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The Weirdstone of Brisingamen and The Moon of Gomrath
Alan Garner
Литагент HarperCollins
COPYRIGHT (#ulink_74a80008-18f0-50bd-aaf0-e65bd90f8a43)
This ebook bundle edition published by HarperCollins Children’s Books in 2015
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The Weirdstone of Brisingamen Text © Alan Garner 1960 The Moon of Gomrath Text © Alan Garner 1963
Cover design © HarperCollinsPublishers 2015 Cover art © Nik Keevil
Alan Garner asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of the work.
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.
Source ISBNs:
9780007539062 (The Weirdstone of Brisingamen), 9780007539048 (The Moon of Gomrath)
Ebook edition © SEPTEMBER 2015 ISBN 9780008164386
Version 2015-08-20
HarperCollinsPublishers has made every reasonable effort to ensure that any picture content and written content in this ebook has been included or removed in accordance with the contractual and technological constraints in operation at the time of publication.
CONTENTS
Cover (#u202d240e-b8c8-5766-938b-721e867a5430)
Title Page (#u50746933-4d41-5c72-a6cd-dba0742e1560)
Copyright (#ulink_136272ed-c9e2-5b97-aef6-411f0f974190)
The Weirdstone Of Brisingamen (#ua773889c-f13a-5c25-8c4c-8a3e718664ad)
The Moon of Gomrath (#litres_trial_promo)
Keep Reading (#litres_trial_promo)
About the Publisher (#litres_trial_promo)
(#ulink_ff90c1d7-dfe9-5951-9da1-e5addef0399c)
CONTENTS
Cover (#ua773889c-f13a-5c25-8c4c-8a3e718664ad)
Title Page (#u1e39aaab-34a6-56b3-904a-4c1b8db64a7f)
Map (#ulink_244f180e-f1fb-570f-95b0-a443b62f8d2d)
Epigraph (#u8ab3aa11-b418-55f4-9a8a-55133cbadd2b)
The Legend of Alderley (#u5636fa53-b042-5ab2-836e-003a60cb1b78)
PART ONE (#u99a1f9d3-c883-5310-8af0-ae2f98e510d0)
1. Highmost Redmanhey (#u3f6ae664-4cf6-571d-9e36-3251c2c4425b)
2. The Edge (#u71c8d64d-d0bb-5432-aa6d-4a3fa2643069)
3. Maggot-breed of Ymir (#u283ccec5-d41f-5990-8669-48080254c8a2)
4. The Fundindelve (#u2e0308a0-24a3-5e72-b474-2196b17529aa)
5. Miching Mallecho (#udb04bcdd-2fe1-5aa6-bfae-3cea2efd555c)
6. A Ring of Stones (#u5d0b3927-44c9-52ad-a5a5-739343cf341f)
7. Fenodyree (#u787b16a7-073f-5d42-8ea8-8bcec9e1927c)
PART TWO (#u6b9fd23c-a269-552e-b5f1-647102ac7f42)
8. Mist over Llyn-dhu (#uf925ff29-ce03-5c62-ac40-c53c74a25667)
9. St Mary’s Clyffe (#u71e8b2ec-9927-5465-a073-2f8542f564a4)
10. Plankshaft (#uafdd197a-ace0-5f30-9a2f-f9978827008d)
11. Prince of the Huldrafolk (#litres_trial_promo)
12. In the Cave of the Svartmoot (#litres_trial_promo)
13. “Where No Svart Will Ever Tread” (#litres_trial_promo)
14. The Earldelving (#litres_trial_promo)
15. A Stromkarl Sings (#litres_trial_promo)
16. The Wood of Radnor (#litres_trial_promo)
17. Mara (#litres_trial_promo)
18. Angharad Goldenhand (#litres_trial_promo)
19. Gaberlunzie (#litres_trial_promo)
20. Shuttlingslow (#litres_trial_promo)
21. The Headless Cross (#litres_trial_promo)
MAP (#ulink_ee1483a1-343e-5fac-83d2-516b1a6caf6e)
In every prayer I offer up, Alderley, and all belonging to it, will be ever a living thought in my heart.
REV. EDWARD STANLEY: 1837
THE LEGEND OF ALDERLEY (#ulink_43d484e7-ae95-5c5a-a7e4-4fd15d1c1175)
At dawn one still October day in the long ago of the world, across the hill of Alderley, a farmer from Mobberley was riding to Macclesfield fair.
The morning was dull, but mild; light mists bedimmed his way; the woods were hushed; the day promised fine. The farmer was in good spirits, and he let his horse, a milk-white mare, set her own pace, for he wanted her to arrive fresh for the market. A rich man would walk back to Mobberley that night.
So, his mind in the town while he was yet on the hill, the farmer drew near to the place known as Thieves’ Hole. And there the horse stood still and would answer to neither spur nor rein. The spur and rein she understood, and her master’s stern command, but the eyes that held her were stronger than all of these.
In the middle of the path, where surely there had been no one, was an old man, tall, with long hair and beard. “You go to sell this mare,” he said. “I come here to buy. What is your price?”
But the farmer wished to sell only at the market, where he would have a choice of many offers, so he rudely bade the stranger quit the path and let him through, for if he stayed longer he would be late to the fair.
“Then go your way,” said the old man. “None will buy. And I shall await you here at sunset.”
The next moment he was gone, and the farmer could not tell how or where.
The day was warm, and the tavern cool, and all who saw the mare agreed that she was a splendid animal, the pride of Cheshire, a queen among horses; and everyone said that there was no finer beast in the town. But no one offered to buy. A sour-eyed farmer rode out of Macclesfield at the end of the day.
At Thieves’ Hole the mare stopped: the stranger was there.
Thinking any price was now better than none, the farmer agreed to sell. “How much will you give?” he said.
“Enough. Now come with me.”
By Seven Firs and Goldenstone they went, to Stormy Point and Saddlebole. And they halted before a great rock embedded in the hillside. The old man lifted his staff and lightly touched the rock, and it split with the noise of thunder.
At this, the farmer toppled from his plunging horse and, on his knees, begged the other to have mercy on him and let him go his way unharmed. The horse should stay; he did not want her. Only spare his life, that was enough.
The wizard, for such he was, commanded the farmer to rise. “I promise you safe conduct,” he said. “Do not be afraid; for living wonders you shall see here.”
Beyond the rock stood a pair of iron gates. These the wizard opened, and took the farmer and his horse down a narrow tunnel deep into the hill. A light, subdued but beautiful, marked their way. The passage ended, and they stepped into a cave, and there a wondrous sight met the farmer’s eyes – a hundred and forty knights in silver armour, and by the side of all but one a milk-white mare.
“Here they lie in enchanted sleep,” said the wizard, “until the day will come – and come it will – when England shall be in direst peril, and England’s mothers weep. Then out from the hill these must ride and, in a battle thrice lost, thrice won, upon the plain, drive the enemy into the sea.”
The farmer, dumb with awe, turned with the wizard into a further cavern, and here mounds of gold and silver and precious stones lay strewn along the ground.
“Take what you can carry in payment for the horse.”
And when the farmer had crammed his pockets (ample as his lands!), his shirt, and his fists with jewels, the wizard hurried him up the long tunnel and thrust him out of the gates. The farmer stumbled, the thunder rolled, he looked, and there was only the rock above him. He was alone on the hill, near Stormy Point. The broad full moon was up, and it was night.
And although in later years he tried to find the place, neither he nor any after him ever saw the iron gates again. Nell Beck swore she saw them once, but she was said to be mad, and when she died they buried her under a hollow bank near Brindlow wood in the field that bears her name to this day.
PART ONE (#ulink_756b3b37-cd96-59d4-a464-f00c6688ff5a)
CHAPTER 1 (#ulink_417e30d6-86a8-54cb-807a-cfe12a64dbfd)
HIGHMOST REDMANHEY (#ulink_417e30d6-86a8-54cb-807a-cfe12a64dbfd)
The guard knocked on the door of the compartment as he went past. “Wilmslow fifteen minutes!”
“Thank you!” shouted Colin.
Susan began to clear away the debris of the journey – apple cores, orange peel, food wrappings, magazines, while Colin pulled down their luggage from the rack. And within three minutes they were both poised on the edge of their seats, case in hand and mackintosh over one arm, caught, like every traveller before or since, in that limbo of journey’s end, when there is nothing to do and no time to relax. Those last miles were the longest of all.
The platform of Wilmslow station was thick with people, and more spilled off the train, but Colin and Susan had no difficulty in recognising Gowther Mossock among those waiting. As the tide of passengers broke round him and surged through the gates, leaving the children lonely at the far end of the platform, he waved his hand and came striding towards them. He was an oak of a man: not over tall, but solid as a crag, and barrelled with flesh, bone, and muscle. His face was round and polished; blue eyes crinkled to the humour of his mouth. A tweed jacket strained across his back, and his legs, curved like the timbers of an old house, were clad in breeches, which tucked into thick woollen stockings just above the swelling calves. A felt hat, old and formless, was on his head, and hobnailed boots struck sparks from the platform as he walked.
“Hallo! I’m thinking you mun be Colin and Susan.” His voice was gusty and high-pitched, yet mellow, like an autumn gale.
“That’s right,” said Colin. “And are you Mr Mossock?”
“I am – but we’ll have none of your ‘Mr Mossock’, if you please. Gowther’s my name. Now come on, let’s be having you. Bess is getting us some supper, and we’re not home yet.”
He picked up their cases, and they made their way down the steps to the station yard, where there stood a green farm-cart with high red wheels, and between the shafts was a white horse, with shaggy mane and fetlock.
“Eh up, Scamp!” said Gowther as he heaved the cases into the back of the cart. A brindled lurcher, which had been asleep on a rug, stood and eyed the children warily while they climbed to the seat. Gowther took his place between them, and away they drove under the station bridge on the last stage of their travels.
They soon left the village behind and were riding down a tree-bordered lane between fields. They talked of this and that, and the children were gradually accepted by Scamp, who came and thrust his head on to the seat between Susan and Gowther. Then, “What on earth’s that?” said Colin.
They had just rounded a corner: before them, rising abruptly out of the fields a mile away, was a long-backed hill. It was high, and sombre, and black. On the extreme right-hand flank, outlined against the sky, were the towers and spires of big houses showing above the trees, which covered much of the hill like a blanket.
“Yon’s th’Edge,” said Gowther. “Six hundred feet high and three mile long. You’ll have some grand times theer, I con tell you. Folks think as how Cheshire’s flat as a poncake, and so it is for the most part, but no wheer we live!”
Nearer they came to the Edge, until it towered above them, then they turned to the right along a road which kept to the foot of the hill. On one side lay the fields, and on the other the steep slopes. The trees came right down to the road, tall beeches which seemed to be whispering to each other in the breeze.
“It’s a bit creepy, isn’t it?” said Susan.
“Ay, theer’s some as reckons it is, but you munner always listen to what folks say.
“We’re getting close to Alderley village now, sithee: we’ve not come the shortest way, but I dunner care much for the main road, with its clatter and smoke, nor does Prince here. We shanner be going reet into the village; you’ll see more of yon when we do our shopping of a Friday. Now here’s wheer we come to a bit of steep.”
They were at a crossroad. Gowther swung the cart round to the left, and they began to climb. On either side were the walled gardens of the houses that covered the western slope of the Edge. It was very steep, but the horse plodded along until, quite suddenly, the road levelled out, and Prince snorted and quickened his pace.
