The Book of the Crowman

by Joseph D'lacey

  She approaches the warped, splintering door and is about to knock when it opens and two men stumble out. Trying to support each other and failing, the pair blunder right through Megan and collapse to the ground, laughing. She shivers, nauseated by the sensation, but the men have no awareness of her whatsoever.

  “I’ve had better donkeys,” slurs one.

  “I’ve had better… weasels,” says the other.

  “Weasels?”

  “Er, yeah. Big, fat stripy weasels.”

  “You mean badgers?”

  “Badgers. Yeah.”

  The two men roll around, laughing so hard they can’t get up.

  “You can say what you like ’bout Shep Afon’s dubious… snatch rental… ’stablishments,” says the larger of the two men, with difficulty. He gains his feet and hauls his thinner friend upright. “But the beer’s bloody excellent. Let’s have another pint.”

  The drunks stagger away leaving a yeasty, sweaty reek in their wake. The door has closed behind them but the pull from behind it is even stronger now. Megan closes her eyes and passes through the weathered wood like a breath through gauze.

  Beyond it, oil lamps illuminate a tiny reception area where a heavyset matriarch keeps watch like a bloated bird of prey. Her sour disdain, worn like scarring, lifts into a smile of lascivious and ingratiating welcome the moment a knock sounds at the front door. Megan steps clear of the brothel’s mistress, not wanting to repeat the sensation of flesh passing through the pure glow of her weave body. As a group of three traders stumble in, Megan lets the draw pull her through a curtain of red ribbons, along a slim corridor with closed doors to her right and up a flight of uneven steps that she knows would creak loudly had she a more substantial form.

  On the next level, the rooms run to her left but the pull still comes from above. Noises emanate from most of the rooms; giggles, squeals, and grunts mostly but sometimes sounds of choking and sobbing. Megan concentrates on the draw from overhead but she can’t shut out the animalistic voices, nor can she imagine what they signify: something more complex than the rutting of beasts.

  Only in Gordon’s world has she seen stairs rising more than two levels but here they take her to a third and still the steps in the sandwich house lead up. The fourth flight ends at a door with a red rose painted on it and this is where the pull emanates from. Megan ascends and listens. She hears nothing but she can sense life on the other side. She passes through the door.

  Within, the roof of the sandwich house forms the tightly cocked ceiling of the room, the joists and rafters in plain view. A small wind-eye gives onto the market place, quite the vantage point for an observer. The bed, large by Megan’s reckoning, looks as though a fight has taken place in it. The room smells thick with the mingled scents of men and women. Well, one woman. The one who now sits remaking her face at a tiny dressing table in a mirror little bigger than her own face. It is in this mirror that her eyes glance at some movement in her periphery and then lock with Megan’s. Her free hand flies to her mouth but the cry it was intended to stifle is already out. The woman turns on her stool.

  Darkness falls. Mr Keeper and Carrick Rowntree move closer to their fire while Megan slumbers nearby. Mr Keeper is lost in a reverie, his eyes drawn by ghosts of flame and starlight on the surface of the river. Carrick Rowntree adds wood to the fire, stirring up a plume of sparks to attract his old pupil’s attention.

  “I have to leave in the morning, Aaron.”

  Mr Keeper doesn’t look at him.

  “I know.”

  “I won’t be coming back this time.”

  Mr Keeper sighs and looks over the flames at the man who guided him on the Black Feathered Path; so long ago it might be someone else’s life, someone else’s memories. The emotions of that time, though, are as fresh as spring buds. He has no remedy for the pain it causes to think of the old man leaving. Carrick became the father he’d never dared believe existed. Stern but fair, always encouraging yet willing to let a boy make mistakes and, more importantly, learn from them. He watches Carrick through the fire and smoke and fancies he sees the history of a thousand souls alive in the old man’s eyes.

  Carrick slips a hand between the fold of his layers of warm clothing.

  “If I forget to give you this, however, I will be obliged to return and find you, making tomorrow’s departure a far less dramatic affair and costing me a good deal of unnecessary effort.”

  He holds out his hand, away from the flames, and Mr Keeper reaches across. The touch of the crystal is like frozen midnight in his palm. He shivers and spends long moments turning it over in his hands, watching the way it absorbs the flickering firelight.

  “When Megan is ready, you must give her the Crowspar. If, as you believe, she is the girl in the prophecy, then she is the last of our kind. The one who cleaves us to the land forever.”

  After a while, Mr Keeper flips the Crowspar up into the air, catches it deftly and secretes in one of his many pockets in a manner that appears to be final. Within a few moments, though, the crudely carved artefact is somehow back in his hands, its facets traced and its contours explored by Mr Keeper’s agitated fingers.

  He leans closer to the fire and lowers his voice to a whisper.

  “I don’t like to admit it, Carrick – especially not to you – but I’ve no idea what I’m going to tell Megan about this. The crystal is the one aspect of his life I’ve never truly understood.”

  The old man might be smiling or frowning. The flames make it impossible to tell. Mr Keeper thinks he is angry at first but eventually Carrick does respond, his voice equally hushed.

  “That’s because its role in the Crowman’s story extends into our time, into this moment. The telling will not be complete until a woman walks the path. Only then will any of us really know what the Crowspar may be or what its purpose is. Megan is the first to have found and retrieved the black crystal. I would like to believe she will know what to do with it when the time comes. I can only assume that she will find her instructions somewhere within the Crowman’s story. One thing I do know, Aaron: if you’re right – if she is who you think she is – hers will be the finest, most accurate telling of all.”

  At that moment, Megan whimpers in her sleep. By the firelight, Mr Keeper can make out the fear and anxiety on her face. He almost gets up to comfort her but checks himself, knowing there’s nothing more he can do except allow her to rest. Tomorrow they must begin the journey home and she’ll need her strength.

  “She’ll be alright, Aaron.”

  Embarrassed that his concerns must show on his face, Mr Keeper sighs and turns back to the fire.

  “I hope you’re right, Carrick.”

  “She has you to guide her. She can do no better than that.”

  Mr Keeper doesn’t know how to respond to the compliment. It’s not the sort of thing Carrick Rowntree usually comes out with. In the end he settles for familiar territory.

  “One more pipe?”

  His old teacher nods.

  “One more. And then we must sleep. Tomorrow will find us on the long road once more.”

  They fill their pipes and smoke in silence as the fire dies down.

  3

  “You,” says the woman. “I prayed I’d not see your kind ever again.” Whatever fright she felt is fast replaced by suspicion and anger. “Yet here you are on the very same day.” The woman, tense but hard of the eye, spends long moments studying Megan. “What brings you to my room?”

  Megan wants to put the woman at her ease, to answer simply but she struggles.

  “The… shape of the weave.”

  “Listen, Scarecrow girl, I know cocks and I know futures. I don’t know no weave.”

  Megan blushes and looks away. The woman rises and approaches. She stands in front of Megan, one shoulder bare, her arms folded.

  “How did you get past the mistress?”

  “She didn’t…” Megan clears her throat. “…see me.” Fearing the woman might call for the mistress or simply k
ick her back down the stairs, Megan starts to talk without really thinking. “I had to find you. You said you’d tell my fortune. I wanted you to but Mr Keeper wouldn’t allow it. Please, I have to know.”

  The woman snorts in disgust.

  “That’s it?” She almost smiles. “Listen, girl–”

  “I’m Megan.”

  “Megan then. You’re a bright spark. Pretty too. This is your future: you’ll be happy. A good husband, enough to eat, a healthy brood. Go on back to your Keeper.”

  “No. You don’t understand. I already know that’s not my fate. I’m walking the Black Feathered Path. I need to see where it leads.”

  “Don’t Keepers have the power to see both behind and ahead?”

  “Yes. But we’re forbidden to serve ourselves with our own knowledge. It’s meant only for the good of the land and the people.”

  The woman’s hostility begins to drop away.

  “And you hold to that?”

  “Of course. If the path is not defined, the way is not clear. Besides, I want to complete my training. For myself and for everyone.”

  The woman considers Megan for a few silent moments and then holds out her hand.

  “Come. Sit with me for a spell.”

  Megan smiles and reaches towards her. Her fingers to pass right through the woman’s hand and they both flinch as though stung.

  “Fuck. What are you, girl?”

  A sickening shiver overwhelms Megan and she staggers back towards the door. The woman stares.

  “Please don’t be afraid,” Megan says. “Help me. I know you can do it. Help me to see.”

  The woman isn’t shocked for long. Her edge returns almost immediately and she folds her arms across her chest.

  “If you want the future you must pay for it. How will you do that, ghost girl? With ghost money?”

  Megan’s mind whirls. She is so close. She hears heavy footfalls on the stairs and drunken laughter. The woman shakes her head.

  “Time you were away.”

  “No. Wait. We can make it… a trade.”

  “Believe me, little one, all you’ve got that I want is your looks and your youth and I don’t think you’ll be wanting to part with those.”

  The footsteps reach the door and a strong hand hammers against it.

  “Please,” Megan whispers. “I have something to give you. This can’t be a mistake. You need me and I need you. I’m sure of it.”

  The woman considers. The hammering comes again.

  “Fuck off!” she yells.

  After a pause a slurred male voice says:

  “The mistress said top room.”

  “The mistress is drunk. I’ve got my moon.”

  “I’m not fussed.”

  “Well, I am so fuck off like I told you.”

  After some indistinct muttering the footsteps clomp back down the creaking stairs and the hammering assails a different door. The woman’s gaze fixes once more on Megan.

  “So. What can a girl like you possibly do for me?”

  Megan closes her eyes and stretches into the weave around the woman knowing she has one chance to get this right and very little time in which to do it. Immediately she senses pain in the woman’s womb and bladder. She sees black spots there: years of untreated disease, the scarring from two abortions and several rapes.

  But this long-term physical damage is nothing next to the shadows that crowd the woman’s aura: dark spirits feeding on the degradation of leased flesh, drinking the woman’s shame and pain despite her efforts to maintain some sort of prostitute’s nobility. Megan is not frightened by the spirits. Far from it. She is incensed at their leechlike cling and the barefaced simplicity of their intentions. But she knows if the woman could see what attends her at every moment of the day she would be insane with terror.

  Megan can also tell that the woman’s true ability is that of a seer. But her profession and the shadows it has plunged her into are clouding her skills almost beyond use. The woman barely believes in her own gift, using it as a way to bring in an extra meal or two on the days when Shep Afon’s market is busy. There is only one thing to do, and Megan has never done it before.

  Using her hands in the weave, she reaches into the woman’s belly and strokes the scars with her fingertips, fingertips that begin to spark with white light. As the light grows she lets it blast away the decade or more of infection that has caused so much inflammation and discomfort. Guided only by instinct, Megan works fast inside the woman’s body and as she works she prays, calling in the only spirit being she knows she can trust to answer.

  The oil lamps in the room flicker and dim. The woman doesn’t notice. Her eyes stare ahead and her body is rigid, as though time has stopped. Megan prays harder, putting all her fury into her invocations.

  “Here’s a place for your darkness,” she whispers. “Here’s a place for your light.”

  From somewhere distant in the weave, Megan hears a familiar sound and nods to herself with a grim smile. The whine of huge black wings scything the air gains volume fast. The light from the two oil lamps becomes little more than an ochre stain as flitting shadows crowd the attic room. Their blackness is deep, sleek and midnight pure, astonishingly beautiful in comparison with the tainted darkness of the psychic parasites clinging to the whore like ivy.

  Time in the physical world stops. The woman is frozen, unblinking. Megan’s fingers work at speed, seeking out sickness and obliterating it with light, loosening gnarls of scarred vulval and uterine flesh, returning rosy health to abused tissues. The gurning, lasciviously fascinated beings that wait in the woman’s energy field draw back from Megan’s brightness and purity, scowling at the intrusion of anything that doesn’t feed their salacious appetites. Yet her light is enough to distract them from the pristine dark that now occupies every corner of the woman’s room, a dark that advances with a feathery whisper until it surrounds them. Obsidian beaks and claws extend from every direction and only then do the spirits notice the force that stalks them. They try to shrink away but the Crowman’s influence is everywhere. The beaks and claws close over the spirits, matching their frequency with ease; puncturing and cutting into them as though they were flesh. The spirits howl.

  “Take them,” whispers Megan. “Take them away from her forever.”

  A wind rises in the tiny room, sudden as a squall, and vast wings beat at the air. With a sound like tearing hessian the dark spirits are ripped from the woman’s aura and for a moment her unblinking eyes widen in pain. The wind increases, causing Megan to narrow her eyes against its force.

  In an instant the room returns to silence. The wind is gone, the darkness has dissolved. The oil lamps brighten and Megan senses a purity as though the energy in the attic has been somehow scrubbed white. Even the smell of the soiled sheets has been neutralised. The room is fresh, as is the face of the woman. Megan withdraws her hands from the weave of the prostitute’s body and the woman’s eyes gradually refocus.

  She looks around the room as though not recognising it. Her eyes meet Megan’s and she collapses forward, into her open arms. Megan wills substance back into her own form and holds the prostitute tight. She glances once more around the exposed beams and rafters, making certain the room is clear. She strokes the woman’s back.

  “It’s alright,” she says. “Everything will be different now. Everything will be better.”

  But whether the woman hears or not, Megan can’t tell; the sound of her weeping is too loud. To the departed darkness, and the echoing whisper of black silken wings, Megan whispers:

  “Thank you.”

  4

  Dear Gordon,

  There’s so much I want to say to you. But now that I’ve finally managed to get some paper and a pencil, I don’t know where to start. The most important thing is I’m alive. I wish I could tell you about Mum, Dad and Angela but I don’t know what happened to them or where they are. We were separated the day the Ward came for us and I haven’t seen them since. Oh, Gordon, I miss them so muc
h it makes my chest hurt. Like there’s a raw wound inside that will never heal. But I miss you the most. Sometimes I cry really hard, the way I imagine insane people do, and I want to smash my head against the wall so hard that I’ll – well, you know. I probably shouldn’t say things like that but if you’re still out there, I know you’ll understand. Wardsman Boscombe – he lets me call him Bossy when no one’s around – says you’re alive. He never says it to me but I’m sure he has connections among the Green Men. He says he hears stories about you sometimes. Probably nothing more than rumours, I know, but it gives me hope and I need that in here. Bossy’s not like the others. He never beats me. He’s the one who got me this stuff so I can write to you. He says he has “friends”. He says he can get these letters to you. All he asks is a small price every now and again. Is it true you fought with Skelton and Pike? That you cut them both with Dad’s knife? I’m so proud of you Gordon. If I had a knife here I’d

  Gordon squatted against a brick wall and looked up into the sky.

  It was saturated with smoke, dust and low cloud. Charcoal-dark flakes floated down and settled on his already grimy clothes; a snow of ash from the thousands of tiny fires which now kept the people of London warm or cooked their food – those fortunate enough to find it. The permanent smog smelled of sulphur, spent coal and burnt wood. The sun rarely broke through, even in the open country, and four seasons had become two: a warm, wet monsoon and a frozen winter.

  From the pack beside him – a sturdy but modest rucksack containing his parents’ last letters, his diary and the scrapbook of Crowman prophecies, extra layers, a flysheet and small blanket, whatever food he could salvage and a few other necessities – he withdrew a tin of salmon, spiked it with his dad’s old lock-knife and worked it open. The blade was thinner and curved almost to a crescent by three years of honing. The once angular wooden handle had worn smooth to abide in Gordon’s right palm. With the tin’s lid prised back, the stink of the city was banished for a moment by the oily reek of fish. Saliva flooded his mouth making the glands in his throat sting and ache. His stomach worked against itself, groaning. He spiked a lump of pink flesh, inspected it briefly and popped it into his mouth.