The Moon of Gomrath (6 page)

“You try too hard. Be not so nimble-witted!” said Uthecar. “Consider: it is said that the sword that lies by the Sleeper in Fundindelve would cleave a hair on water, draw blood from the wind. But would you use its temper to fell this oak? So here: the Brollachan is of the Old Evil – it does not move on such airy planes as Cadellin knows. For the Old Evil the Old Magic is best. Against any army a thousand strong give me the king's sword, but for this oak I would be having the cottar's axe.”

“I had not thought that way,” said Albanac. “You may be right. And we must leave no hope untried. But what Old Magic is there now? It sleeps, and should not be woken.”

“Alas, I have no head for such things,” said Uthecar. “I was asking the lios-alfar, but they would never look so low.”

“But what shall we do?” cried Albanac. Uthecar's words seemed to have put new life into him. Even Colin, though bewildered, caught some of the fire.

“If I were thinking, not knowing much of lore, of what would be the strongest charm for all ill times,” said Uthecar, “I should say the Mothan. But where it may grow in this flat southern land, I could not be telling.”

“The Mothan!” said Albanac. “I have heard of it! But it is a magic plant, not easy to be found, and we have three days.”

“Tell me about it,” said Colin. “I'll find it.”

Uthecar looked at him. “Ay. It would take such purpose as I see in you.

“It is a fickle plant: it grows only on the heights of the old, straight track, and flowers only in the full of the moon.”

“It's full moon tomorrow night!” cried Colin. “Where is this track?”

Both he and Albanac were on their feet, but Uthecar stayed where he was.

“There are many tracks. All are lost. I know of two beyond Minith Bannawg, but not even an elf could be there in time. There may be others here. If you stand on the old, straight track when the full moon will rise along it, then you will see it: it is hidden at all other times.”

“Are there any here?” said Colin wildly, turning to Albanac.

“I do not know. Again, I have heard of them: but they
were made at a time before dwarfs, and before wizards. And they are part of the Old Magic, though we do not know their purpose, and dead things stir when
it
moves.”

“Look! I've
got
to find this track! There must be a way. Why did you tell me about it if you knew it was no use?”

“I was wondering if the track is known here,” said Uthecar. “Alas, it is not. But catch courage! It is the Old Magic, simple, warm. Faith and resolution can touch its heart. If the Mothan is to be found, you will find it, though I know not where it may be.”

“But how shall I start to look for it?” said Colin.

“Believe that help will come: search: try: think of Susan: never lose heart. Be here tomorrow at this time, and we may have better news.”

Colin walked back to Highmost Redmanhey unaware of his surroundings. The old, straight track: the old, straight track. It was all so vague. The old, straight track. Yet he knew that somewhere he had heard of it before Uthecar had mentioned it, which was ridiculous, since how could he know about something magical that was little more than hearsay to those who lived with magic? But the harder he tried, the further memory receded, and the more certain he became that he could answer the question if he could remember.

Back at the farm Colin ate a dismal meal. He had given up the search for the old, straight track, and was preoccupied with thoughts of Susan. The Mossocks ate in silence, their faces drawn with worry.

Then, as often happens when the mind has left a problem, the picture that had been eluding him rose through Colin's thoughts.

“Got it!”

He leapt from his chair and raced upstairs to his room. He dived across the bed, and hauled Gowther's suede-covered ledger from its shelf. Somewhere in these four hundred and fifty pages was a reference to the old, straight track: he knew he had seen it: now the entry stood out in his mind: it was opposite a page of heraldic notes: there was a drawing of a coat of arms – a chevron between three boars' heads. But even so, Colin was in such a state that he had to thumb through the book twice before he found it, and then, as he read, the dry scholarship of the rector's notes seemed so removed from the excitement of magic that he began to doubt.

“To-day I walked the line of an old, straight trackway, made by our rude forbears, I am forced to believe, prior to the coming of the antique Roman to these shores.

I have followed this road from Mobberley to the Edge. It was engineered, if that be the term, at so remote an era that all record of it is lost, save the frequent mounds and stones erected to indicate the way. Of these, the Beacon and the Goldenstone are the most remarkable on the Edge, and from the latter, where I terminated my excursion, it seemed that the trackway was aligned with the peak of Shining Tor, which stands distant nine miles towards Buxton.

One cannot cease to marvel at the felicity of these unknown architects, who, ignorant of all the arts of science—”

Colin shut the book. The elation had gone. But what else was there to hang on to except this? He had to try.

“Are you all reet, lad?” said Bess when he went downstairs. “You look as if you've lost a shilling and found sixpence.”

“No: it's all right,” said Colin. “I'm sorry about that. It was something I'd remembered in the old book. Do you know where the Beacon is on the Edge?”

“Ay,” said Gowther. “It's the highest part of the Edge. You know when you go along the top path from Castle Rock to Stormy Point? Well, just before you bear left, it's
the round hill above you on your right. You conner miss it: theer used to be a stone hut on the top, and you con still see the foundations.”

“Do you mind if I go and look at it this afternoon?” said Colin.

“Nay, of course not,” said Bess. “It'll give you summat to do, and theer's nowt like being active to take your mind off things.”

“Thanks; I shan't be long.”

Gowther was right. There was no mistaking the Beacon. It was a smooth-skinned mound, obviously artificial, and it stood clear of the trees on the highest point of the Edge. It looked like a tumulus.

Colin walked all over and about the mound, but the only track was modern, and anything but straight.

From the Beacon, Colin set off through the trees to the Goldenstone, which was a quarter of a mile away, along no track that he could see. On reaching it, Colin continued in a straight line past the stone, over a slight rise of ground, until he came to the edge of the wood, a few yards further on. From here, across the fields, was the high ridge of the Pennines, and at one point, directly ahead of Colin, the line of hills rose to a shallow but definite peak. Again, nowhere was there any hint of a track.

Shining Tor, presumably, thought Colin. Well, the notes were right, at least. I suppose I'd better tell Albanac. It's all there is to go on, unless
he's
turned something up.

“I
t could be,” said Albanac. “It could be. Though we think of Goldenstone as elvish, I remember it is said the elves found it here when the road was made.”

“‘Could be'!” shouted Uthecar. “You would doubt the wolf has teeth unless they were tearing the throat of you! ‘Could be'! It
is
! It
is
! The Old Magic has quickened to our need: it has shown you the way to its heart, the old, straight track from the Beacon hill. There you must stand this night, Colin, and take what chance may come.”

“That is what I do not like,” said Albanac. “Strange memories linger on the Beacon.”

“What of that? I shall be there, Colin, and my sword shall keep you.”

For Colin the rest of the day dragged heavily. He checked in his diary and in the newspapers the time when the moon should rise: then he was struck by an agony of thought. What if it should be a cloudy night?
Would that make a difference? So he read the weather forecasts and climbed the Riddings three times to look at the sky. But he need not have feared. It was a clear night when at last he crept from the farm-house and made his way to the wood.

He met Uthecar at the Goldenstone, and they walked together through the quiet darkness.

“Will the moon rise along the track?” said Colin.

“That is our greatest chance,” said Uthecar. “But I think it will. If it does not, then there is little we can do.”

“And how shall I know the Mothan when I see it?”

“It grows alone among the rocks: there are five points to its leaves, its roots are red, and it mirrors the moon. You will know it when you see it.”

They climbed up the mound on which the Beacon had stood. At the top was a little sandy space, and a few blocks of sandstone. They settled themselves upon the blocks, and waited. The dwarf's sword lay across his knees.

“What am I to do with the Mothan when I find it?” said Colin.

“Take the flower, and a few of the leaves,” said Uthecar, “and give them to Susan: but see to it that you harm not the root, nor take all the leaves.”

They sat quietly. Colin did not want to speak. He
could not keep his voice from trembling, and all the time he was short of breath. Then, after repeatedly looking at his watch, Colin stood up and began to pace backwards and forwards across the top of the mound. He peered at the darkness. Nothing moved or showed. At last he sank down upon a stone and put his head between his hands.

“It's no good,” he said flatly. “The moon should have risen five minutes ago.”

“Do not grieve yet,” said Uthecar. “The moon will have to climb from behind the hills. Stand up, Colin: be ready.”

The dwarf moved down a little way from Colin, leaving him alone at the top of the mound. There was a moment of silence, then Colin said:

“Listen. Can you hear that?”

“I hear a night-sound: that is all.”

“Listen! It's music – like voices calling, and bells of ice!
And look! There's the track!”

Suddenly through the trees and over the Beacon hill a shimmering line had flowed, a mesh of silver threads, each glistening, alive. Colin had seen something like it once before, on a rare morning when the sun had cut a path through the dewed, invisible carpet of spider's webs that covered the fields. That had been nothing to the beauty he saw now. The track quivered under his feet,
and he gazed at it as though spellbound.

“Run!” called Uthecar. “Do not waste your time!”

“But which way?” cried Colin. “It stretched left and right as far as I can see!”

“To the east! To the hills! Quickly! The track will be lost when the moon passes from it! Run! Run! And fortune follow you!”

Colin leaped down the hill, and his feet were winged with silver. Trees blurred around him, once he felt Goldenstone hard beneath him, then he burst from the wood, and there was the old, straight track, dipping and flowing over the rounded fields and rising, a silver thread like a distant mountain stream, up the face of the hills to the peak of Shining Tor, and behind it the broad disc of the moon, white as an elvan shield.

On, on, on, on, faster, faster the track drew him, flowed through him, filled his lungs and his heart and his mind with fire, sparked from his eyes, streamed from his hair, and the bells and the music and the voices were all of him, and the Old Magic sang to him from the depths of the earth and the caverns of the night-blue sky.

Then the track rose before him, and he was in the hills. The moon was clear above Shining Tor. And as he sprang up the wall of the high cliff peak the path faded like a veil of smoke. Weight took his body and pulled
him from the hill, but Colin cried one great cry and snatched for the cliff top: the bells were lost in the sobbing of his breath, the drumming of his blood.

He opened his eyes: rough gritstone lay against his cheek, grey in the moon. From between his fingers, clutching the rock, curled leaves, five-pointed, and beneath the hollow of his hand was a faint gleam of moonlight.

Over Wildboarclough the cone of Shuttlingslow stood apart from the long ridges, watchtower to the plain which lay like a sea from Rivington Pike to the surge of Moel Fammaw. But Colin saw none of it, for his eyes and his being were fixed on the delicate Mothan which he held cupped in his hands.

He had taken the flower and two of the leaves. The petals flickered with a cold, glow-worm light, and the fine hairs on the leaves were silver. Minutes passed: then Colin folded the Mothan gently into a leather bag that Uthecar had given him for the purpose, and looked about him.

The old, straight track had vanished, but below Shining Tor the road from Buxton began its winding drop into Macclesfield. Colin walked along the ridge to the end of the cliff, and picked his way over the rough
moorland down to the road.

It was midnight. The road was strange, cold, smooth under his feet after the reed-clumps and boulders of Shining Tor. Once the flush of excitement had passed, and it had passed quickly with the climb from the hill, he felt tired – and increasingly ill at ease. The night was so still, and the road so lonely in the moonlight. But then Colin thought of Susan lying in bed at Highmost Redmanhey, and the Mothan in his pocket, and of the wonder of the evening, and his steps grew lighter.

Light steps. That was what he could hear: behind him. He stopped and listened. Nothing. Looked. The road was empty. It must be an echo, thought Colin, and he set off again. But now he was listening consciously, and soon he began to sweat.

He heard his footsteps hard on the road, and after them an echo from the drystone wall and the hill, and through footstep and echo a pad, pad of feet, and, by the sound, the feet were bare.

He stopped. Nothing. Looked. The road was empty. But the moon threw shadows.