“Mmm… about three days ago.”
“Where was he?”
Flora pointed to several layers of towels folded over a wooden rail.
“Standing down in the street. I saw him through the window.”
Gordon moved towards the makeshift blackout but Denise moved to stop him.
“We never open that when there’s light in here. Only a few people know we’re up here but that’s more than enough. Sometimes we look out either at dusk or at dawn. I like Flora to be able to see the street even if she can’t actually go outside very often.”
Gordon itched to look down and see the place where only three days before the object of his search had stood. If the Crowman visited as often as Flora said, Gordon knew he had to stay here until the next time he came. The Crowman seemed to have an affinity for the girl. If it took a week, a month – even a year – Gordon would wait. He’d never been this close.
An impulse took him.
“You say he talks to you, Flora, but do you ever talk to him?”
“Of course I do, knobhead! All the time.”
“Flora!”
Gordon laughed, waving Denise’s scold away.
“It’s fine,” he said. “Would you be able to give him a message from me next time you see him?”
“Yes. Yes, I think so. What do you want me to say?”
Gordon put his fingers to his lips.
What do I say to him? How do I say it?
“Could you just say that… Could you tell him that Gordon Black has come to find him? That I want to talk to him because I… need his help. Can you tell him that?”
“Yes, Gordon.” Flora was once more full of her adult importance and it struck Gordon not as precocious or amusing in the slightest. It couldn’t have been more appropriate. “I can tell him that. And I’ll tell you what he says too.”
Gordon slumped back. A deep coil of tension had released inside him and he was suddenly exhausted.
“You can rest here if you’re tired.”
This was a very different Denise to the one who’d confronted him at gunpoint. Every part of him wanted to stay and sleep. He felt that if he closed his eyes now, he might sleep for three whole days. And up here he would be so much safer too.
“Thanks,” he said. “But you’ve both done more than enough already. I’d like to come back, though, if that’s OK. In a few days, perhaps. Maybe by then Flora will have seen the Crowman.”
“You’re always welcome, Gordon,” said Denise. “The least I can do is see you safely off the premises.” She shifted onto her knees and reached for the ladder. “Come on, I’ll follow you down and show you the safest routes.”
When the hatch was open and the ladder down, Gordon waved to Flora across the tiny space. She waved back and smiled.
“It’s been great to meet you, Flora.”
She waved back.
“Come back soon,” she said. “I know he’ll be excited that you’ve come to see him.”
Unbelievable. All this time. I’m really going to meet him.
It didn’t seem possible. Gordon descended to the top landing and Denise joined him. They made the journey down through the house in silence and she followed him out into the tip that had once been a back garden. The hole in the wall was as far as she would go.
“There are good places all along this road,” she said. “Places the Ward don’t know about.” She gestured out to the front of the house and to the right. “The old swimming baths is a couple of hundred yards down that way. No one thinks of going in there. There are lots of office rooms upstairs but it’s damp. If you go the opposite way there’s a house with a green door. Number 257. It was derelict long before people started to leave. The garden’s so overgrown you’d have to cut your way through but, as far as I know, no one’s ever stayed there and the Ward never touch it.”
She mentioned other places and Gordon took the information in as best he could, trying to remember one important thing about each bolthole.
“Thanks,” he said. He glanced briefly up towards the top of the house. “And sorry.”
“What for?”
Gordon looked back at Denise.
“For causing trouble. For bringing them to your place.”
“Don’t be stupid. It’s not mine anyway. Nothing belongs to anyone any more. Well, everything belongs to the Ward. It’s the same thing.”
“They only came in because of me.”
“You don’t know that.”
“Sometimes they know where to look. It’s uncanny. I thought I’d been careful. I don’t know why they came in here today but it put you and Flora in danger.”
“It wasn’t the first time and it won’t be the last, Gordon. You can come back here any time you want to. Flora was…” Denise cleared her throat. “It was good for her. She isn’t like that with anyone else. The Crowman stuff, it… makes me uncomfortable. But it’s all she’s got and she told you more today than she’s ever told anyone else. She’s never said that much about it to me.”
Gordon’s eyes roved the gritty smog all around them.
“She’s like a candle up there in all that darkness,” he said. “Bright and spirited and…” His gaze returned to Denise. “What’s wrong with her? Do you mind me asking?”
“No. I don’t mind.” Whatever strength held Denise together, appeared to seep away with what Gordon knew was a huge lie. The hard woman with the shotgun, the woman who was ready to die fighting the Ward; this woman, so much like an animal protecting her young, faltered and slackened. “Everything’s wrong with her. She’s always been sick. Ever since she was born. She’s got some kind of rheumatoid arthritis and her immune system is overactive. She basically destroys herself a bit at a time. There used to be drugs for it but I can’t get them any more.” Denise let her eyes meet Gordon’s. “No matter what I do.” She looked away again quickly. “Flora’s weak. She can barely walk. She’s in pain most of the time – painkillers I can still get sometimes but I save them for when she’s really bad. We can’t have her crying out because it’ll give us away. The Ward kill all the sick and you know what they’d do to me. There’s no law but theirs any more. They do what they want and no one can stop them.” She wiped tears from her face with her dirty sleeve. “Sorry,” she said.
“Don’t apologise.”
“The point is, Gordon, that Flora’s dying. There’s nothing I can do about it. There’s nothing anyone can do. So you come back and visit us soon because she likes you. You made today a good day for my little girl. I wish there was something I could do to repay you for that.”
Gordon’s stomach fluttered. He swallowed but kept all expression from his face.
“Flora’s already given me more than enough with her Crowman stories.” He unslung his rucksack, unzipped it and reached inside. His hand came back with a tin of tomato soup and some vacuum packed crackers. “Here. You two have a nice dinner.”
“What will you eat?”
“I’ll manage, Denise. I always do.”
She took his hand.
“You could stay with us. There’s enough room.”
He swallowed again but didn’t move. Wherever he went, the Ward followed. People got hurt. But he couldn’t tell her that; didn’t want her to know. He couldn’t bear her to wish him gone. Not yet. Perhaps this way, by staying nearby but not with them they would have more time together. Tomorrow. Or the day after that.
He squeezed Denise’s hand, grabbed his pack and ducked down through the hole in the wall. He walked away fast, not wanting her to call out to him, not wanting this feeling that was building inside him: the desire to go back with her into the attic and share more food and conversation. The desire to stop running and find a place he could call home. The desire to touch someone in anything other than fury.
10
They are so far into the weave Megan has no idea where they are or when. She feels Carissa’s grip weakening.
“Don’t let go of me!” she shouts. “I can’t get back wit
hout you.”
If Carissa hears her, she doesn’t respond. Her hands slacken and her body becomes limp. Megan holds her tighter. In the half light of an approaching dawn, she sees Carissa’s head lolling, her skin ashen. Once more they fall towards the land.
Megan shuts her eyes and presses her face against Carissa’s neck. The scent of lavender, aromatic smoke and musky skin distract her for a moment and it is during this tiny absence that they are placed on the ground. Megan thinks Carissa has fainted so she lays her on her front as Mr Keeper has shown her during their healing rounds of the village. Megan checks Carissa’s wrist and chest. There’s a thready pulse and she’s breathing shallowly. For the moment there’s nothing more Megan can do but wait for her to regain consciousness.
She stands to try and get a sense of where they are and realises in the gathering light that she knows this place very well. They have landed in the clearing where Mr Keeper lives. Only a few paces away is his roundhouse, with smoke rising from its chimney.
Her sense of relief at being so close to home is short-lived. At her feet, not far from where the path through New Wood enters the clearing, there is fresh blood soaking into the pine needles. The soil has been churned up by many sets of tracks, as though some kind of struggle or fight happened here. The blood is plentiful and its trail leads right to the door of the roundhouse.
“Oh, Mr Keeper,” whispers Megan.
At first she cannot approach his dwelling. Her feet won’t move. Mr Keeper may not be aware that she has entered the weave alone and he may not be able to follow her. But if he’s in the roundhouse, if he’s still alive, Megan is certain he’ll see her in the weave and then he’ll know she has travelled by herself. But when is this? Perhaps she has already completed the Black Feathered Path, in which case to navigate the weave unaccompanied is permissible. But what if, in this time, Mr Keeper has been hurt? Great Spirit forbid it, what if she is being shown the last moments of his Earthwalk?
Instinct tells her none of this is a mistake. If she has been brought here then she must find out why. Tiptoeing, even though her footsteps through the weave make no sound at all, Megan approaches the squat hut. She notices Mr Keeper’s longbow resting beside the front door and glances back at the plentiful blood trail.
An animal. Surely just an animal. Please don’t let it be him.
She creeps around to the wind-eye and, pressing as close to the wall as she can, peeps inside. It is too dark, at first, for her to see properly, but the roundhouse is definitely occupied. One figure kneels, rocking very slowly as though in trance or prayer. Another figure lies unmoving on the rush mats.
Megan wills her vision to adjust and stares hard into the gloom. By increments, the tallow candles and the light spilling from the iron stove appear to brighten. She cups her hands around her eyes and sees the dried flowers and dried herbs that surround the body on the floor.
The kneeling figure is Mr Keeper, though he appears emaciated and old. The supine figure is her, Megan, face almost chalk white and her body utterly still. Too still. Megan puts her hand to her mouth and backs away from the wind-eye before Mr Keeper can sense her presence.
In the clearing, Carissa is sitting up. She looks sick and confused. Megan hurries back and kneels beside her, distracted for a moment from what she has just seen.
“I’m so glad you’re alright,” she says.
Carissa can’t meet her eyes at first. Megan frowns.
“What is it? What happened to you?”
The woman stares into the trees for a few moments. She takes a deep breath before speaking.
“The Crowman. He snatched me away from you.” Carissa looks at Megan now. “I thought he would… I don’t know. Not kill me but peck out my spirit and wear it in his hat like a feather.”
Megan shakes her head.
“He would never do that. Not to you.”
“Maybe not. But he’s capable of it.” Carissa heaves an exhausted sigh. “He wanted me to give you a message. He said he can’t show you everything that’s coming because he doesn’t know every outcome. He said the time of the Keepers is coming to an end. They’ve done their best to keep him alive in their retelling of his story but none of them has been skilful enough to tell it right. He says only you can do that and that it’s up to you how the future turns out.”
“Why couldn’t he tell me this himself?”
“He knew you’d ask that. He said that you must do it, not for his sake but for the sake of the world and for the sake of the people. He doesn’t want to influence you because every effort you make must be for the good of all, not because you feel it has been commanded. He says you’re the first to have retold his story plain and true thus far and that he knows you’ll retrieve the rest of it just as well. But he wanted you to know that there is a way for you to record his story which will keep it safe for more generations than you can imagine. If you discover this it will make you the last Keeper to write his story down. After that, things will be different but he didn’t say how.” Carissa places a hand on Megan’s shoulder.
“Is that everything?” asks Megan.
Carissa shakes her head.
“He said…”
“What?”
“He said you and I can’t see each other for a long time.”
Megan shakes her head, feeling her face redden.
“But why?”
“You must work alone for your work to have real power.” Carissa pushes her windblown hair back from her face. “There’s one other thing. He was very specific about it. He said: In all things, find the balance. If you can do this, his presence in the world will no longer be needed and he will return to the blackness that bore him.”
Megan buries her face in her hands. This foray into the weave has brought her nothing but fear and new burdens to carry.
Why did I come here unaccompanied? Why did I take part of any of this?
She begins to weep tears of frustration and anger. After everything she’s done, everything Mr Keeper has taught her, she still knows nothing. She still has no power over this world and nothing but uncertainty in her heart. Through her tears she looks back at Mr Keeper’s roundhouse.
“Did he tell you…”
“What, Megan?”
“It doesn’t matter.”
Megan’s sobbing worsens. Carissa reaches out and enfolds her in a protective embrace. Through bubbles of tears and mucus Megan blurts:
“I just want to go home.”
“This is as far as I can take you,” says Carissa.
Megan notices a change in the light. She swipes at her tears to find that she is sitting on furs in the candlelit black tent. Carissa’s embrace is comforting and wonderful, the embrace of a sister, but Megan is torn away from it, hauled out through the canvas flap and backwards across the land at a speed she is unable to control. Back through the dwellings of the outcasts and through Shep Afon. Back across the landscape and into darkness.
11
Gordon preferred hunting, but prey was scarce in London – in any city – unless you counted rats. He didn’t mind eating rat if it was unavoidable but he preferred a nice, plump country rat. The rats living amid the broken buildings, piles of refuse and overflowing sewers had fed on all manner of filth. Sometimes it was more prudent to hunt in the larder or fridge of a deserted house and survive on a tin of spam.
He checked out some of Denise’s suggestions first, almost choosing to stay in one of the administrative offices above the disused swimming pool. It was warm up there for some reason but the mouldy air tasted bad. What attracted him most was the idea of a green door and an overgrown garden. After a cursory glance at some of Denise’s other ideas, he set out for number 257, already set on finding a way in and making it his temporary dwelling.
Half a dozen steps led up to the front door. Like many of the neighbouring abandoned houses, it had been boarded up years before; however, this job was more thorough. Someone had fixed a steel grille over the front door and padlocked it. The padlock wa
s rusted shut. A glance over the steps confirmed the windows on the lower floors and below street level had been covered with sheet metal. There were dents where someone had taken a swing or two with something heavy before giving up. Around the outside of one metal sheet, small curls in the metal suggested a failed crowbar attempt.
Number 257 was part of a short terrace of sizable Victorian houses and there was no way through to the garden from the front entrance. To the left of the row, there was a line of long abandoned business premises. To the right was an area of parkland. Gordon trotted along the deserted main road, heading for the open ground. Grass that must once have been thick and green was now knee high and parchment dry. It rustled and crackled making it impossible to tread silently.
The edge of the park was walled but the brickwork had provided cover in some forgotten fire-fight and there were many collapsed and shattered sections. He chose a solid-looking vee in the wall and scrambled to the apex. From there he spotted the alleyway which he hoped led to the rear of number 257.
He walked along the top of boundary wall until he was looking down into the alley. From there he could see the back gardens of the entire row. The garden of 257 was a jungle; too dense and thorny for him to climb down into without shredding his clothes and skin. At regular intervals there were doors set into the wall of each back garden, giving the properties access to the back alley. He could see the one which corresponded to 257 – its paint was the same colour green as the front door, reminiscent of the half-broken door in the garden wall of his home; the door Jude had shut on him the last time he saw her.
He pushed the memories away, dangerous reminiscences that would only weaken him, and dropped the ten feet to the alley floor. Broken glass further disintegrated under his boots as he landed in the dark, walled passageway. Rats scattered at the sudden intrusion, fleeing from the maggot-ridden carcass of a fox. The alley was just wide enough for him to pass through without rubbing his shoulders against the brickwork; more like a trench than a walkway. He moved fast, not wanting to spend a moment more than necessary in that vulnerable compressed space.
The Book of the Crowman Page 7
