Chapter Sixteen: On Waden Hill
Conall Astor was still drunk; he had left Shen’s and crossed the stone circle, passing close by the Devil’s chair stone, to which he had bowed in greeting, before continuing along the Avenue for the fourth time that day, his path winding this way and that as he looked heavenwards at the constellations, so clear in the absence of street-lights. The night was warm and just the gentlest of breezes was present, carrying with it the scent of grasses and hedgerows.
Conall fumbled with the keys of the camper, entered, and gathered up the bedding from the couch; he proceeded to walk to his favourite stone and dumped the pile on the side facing away from the road. He retraced his steps and picked up the remnants of the bottle of water from earlier, then sat on the tailgate and brushed his teeth in the moonlight.
After he had rinsed his mouth, he lit the hurricane-lantern that hung from a hook on the van’s ceiling and unrolled the alder-wood flute from the cloth Shen had wrapped it. The flute was beautifully carved, and the wood warm to the touch; just below the mouthpiece but above the finger-holes there was a carving of an owl, secured to the main body with twine, from which a couple of faded feathers and beads were hanging. Traces of stained patterns were visible along the instrument. A faint smell of wood smoke, incense and pipe tobacco rose from it. Conall held it up before him.
‘Thank you, Alfred.’
He had no idea of the age or provenance of the flute; for all he knew it could have been many hundreds of years old… predating the arrival of the White Man. He felt both proud and abashed that such a precious item should have been entrusted to him; maybe he shouldn’t have taken it; maybe he should have left it with Shen. But he supposed it was the old man’s wish. He held it close, not daring to play it; not here, by the road, not without ceremony. He wasn’t tired; he should walk somewhere and do it honour…
Leaving his bedding in the care of the stone, Conall took the footpath that led away from the Avenue westwards up over the brow of Waden hill. The hill was steep but soon he had crested it, and he stood for a moment taking in the view. Behind him, the way he had come, Hakpen hill rose on the other side of the road, while to his south was the spread of the Kennet valley, and beyond the river the roll of the downs as they rose up to the soft peaks of Tan and Milk Hill. But from his vantage point atop Waden Hill, Conall could glance over at the bowl of Silbury to the south west as it stood majestically proud of the valley within its moat, now iridescent in the low, nearly full moonlight.
Conall dug into his jacket pocket and took out his tobacco; sitting on the long grass he took some from the packet, and as earlier crumbled some onto the ground. Ihtsipaitapiiyo’pa, he muttered, Great Spirit, as Alfred had taught him, and as his father George had taught him before…. He then rolled and placed a cigarette in his mouth, lit it, then lifted it to the sky, then to the ground, and exhaled upwards, repeating the Blackfoot phrase.
When he had finished, he unwrapped the flute from its cloth and held it up to the sky. Son of Ipisowaasi, thank you. Great spirits, I am honoured to accept this gift, he said. Then nervously he put the wooden mouthpiece to his lips and breathed softly into it. A warm, hollow note sounded clearly, filling the still night. Conall felt anyone walking in the surrounding valleys or hills would have been able to hear it… nevertheless, emboldened by alcohol, he continued, moving his fingers slowly and inexpertly, but feeling almost as if the flute was playing itself. He played to the stars; he played to the memory of Alfred, he played to the memory of his sister; but mostly he played for Shen, wondering if from her room in Church cottage, she might hear the sound of her Grandfather’s flute playing; it wasn’t her fault, none of it; but if I hadn’t been here…no, it was surely too late by then anyway…
When the urge to play had left him, he stood, gazing skywards again, north to the Great Bear, and he began to spin, his arms outstretched, and then sweeping back round like a swooping eagle, turning, turning, treading out a flat circle in the grass; and as he span the Bear span above him in turn around the still central point of the heavens; and he bowed his back, squared his shoulders, rhythmically turning, imagining himself the bear, mouthing silent meaningless words; and even though miles from the nearest human being his voice remained a whisper so that this guttural chanting that arose from some deep part of his psyche ended at his lips and went no further; yet still he danced under those seven burning brothers and their sister who had escaped to the sky in the story Alfred had told him a year before…
…
…Conall had listened to the tale and they had both stood a while in thought looking up at the Great bear from the back-garden of Church cottage; he had considered not saying anything, but his curiosity compelled him to speak.
‘Alfred?’ he had begun. The old man had nodded for him to continue. ‘You say four brothers were dragged out of the tree and killed?’
‘Yes, that is how my father told it me.’ The old man said, sucking on the stem of his pipe.
‘Wouldn’t it make sense if the four stars there were the brothers?’ he had asked, pointing at the rectangular body of the Great Bear. Alfred had looked up quietly.
‘I see why you might think that; but the sister needs to be one of them so she can be close to her young brother, who is the northern star, there.’ He had pointed to the Little Bear.
Conall had smiled to himself.
‘There are seven brothers and one sister, yes? Now what if there was a way that they could all be together in the Great Bear, and the little brother not all the way over there in the Little Bear?’ he had asked. Alfred shrugged.
‘That would be pleasing, I suppose. But there are only seven stars in the Great Bear’ He had said, rubbing the back of his neck.
‘Alfred – look at the second star from the end of the tail, closely.’
‘What am I looking for?’ he said, through a cloud of smoke.
‘How many stars do you see?’
For a while there had been silence as the old man squinted at the stars, and then a low chuckle had escaped him.
Conall had laughed along with him.
‘That’s right. Most people don’t notice it, but that second star is a double star – it has a smaller, fainter companion, riding on its back. So, there’s your younger sister, and there, still riding on the cradle-board on her back as in life, her baby brother!’
‘So the family is together again. Brother and sister united. That’s good.’ Alfred had said. And this is what he had meant in the will when he had gifted the flute to Con for re-uniting brother and sister…
…
On the hillside Conall looked up and held the sister star in his gaze and remembered his sister Melissa and himself, as children, her carrying him piggy-back across their garden, laughing, as he swished at her with a small twig ‘Giddy up, horsey! Giddy up!’ his hand gripping a great mass of her dark curly hair, identical to his own. Identical. Two particles once joined, linked forever...
And he imagined those same two particles spinning in space, once joined but now separate, shooting apart into the void… and one shining, spinning particle faltering, flickering, dying, yet the other carrying on unaffected…
And he thought of the dream of the horse on the riverbank – and how it was on such a night as this that he’d walked to the Kennet last year because the dream was burning in his head – and how one particle, spinning in space, had chosen not to go into that water, while the other had done so, never to rise again…
At last he cried out, finding his voice:
‘I’m sorry! I’m so, so sorry! Melissa! I’m sorry!!! I didn’t know – why didn’t I know?!’
Conall Astor was still drunk; he had left Shen’s and crossed the stone circle, passing close by the Devil’s chair stone, to which he had bowed in greeting, before continuing along the Avenue for the fourth time that day, his path winding this way and that as he looked heavenwards at the constellations, so clear in the absence of street-lights. The night was warm and just the gentlest of breezes was present, carrying with it the scent of grasses and hedgerows.
Conall fumbled with the keys of the camper, entered, and gathered up the bedding from the couch; he proceeded to walk to his favourite stone and dumped the pile on the side facing away from the road. He retraced his steps and picked up the remnants of the bottle of water from earlier, then sat on the tailgate and brushed his teeth in the moonlight.
After he had rinsed his mouth, he lit the hurricane-lantern that hung from a hook on the van’s ceiling and unrolled the alder-wood flute from the cloth Shen had wrapped it. The flute was beautifully carved, and the wood warm to the touch; just below the mouthpiece but above the finger-holes there was a carving of an owl, secured to the main body with twine, from which a couple of faded feathers and beads were hanging. Traces of stained patterns were visible along the instrument. A faint smell of wood smoke, incense and pipe tobacco rose from it. Conall held it up before him.
‘Thank you, Alfred.’
He had no idea of the age or provenance of the flute; for all he knew it could have been many hundreds of years old… predating the arrival of the White Man. He felt both proud and abashed that such a precious item should have been entrusted to him; maybe he shouldn’t have taken it; maybe he should have left it with Shen. But he supposed it was the old man’s wish. He held it close, not daring to play it; not here, by the road, not without ceremony. He wasn’t tired; he should walk somewhere and do it honour…
Leaving his bedding in the care of the stone, Conall took the footpath that led away from the Avenue westwards up over the brow of Waden hill. The hill was steep but soon he had crested it, and he stood for a moment taking in the view. Behind him, the way he had come, Hakpen hill rose on the other side of the road, while to his south was the spread of the Kennet valley, and beyond the river the roll of the downs as they rose up to the soft peaks of Tan and Milk Hill. But from his vantage point atop Waden Hill, Conall could glance over at the bowl of Silbury to the south west as it stood majestically proud of the valley within its moat, now iridescent in the low, nearly full moonlight.
Conall dug into his jacket pocket and took out his tobacco; sitting on the long grass he took some from the packet, and as earlier crumbled some onto the ground. Ihtsipaitapiiyo’pa, he muttered, Great Spirit, as Alfred had taught him, and as his father George had taught him before…. He then rolled and placed a cigarette in his mouth, lit it, then lifted it to the sky, then to the ground, and exhaled upwards, repeating the Blackfoot phrase.
When he had finished, he unwrapped the flute from its cloth and held it up to the sky. Son of Ipisowaasi, thank you. Great spirits, I am honoured to accept this gift, he said. Then nervously he put the wooden mouthpiece to his lips and breathed softly into it. A warm, hollow note sounded clearly, filling the still night. Conall felt anyone walking in the surrounding valleys or hills would have been able to hear it… nevertheless, emboldened by alcohol, he continued, moving his fingers slowly and inexpertly, but feeling almost as if the flute was playing itself. He played to the stars; he played to the memory of Alfred, he played to the memory of his sister; but mostly he played for Shen, wondering if from her room in Church cottage, she might hear the sound of her Grandfather’s flute playing; it wasn’t her fault, none of it; but if I hadn’t been here…no, it was surely too late by then anyway…
When the urge to play had left him, he stood, gazing skywards again, north to the Great Bear, and he began to spin, his arms outstretched, and then sweeping back round like a swooping eagle, turning, turning, treading out a flat circle in the grass; and as he span the Bear span above him in turn around the still central point of the heavens; and he bowed his back, squared his shoulders, rhythmically turning, imagining himself the bear, mouthing silent meaningless words; and even though miles from the nearest human being his voice remained a whisper so that this guttural chanting that arose from some deep part of his psyche ended at his lips and went no further; yet still he danced under those seven burning brothers and their sister who had escaped to the sky in the story Alfred had told him a year before…
…
…Conall had listened to the tale and they had both stood a while in thought looking up at the Great bear from the back-garden of Church cottage; he had considered not saying anything, but his curiosity compelled him to speak.
‘Alfred?’ he had begun. The old man had nodded for him to continue. ‘You say four brothers were dragged out of the tree and killed?’
‘Yes, that is how my father told it me.’ The old man said, sucking on the stem of his pipe.
‘Wouldn’t it make sense if the four stars there were the brothers?’ he had asked, pointing at the rectangular body of the Great Bear. Alfred had looked up quietly.
‘I see why you might think that; but the sister needs to be one of them so she can be close to her young brother, who is the northern star, there.’ He had pointed to the Little Bear.
Conall had smiled to himself.
‘There are seven brothers and one sister, yes? Now what if there was a way that they could all be together in the Great Bear, and the little brother not all the way over there in the Little Bear?’ he had asked. Alfred shrugged.
‘That would be pleasing, I suppose. But there are only seven stars in the Great Bear’ He had said, rubbing the back of his neck.
‘Alfred – look at the second star from the end of the tail, closely.’
‘What am I looking for?’ he said, through a cloud of smoke.
‘How many stars do you see?’
For a while there had been silence as the old man squinted at the stars, and then a low chuckle had escaped him.
Conall had laughed along with him.
‘That’s right. Most people don’t notice it, but that second star is a double star – it has a smaller, fainter companion, riding on its back. So, there’s your younger sister, and there, still riding on the cradle-board on her back as in life, her baby brother!’
‘So the family is together again. Brother and sister united. That’s good.’ Alfred had said. And this is what he had meant in the will when he had gifted the flute to Con for re-uniting brother and sister…
…
On the hillside Conall looked up and held the sister star in his gaze and remembered his sister Melissa and himself, as children, her carrying him piggy-back across their garden, laughing, as he swished at her with a small twig ‘Giddy up, horsey! Giddy up!’ his hand gripping a great mass of her dark curly hair, identical to his own. Identical. Two particles once joined, linked forever...
And he imagined those same two particles spinning in space, once joined but now separate, shooting apart into the void… and one shining, spinning particle faltering, flickering, dying, yet the other carrying on unaffected…
And he thought of the dream of the horse on the riverbank – and how it was on such a night as this that he’d walked to the Kennet last year because the dream was burning in his head – and how one particle, spinning in space, had chosen not to go into that water, while the other had done so, never to rise again…
At last he cried out, finding his voice:
‘I’m sorry! I’m so, so sorry! Melissa! I’m sorry!!! I didn’t know – why didn’t I know?!’