The Book of the Crowman

by Joseph D'lacey

  “I knew you’d return. I could see it.” Megan’s hand flies to her chest at the sound of the voice. She takes a deep breath and bows her head for a moment. Where’s the harm in talking? Or even just listening for a moment? She turns back towards the black dome with its black-feathered flag. The voice of the prostitute sounds mellower now, less strained.

  “You don’t know how comforting it can be to be right about a thing like this. To see into the weave the way I do now. I owe it all to you, girl. Why don’t you come inside?”

  It’s good to hear how well the woman sounds. Maybe that’s enough. Even now Megan could turn away into sleep. This tent and its occupant will be in this place in the weave forever. She’s certain she could find her way back. Is there any real need for her to be here now? Once again Megan imagines how it will feel to be around Mr Keeper, but forever be holding something back. Perhaps this is what it means to be grown up; she has seen enough unspoken words behind the eyes of Amu and Apa and many more behind those of Mr Keeper. But she cannot pretend that she is a child any longer.

  She tells herself she’s strong enough, crouches down and presses through the door flap.

  6

  Gordon sat cross-legged and calm.

  Adrenaline made his heart race and his breathing shallow but he countered the effects with long, slow respiration. Panic would do no one any good. The control he exerted over his body’s processes was purely practical; he had become addicted to heightened, excitable states and the natural drugs his body released in times of stress.

  As much as he hated being the prey, the attentions of the Ward always gave him a buzz. He knew it was dangerous to be aroused by this. On some level it meant he invited the Ward to find him. Perhaps that was why the patrol had stopped outside the hole in this particular wall and decided to search this particular house. Without them, his pulse would never rise above fifty beats a minute, his hands would never shake, his stomach would never contract and his mouth would never go dry. The methods of self-preservation he had cultivated might never be expressed.

  He was seventeen now but he didn’t consider himself any less crazy than the boy whose skin he’d shrugged off when he first went on the run. He was crazy in different ways, perhaps, but he was still crazy.

  Voices came through the floor as the Wardsmen ascended the stairs.

  “What are we doing in here, Walsh? It’s empty.”

  Walsh’s voice was weasel high, a northern accent, somewhere east of York, Gordon guessed.

  “Goin’ wi’ me gut, lad. Folerrin’ an ’unch.”

  Another voice, Black Country for sure, shouted from a lower floor.

  “It’s clear, boss. No one about.”

  For long moments there was silence. Gordon imagined a small, greasy-haired man engulfed by a uniform far too big for him. He imagined the man staring straight up at the hatch in the ceiling, giving silent signals to his men. They would come with a chair or an old dresser, place it on the top landing and stand on it. Gordon’s grip on the knife tightened. He held it in front of him, ready to bring it across the throat of the first man through the hatch. The woman was silent. Even in the confines of the attic he couldn’t hear her breathing. She must have hidden like this a thousand times. Her hiding place had served her well until now. He was the one to have brought danger to her door.

  More footsteps sounded from below as Walsh’s patrol joined him at the top of the house. What were they doing? What were they waiting for?

  The whine of Walsh’s voice was quieter this time.

  “Can anyone else smell fish?”

  Gordon swallowed.

  “That would be Dixon’s cock, boss.”

  Stifled guffaws and snorts came from below. Even Gordon’s mouth stretched into a grin in the darkness. He was glad the girl couldn’t see it.

  “I’m serious ’ere, lads. I can smell fish.”

  “Richards is serious too, boss.” This was the Black Country voice, the man who’d said the place was empty. There were more sniggers. “Everyone knows Dixon never washes his cock. He thinks it’s… manly.”

  Dixon must have taken offence:

  “I never bloody said that.”

  After that the search lost its priority. Gordon wasn’t able to keep track of who was speaking.

  “You never said it but we all know it’s true. You want everyone to think you’re dipping it every night.”

  “I bloody well don’t.”

  “I dip it every night,” said another voice.

  “Your sister doesn’t count.”

  “No, but yours does.”

  Walsh’s voice was still distinguishable:

  “Dixon, is this true?”

  “Is what true, boss?”

  “That you never wash your ol’ feller.”

  Dixon hesitated for too long.

  “That’s not ’ygienic, lad,” said Walsh. “You’re probably riddled wi’ disease.”

  “I am not diseased, boss.”

  “I won’t ’ave men in my patrol who don’t maintain basic standards o’ cleanliness, Dixon. I’m goin’ to give you a choice. Either you keep your genitalia sparklin’ and sweet smellin’ or I’ll report you.”

  “Hold on. What I do or don’t do with my cock is my business.”

  The change in Walsh’s tone silenced every snigger. The shouting sounded like it was beside Gordon’s ear.

  “You’ll wash it or I’ll cut the filthy article off. Your cock belongs to me, Dixon, and if you think otherwise I’ll take the matter straight to Skelton. ’E doesn’t like his agents to smell – especially not of women. You’ll be off this patrol and out of the Ward for good. And you know what that means.”

  There was silence from the top landing.

  “I’ll see to it as soon as we get back, sir.”

  Walsh exploded again.

  “If I see a barrel o’ piss on the way back to the station you’ll be washin’ it in that. Understand?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Right, everyone out. Not you, Richards.”

  When the footsteps had receded there was silence again from the top landing but Gordon knew Walsh and Richards were still there. Eventually, Walsh said:

  “Dixon’s got to go, lad.”

  Richards didn’t answer.

  “I can’t report ’im because it’ll bring this patrol into the spotlight. So ’e’s got to go. Are you wi’ me, Richards?”

  “Sir.”

  “You’ll see to it then.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “You’re a good lad, Richards. Get this sorted out nice and quiet and you’ll be movin’ up the chain of command before you know it.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  They didn’t move.

  “I can still smell bloody fish. Can you?”

  Gordon could imagine Richards raising his nose to test the air again.

  “No, sir.”

  Walsh heaved a huge sigh. Gordon thought he heard the sound of a hand clapping a shoulder and a moment later the last two pairs of footsteps receded. Only when they heard the sound of the horses moving off did Gordon allow himself to move. The girl relit the candle and they smiled at each other in the sudden warm brightness.

  “Thank God for Dixon’s fishy cock,” she said.

  Gordon grinned.

  “Thank God indeed.”

  The girl reached for the plastic bag with Gordon’s tin of salmon inside it. She passed it back to him.

  “It’s alright,” he said. “You have the rest.”

  “Not sure I want it after all that.”

  It was a long time since he’d had a reason to smile. It felt good. And seeing the girl smile felt good too.

  “You’ll manage,” he said. He nodded to the shape under the blankets. “Share it.”

  “Tell you what,” said the girl. “We’ll all share it.”

  She nudged the blankets. They shifted as though something were fighting its way out. Then a small face appeared over the rumpled pile. Its hair was tangl
ed and greasy, its skin the colour of an old tusk. But the eyes were bright and intelligent and full of mischief.

  “Thank God for Dixon’s fishy cock,” said the little girl and Gordon was shocked by the noise that burst from his mouth in response. Laughter. Genuine, spontaneous laughter.

  “You watch your mouth, young lady. That’s not how we behave in front of guests, is it?”

  The girl grinned, her smiling eyes fixated with Gordon.

  “Soooorrry, mum.”

  Gordon was very aware of the mother watching his eye contact with her little girl.

  “What’s your name?” he asked.

  “I’m Flora.”

  It was only then that he realised what would come next. Charmed by the little girl, he’d opened himself up for it:

  “Who are you?”

  “I’m…”

  He’d run for so long, used so many names it didn’t seem to matter which one he used any more. At least, when he was out there in the grit grey world it didn’t matter. What mattered was that no one knew his real name. And yet here, suddenly, his real name seemed important. A little girl didn’t deserve to be lied to whether she knew it or not.

  She was already reaching over from her nest of blankets to shake his hand and it was then he noticed how thin her arms were and how crooked her fingers. She could have crawled or stood up to greet him but she didn’t and he was very certain it was because she was able to do neither.

  He reached out his hand and took hers very gently. The Black Light leapt in his veins at the calling of her sickness but he fought it back; slammed a lid on it.

  “I’m Gordon,” he said. “And may I say that it is my very great pleasure to meet you, Flora.”

  7

  The prostitute’s tent is so thick with spicy, aromatic smoke that Megan chokes as it hits the back of her throat. She blinks until her eyes get used to the haze, wiping tears from the corners of her eyes. The smell in here is immediately reminiscent of Bodbran’s tent, and the prostitute, who sits on layers of sheepskin and is wrapped in woollen blankets, smokes a similarly large and conical wrap of herbs. On a low, smooth cross section of oak log, a dozen or more squat tallow candles drip and hiss, creating a small sun, its brightness causing Megan to squint.

  The prostitute beckons with both hands.

  “Come. Come to me, girl. It’s a blessing to see you again.”

  Stooping, Megan goes to the woman, who unwraps her shroud of blankets and enfolds her like a long-lost daughter. Megan doesn’t need to will herself more form; she is here in the weave as solidly as she exists in the day world. The prostitute holds her for a long time and Megan senses a tremor through the woman’s tight embrace. When she lets go and Megan retreats to sit down, the prostitute is wiping away tears of her own. Her face has changed; less furrowed by resigned cynicism, the prostitute now looks careworn but content and wears no trace of makeup. She adjusts her position on the skins, wincing, and smiles at Megan.

  “You haven’t changed at all, girl. How lucky you are to hold your youth so well. Now, after all this time I can’t keep calling you girl. What’s your name again?”

  Megan laughs.

  “I’m Megan. And I only saw you yesterday.”

  “Ah, yes. I remember.” The prostitute draws hard on her fat roll-up, holding the smoke in for a long time. As she breathes out she says, “But it’s been a sight longer than that for me, Megan. I may see the weave. I can even enter it since you visited me that night. But I can’t travel it the way the Keepers do.”

  How stupid of me, thinks Megan. I should have known that time might have passed for her.

  “What’s your name?” Megan asks.

  “Folk hereabouts call me Carissa.”

  “Carissa. That’s lovely.”

  “Well, it’s better than Annie the Attic Attraction.”

  Megan blushes.

  “How long has it been, Carissa? Since we met?”

  “In three months, it’ll be a year. I refused my next customer the day I saw you. And the one after that. The next one that came up the stairs was drunk. He had the eyes of man who’d been hurt as a child. Hurt and abandoned. I can see these things. Any road, he didn’t understand what ‘no’ meant. Thought it was a game until I tore a strip off his cheek with my teeth. That just made him more committed, though. He stuffed his wallet into my mouth and broke both my shins with his kicking. Rode me all night after that and then refused to pay because of his face.”

  Megan sucked at the air in shock and her hands flew to her mouth. Carissa smiled.

  “It wasn’t so bad. He left enough money for a bonesetter to fix me up but the Mistress didn’t want Annie the Attic Attraction any more after that. I knew what I needed to do, though. It was time to cross the river and start again. I do alright now. Folk tell me their pains. They ask me the way forward. Most of them pay. And sometimes, when the things I’ve told them come to pass, they come back and pay me more. It’s tiring at times, but no more so than being on my back all night, and I do a lot more good this way than I used to.”

  “And you’re happy now,” says Megan.

  Carissa considers.

  “No. But I can see happiness in others sometimes. And that’s blessing.” She leans a little way forward to whisper, “A blessing I’d like to repay.”

  Megan is ashamed at her misreading of the woman’s demeanour. And after everything Carissa has been through, all she has now is her tent and a reliance upon the kindness of strangers. Surely there is something more that she can do for this woman.

  As though reading her thoughts, Carissa says:

  “Listen, Megan. You don’t owe me a thing. You may not understand it until you’re a bit older but you’ve given me a new life. I’ll always be grateful for that and I’ll always be here if you can find your way back to me.”

  Unable to meet Carissa’s eyes, Megan mumbles a quiet “thank you”. She glances around the small domed space. Much of it is taken up with essential animal furs and blankets, protection against the frost that would penetrate the bender in winter. There is no sign that the space is shared with another; Carissa seems to be sitting in the area she uses for sleeping and, apart from a cooking pot and a couple of cracked bowls, she appears to have no possessions. However, near the grease-coated log which acts as a base for all her candles, there is a tiny shelf hand-carved from a single piece of wood. It contains no books, however. Instead, Carissa has made a shrine of it. A crude charcoal sketch of a crow wearing a top hat forms its centrepiece. On either side of it, black feathers have been gummed to the back of the shelf in layers, imitating a black wing. Where the books would sit, Carissa has placed offerings of flowers, grain and polished pebbles from the river.

  “I’ve kept his memory alive ever since you came,” says Carissa, noticing what Megan is looking at. “And I see black feathers wherever I go. I used to be terrified of them, you know, but now I take each one to be a blessing.”

  Megan glances up.

  “They aren’t always a blessing,” she says before she can think better of it. The boy and everything she has seen of his desolation so far are not hers to speak of yet. First she must complete the book. And the path.

  Carissa doesn’t appear to have read much into her slip of the tongue, though. She shrugs.

  “They always will be to me. I’ll never forget how you called on him or what he did.” Carissa takes a final draw on her almost spent fag, licks her fingers and pinches it out. She drops the dog end into a cup of damp river silt beside her. “Give me your hand, Megan. Only if I touch you can I give you what you’ve come for.”

  Megan frowns.

  “What have I come for?”

  Carissa’s smile levels out and disappears.

  “Let’s find out.”

  Megan slides closer and reaches towards Carissa. Before their fingers make contact, she senses a radiated warmth that vibrates at some barely perceptible frequency. Carissa takes Megan’s hand in both of hers and the cheery candlelight suddenly dims, t
he flames choked small and blue. Megan finds it hard to breathe. At first, she expects Carissa to begin speaking but it takes only a moment for her to realise that whatever is happening is affecting them both. She glances at Carissa’s eyes and sees the trepidation there.

  A wind rushes at them and their cosy, intimate surroundings disappear. All Megan can feel is Carissa’s hand gripping hers in the darkness as the ground falls away. Megan reaches for the point of contact with her other hand and holds on as hard as she can.

  The wind increases, pressing tears from Megan’s eyes and tearing at her hair. She becomes aware of pinpoints of light in the blackness above them and a thin band of almost midnight purple that seems very far away. Only then does Megan remember these feelings, even though it can be no more than three days since she last experienced them. She is unable to stop herself from crying out. The tiny dots of light are stars; the ribbon of brightening colour is the dawn horizon. They are flying but there is no feathered breast or black wings to cling to now, no Crowman to guide them.

  “What is this, Carissa?” asks Megan. “What’s happening?”

  There’s no reply other than a tightening of the grip on Megan’s hands.

  “You know how to travel, Megan. And I know the way. Hold me. Hold me tight.”

  8

  Flora frowned for a moment at the touch of Gordon’s hand and then sat back grinning and delighted with the little compliment. The girl’s mother put out her hand too. Gordon held it as though it were precious.

  “Denise,” she said, reddening. She withdrew her hand quickly.

  This was better than being poked with the shotgun. Better by far than fighting the Ward. Gordon allowed himself to relax. They shared out the fish and he made sure Flora got most of it. In his rucksack was an apple he’d been saving. This seemed like the moment it was destined for. He cut it three ways, again in favour of the sick little girl.