His voice was cold.
“Real writing, Yedart.”
“‘Real writing’? This?”
“The best I was able,” said William.
“This?”
Edward pulled the cloth from William’s brow and thrust the paper at him. William looked, through half-closed eyes, which opened when he saw. There were no exercises. Below each example were drawn patterns of dots and circles and waves and zigzag and criss-crossed lines, many as he had seen in the barn, some as on the blue plate; and the last example had under it the shape of a serpent made up of the parts in the foolish lines.
“I never!”
“I do not risk my father’s wrath,” said Edward, “in order to be made a mockery by a peasant.”
“I never.”
“You shall fulfil your promise, as I have seen it in you. You will write this again.”
Edward flung more paper onto the settle and stalked to the door.
“Your servant, Mr Buckley,” he said, and he pointed the word.
“Leave the book!” William shouted. “Don’t take me brid and babby!”
“‘Brid and babby’?” said Edward. He opened the book, and read aloud. “‘What in me is dark illumine, what is low raise and support; that to the heighth of this great Argument I may assert Eternal Providence, and justify the ways of God to men.’” It would seem that you may have work to do yet, William, before you are competent to philosophise on matters such as this.” And he snapped the book shut, thrust it into his pocket and left the room. Esther closed the door after him.
William stared at the paper and at what had been done.
“Well, you’ve flewen high and let in a cow clap at last,” said Grandad. “And no error.”
William swung his feet down to the floor. “I wrote proper. I did.” “‘But when, quoth Kettle to his mare,’” said Grandad.
William took out the pen and ink and sat at the table. He spread the paper and began to write.
“I’ll show him. I did.”
“Anyroad, it looks like you’ve forgotten your sick headache,” said Grandad.