Walking In Circles.
Between a drink in celebration and a second dose of country air, I collapsed in the armchair last night, and woke up to find Samuel’s morning ritual of exercises going on in front of me. It’s not indecent, but nor is it the sort of sight that lets you get back to sleep again.
On Friday I left the house without telling the others and caught the bus out to the peaks about 2. The bus driver dropped me near Bamford and I walked up from there. Bamford is like a street from Sheffield that’s been picked up and put down in the hills. The road leads up through it and then up to Ladybower Reservoir, at the far end of which is the car park for walkers that Challoner told me about.
A wheelchair friendly path runs parallel to a rougher woodland path and parallel to the clearing for phone lines beyond, where I eventually found myself. It wasn’t even clear if I was allowed to be there, but there was a rough path up to a wall, and a break in the wall where I could jump over a stream onto open moorland.
A couple of ramblers were coming towards me, so I felt less like a trespasser, but more foolish. I’d only walked a little way onto the moor and already I’d gone ankle deep into mud, ruining my trainers and jeans. I had no food or water with me and the high winds were cutting through me as well as knocking me over. Every large boulder was a candidate for the stone circle, but the moor is full of them, fallen down from the huge cliff that runs along the edge of the plain. The ramblers hadn’t heard of any stone circles in the area and were surprised by the question. The tourist maps down by the car park turned me to the drowned village of Ladybower rather than the wilds behind.
Even so, I was confident of finding it, of finding Challoner, and having turned around, I had a feeling, an instinct, that I was on the right path. I’d doubled back now, to the drystone wall I’d come through, and I kept this to my left as I climbed up the steady slope. Over the other side of the wall is a spooky looking forest, in the deep shadows of fir trees, but the path itself leads up, out of grazing land, into a grove of oak trees.
Here the path becomes a gully, filled deep with dry, fallen leaves and suddenly I was surrounded by the bare, gnarled hands of the oaks, and my footsteps, after the brooks and tussocks of the gale-blown moor, were now the only sound, cracking and breaking the leaves. It was like walking in another world; the twisted trees were all distinct, but like reflections and imitations of each other.
I emerged from the grove with a spiritual calm, adding to my conviction that I would find what I was looking for. As the trees opened up to reveal a view of Ladybower, now far beneath me, I found what I was sure must be the stone circle, but having climbed up to them, I discovered it was only a circle of boulders, laying where chance had put them. The winds were now severe, and I was hungry, and the impossibility of finding David Challoner by fluke sunk into my bones. I turned home.
The others had been to Castle Market without me, which I didn’t mind. After two months of asking each other for answers, it’s probably obvious that they’d seize on this. Angela claimed a breakthrough though: Enright had asked for me when they approached the stall, and has invited me to meet with them – so I may finally get to see what they’ve been hiding. I told her then about the frustrations of the day. She went out of the room and came back with an old Ordnance Survey for the Peak District.
“This is a little known magic, barely known to man.” She said. “It is called, a map.”
She unfolded it and we found Bamford. The stone circle was on top of the cliff, where I was heading but would never have reached in those winds. All the stone circles on the map, and the oak grove, and other areas, have been ringed in red, and notes by my father have been scribbled down, in the same encryption as his journals.
I went back on the bus on Saturday, armed with the map, decent provisions and the idea that if Challoner was on the cliff top Friday, then he would have moved on to the second of the Bamford circles. After a little looking, and a growing dislike of the moor, I found him. A little camper van was parked as close as the road would allow – a blue and white version of the mystery machine.
Challoner was zipped up in his anorak, wearing those plastic over-trousers ramblers wear and sturdy boots. He had a cool box, a stack of books, a measuring tape, some coloured poles, and a weathered looking deckchair.
The stone circle itself was not much more impressive than the coincidence of boulders I’d found Friday, but Challoner’s enthusiasm raised them up to stained glass windows or golden minarets.
Challoner greeted me warmly, striding across the boggy moor and putting a pebble in my hand. It was black, with little flecks and veins like gold.
“What I wanted to show you was this,” he said, not bothering with how are yous. “Come on.” He led me closer to the stone circle. “Hold the stone up, in the palm of your hand,” he said – referring to the pebble. “And now look.”
The gold veins in the stone began to glow slightly. It was hardly noticeable against the daylight, but in its shadow above my hand, I could see it was like a candle had been lit inside the stone.
“What is it?” I asked.
“Iron pyrite.” He held up his own piece.
“No. What makes it glow? Magic?”
“Ancient magic. Not the self serving kind that those novices down at the castle are moaning they’ve lost. Not the demon givers and power spells, nor the conjuring tricks. This was about surviving the winter, and reaping the harvest, fertility, longevity, the life of the earth.”
I didn’t really see how that wasn’t self serving, but Challoner insisted that modern magicians were like scientists rather than farmers – poking into the workings of things instead of helping things to work.
“This was a magic of man’s intention to belong to the earth.” He said. “And now look. It still lingers. Because this power comes from the universe itself, not the man who cast it.”
I told him then about the day before and how I felt drawn to the oak grove, and the sense of peace there, but also unease.
“Well that’s interesting.” He sat down in his deck chair and took a flask of coffee. “Natural enough though. The trees are descended from an ancient oak, used for rituals of the oak king. Your father knew their significance. Your sense of belonging there suggests some truth to the theories of tribal memory. You’ve given me something to think about. Here.”
He handed me one of the stones.
“Isn’t it valuable?” I asked.
He laughed, in a gurgling noise. “It’s fools’ gold.”
“But it’s magical.”
“It’s not magic. Just a reaction to magic, as all things of the world have – only this is a thankful bit more visible to the eye. It’s just a reaction to the distortions magic has caused. But it’s the memory of magic.” He turned the pebble over in his hand. “Don’t look so disappointed. At least the stones remember. That’s more than most things have. More than they’ll find in the castle walls.”
“You don’t think it’s worth going back there?”
“Not for the stones. But that isn’t to say you can’t learn anything from the people.”
“I’ve been invited down there by Arthur Enright.”
“Then you should go. But just be careful, not to listen to flatterers. They used to teach that in Sunday school, but you forget as you get older.”
“Why would they flatter me?”
“Because you own your father’s study.”
He went back to work for an hour or so, taking readings of the reactions from the stones, from different directions and various distances. He talked about the unselfish symmetry of the druids’ magic, and I helped fetch and carry for him, like his apprentice. Before we left I asked him if he knew the name Ilford Dyson. He said he did:-
“Interesting fellow.”
And that was it. He left me with the deckchair under my arm as he walked off.
“Well what do you know about him?” I asked, a little annoyed but a little pleased.
“I’ll tell you what.” He gave me the number of his hotel. “You can call me when you find out about Enright’s invitation, and in the meantime I’ll dig out my file on Ilford Dyson.”
So I shall go back to the market again on Monday.
On Friday I left the house without telling the others and caught the bus out to the peaks about 2. The bus driver dropped me near Bamford and I walked up from there. Bamford is like a street from Sheffield that’s been picked up and put down in the hills. The road leads up through it and then up to Ladybower Reservoir, at the far end of which is the car park for walkers that Challoner told me about.
A wheelchair friendly path runs parallel to a rougher woodland path and parallel to the clearing for phone lines beyond, where I eventually found myself. It wasn’t even clear if I was allowed to be there, but there was a rough path up to a wall, and a break in the wall where I could jump over a stream onto open moorland.
A couple of ramblers were coming towards me, so I felt less like a trespasser, but more foolish. I’d only walked a little way onto the moor and already I’d gone ankle deep into mud, ruining my trainers and jeans. I had no food or water with me and the high winds were cutting through me as well as knocking me over. Every large boulder was a candidate for the stone circle, but the moor is full of them, fallen down from the huge cliff that runs along the edge of the plain. The ramblers hadn’t heard of any stone circles in the area and were surprised by the question. The tourist maps down by the car park turned me to the drowned village of Ladybower rather than the wilds behind.
Even so, I was confident of finding it, of finding Challoner, and having turned around, I had a feeling, an instinct, that I was on the right path. I’d doubled back now, to the drystone wall I’d come through, and I kept this to my left as I climbed up the steady slope. Over the other side of the wall is a spooky looking forest, in the deep shadows of fir trees, but the path itself leads up, out of grazing land, into a grove of oak trees.
Here the path becomes a gully, filled deep with dry, fallen leaves and suddenly I was surrounded by the bare, gnarled hands of the oaks, and my footsteps, after the brooks and tussocks of the gale-blown moor, were now the only sound, cracking and breaking the leaves. It was like walking in another world; the twisted trees were all distinct, but like reflections and imitations of each other.
I emerged from the grove with a spiritual calm, adding to my conviction that I would find what I was looking for. As the trees opened up to reveal a view of Ladybower, now far beneath me, I found what I was sure must be the stone circle, but having climbed up to them, I discovered it was only a circle of boulders, laying where chance had put them. The winds were now severe, and I was hungry, and the impossibility of finding David Challoner by fluke sunk into my bones. I turned home.
The others had been to Castle Market without me, which I didn’t mind. After two months of asking each other for answers, it’s probably obvious that they’d seize on this. Angela claimed a breakthrough though: Enright had asked for me when they approached the stall, and has invited me to meet with them – so I may finally get to see what they’ve been hiding. I told her then about the frustrations of the day. She went out of the room and came back with an old Ordnance Survey for the Peak District.
“This is a little known magic, barely known to man.” She said. “It is called, a map.”
She unfolded it and we found Bamford. The stone circle was on top of the cliff, where I was heading but would never have reached in those winds. All the stone circles on the map, and the oak grove, and other areas, have been ringed in red, and notes by my father have been scribbled down, in the same encryption as his journals.
I went back on the bus on Saturday, armed with the map, decent provisions and the idea that if Challoner was on the cliff top Friday, then he would have moved on to the second of the Bamford circles. After a little looking, and a growing dislike of the moor, I found him. A little camper van was parked as close as the road would allow – a blue and white version of the mystery machine.
Challoner was zipped up in his anorak, wearing those plastic over-trousers ramblers wear and sturdy boots. He had a cool box, a stack of books, a measuring tape, some coloured poles, and a weathered looking deckchair.
The stone circle itself was not much more impressive than the coincidence of boulders I’d found Friday, but Challoner’s enthusiasm raised them up to stained glass windows or golden minarets.
Challoner greeted me warmly, striding across the boggy moor and putting a pebble in my hand. It was black, with little flecks and veins like gold.
“What I wanted to show you was this,” he said, not bothering with how are yous. “Come on.” He led me closer to the stone circle. “Hold the stone up, in the palm of your hand,” he said – referring to the pebble. “And now look.”
The gold veins in the stone began to glow slightly. It was hardly noticeable against the daylight, but in its shadow above my hand, I could see it was like a candle had been lit inside the stone.
“What is it?” I asked.
“Iron pyrite.” He held up his own piece.
“No. What makes it glow? Magic?”
“Ancient magic. Not the self serving kind that those novices down at the castle are moaning they’ve lost. Not the demon givers and power spells, nor the conjuring tricks. This was about surviving the winter, and reaping the harvest, fertility, longevity, the life of the earth.”
I didn’t really see how that wasn’t self serving, but Challoner insisted that modern magicians were like scientists rather than farmers – poking into the workings of things instead of helping things to work.
“This was a magic of man’s intention to belong to the earth.” He said. “And now look. It still lingers. Because this power comes from the universe itself, not the man who cast it.”
I told him then about the day before and how I felt drawn to the oak grove, and the sense of peace there, but also unease.
“Well that’s interesting.” He sat down in his deck chair and took a flask of coffee. “Natural enough though. The trees are descended from an ancient oak, used for rituals of the oak king. Your father knew their significance. Your sense of belonging there suggests some truth to the theories of tribal memory. You’ve given me something to think about. Here.”
He handed me one of the stones.
“Isn’t it valuable?” I asked.
He laughed, in a gurgling noise. “It’s fools’ gold.”
“But it’s magical.”
“It’s not magic. Just a reaction to magic, as all things of the world have – only this is a thankful bit more visible to the eye. It’s just a reaction to the distortions magic has caused. But it’s the memory of magic.” He turned the pebble over in his hand. “Don’t look so disappointed. At least the stones remember. That’s more than most things have. More than they’ll find in the castle walls.”
“You don’t think it’s worth going back there?”
“Not for the stones. But that isn’t to say you can’t learn anything from the people.”
“I’ve been invited down there by Arthur Enright.”
“Then you should go. But just be careful, not to listen to flatterers. They used to teach that in Sunday school, but you forget as you get older.”
“Why would they flatter me?”
“Because you own your father’s study.”
He went back to work for an hour or so, taking readings of the reactions from the stones, from different directions and various distances. He talked about the unselfish symmetry of the druids’ magic, and I helped fetch and carry for him, like his apprentice. Before we left I asked him if he knew the name Ilford Dyson. He said he did:-
“Interesting fellow.”
And that was it. He left me with the deckchair under my arm as he walked off.
“Well what do you know about him?” I asked, a little annoyed but a little pleased.
“I’ll tell you what.” He gave me the number of his hotel. “You can call me when you find out about Enright’s invitation, and in the meantime I’ll dig out my file on Ilford Dyson.”
So I shall go back to the market again on Monday.
posted by The son of Edward Fold at 8:03 am
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