The Book of the Crowman

by Joseph D'lacey

  The three Ds were scared. I was scared too, truth be told. It wasn’t like magic or anything but it was the strangest thing I’d ever seen. It wasn’t what you’d call normal. Gordon Black wasn’t what you’d call normal.

  He walked up the steps to get on their level. They backed off until they were up against the thorns and weeds of the wild garden. He had his little knife in his hand. It’s not much more than a penknife. Pathetic really. But it didn’t look pathetic in his hand. It looked like a single, deadly claw. The three Ds all had their tools held out in front of them but they suddenly looked more like shields than weapons. I think they just wanted to keep him away.

  “So,” says Gordon, casual as anything. “What did you want to ask me?”

  Darren must have had itchy feet or something. He had his machete held out like an accusing finger and he couldn’t stand still.

  “Who’s in the ground?”

  “That’s Flora.”

  “What did you do to her?”

  “She died of a fever.”

  “Bollocks.”

  “Don’t take my word for it. Ask her mother.”

  “You’ve got Denise in there?”

  I put my head up through the window at that point so Darren could see me. I’ve never seen him so angry. But he didn’t know what to do about it.

  “Did he hurt her, D?”

  I was the fourth D. That was the nearest we ever got to a joke about the arrangement. It wasn’t very funny. I shook my head.

  “There was nothing anyone could have done,” I says. “It was her time.” And that made me cry, of course. And that pushed Darren right to the edge.

  “Let her go,” he says. “I want her out of there now.”

  “She can leave if she wants.”

  I didn’t move. I just stood there crying. I wasn’t going anywhere without Gordon Black.

  “Look,” says Gordon. “Denise doesn’t want to be… associated with you gentlemen any more. I think she deserves a little dignity after all she’s been through, don’t you? I’m going to give you the opportunity to say your goodbyes but you must never come back to this place. Not to this house. Not to this garden and certainly not to this grave.”

  “Or what?” says Darren.

  “I think it’s a pretty fair deal as it stands. All you have to do is leave and not come back. That’s it.”

  Darren looked at Gordon and then at me. He looked up at 257 and finally one small penny dropped.

  “There’s no on else in that house, is there? It’s just you and her.”

  “I never said otherwise. What does it matter?”

  I’m not sure he would have let them go, even if they’d turned around and walked away when he gave them the chance. I don’t know if he tricked them into attacking or just pissed them off so much he knew they would. It’s another one of those things I’ll probably never know.

  What happened was that Darren made the first move. He went on the offensive and Gordon took him to task. In these times, someone else making the first move is full justification. Always. I’m not sure it warranted the savagery of Gordon’s response, though. All I can say is, at least it was quick. And I knew one thing for certain then. While Gordon Black was alive, I’d always be safe.

  Yeah. That’s what I thought I knew.

  It took Gordon the rest of the day to inter the men Denise referred to as the three Ds.

  He didn’t do it to hide the bodies. Nor did he do it because of the smell they would make soon enough. He did it because shit was good for the ground. They would be food for the wild garden and perhaps this place would survive and thrive in the years to come. Gordon had visions of the plants bursting the brick walls on both sides and spilling into the neighbouring properties. As the years went by they would spread and ramble, joining with the plants in the park, taking root there and flourishing. It was a pleasant fantasy; something to counteract the knowledge that in many parts of the country nothing would now grow. Gordon buried the three Ds as his gift to the Earth and he prayed for his wild garden to spread and multiply. He prayed for a future.

  That night he and Denise dined on tinned potatoes, tinned mushrooms and beef stew, sitting in armchairs Gordon had manoeuvred from other rooms and placed near his preferred cooking hearth. They ate from plates Denise had found in the kitchen cupboard, used bone-handled cutlery and drank water from glasses. She waited until Gordon had finished his meal before she spoke.

  “Where did the lily and the feather come from?”

  “Hm?”

  “On Flora’s grave.”

  “Oh, those. I found them.”

  “Where? I mean, the feather I can understand but where did you find a single white lily?”

  “On the other side of the park there’s a pond. It’s stagnant but there was a patch of it that still had some life in it. The lily was there.”

  “Only one?”

  “Just one.”

  “It was very thoughtful.”

  “She was a lovely child. I wish I’d done more.”

  “What do you mean?”

  Gordon cleared his throat.

  “I just wish there was more I could have done.”

  Denise was quiet for a time.

  “Listen,” said Gordon. “We can talk about something else if you want.”

  “No. It’s OK. I don’t want to pretend it hasn’t happened. I don’t want to act as though she was never here.”

  “I don’t want you to be upset.”

  “The whole fucking world is upsetting. As if the disease and poverty and starvation isn’t enough, there’s violence everywhere. You killed three men today, Gordon.”

  “You’ve seen plenty of killings.”

  “Yes. I suppose I have.”

  “I had no option. If I’d done nothing they would have killed me. And then they’d have–”

  “I know.”

  “And if they’d left, they’d have come back with others and we’d have had no chance.”

  Denise took a sip of water.

  “No one ever stood up to them like that,” she said. “They had a reputation.”

  “Did they operate alone?”

  “No. They were muscle for a bigger fish.”

  Gordon clenched his teeth.

  “We’ll have to move on then. Those bigger fish will come looking for them.”

  “I know. I’m sorry.”

  “It’s not your fault, Denise. But I’ll miss number 257.” Gordon stroked the worn fabric on the arm of his chair. “This is the nicest digs I’ve had in any city.”

  “What about finding the Crowman?”

  “I can’t find him if I’m dead. We’ll have to get away from here. First light. Earlier if you can manage.”

  “Where can we go?”

  “Into the countryside. Just for a while. If they don’t find us in a few days, they’ll give up. Revenge is a low priority when no one knows where their next meal is coming from.”

  Denise pushed her food around her plate with her fork.

  “There’s one other problem, Gordon.”

  “Uh huh.”

  “The group they were part of has links with the Ward. That’s how they got some of their food.”

  Gordon massaged his temples with three fingers of each hand and took several deep breaths before looking up. He’d hoped his hunch about them was wrong.

  “We need to leave.”

  “Tonight?”

  “Right now.”

  It took Gordon a few minutes to choose what they needed most from their supplies. He went to find Denise. She was kneeling between two open suitcases and a few bags, crying in the candlelight.

  “You need to decide quickly, Denise. Please.”

  “This is everything I own. Flora’s clothes and some of her toys too. Things my mum gave me. I can’t just leave it all here.”

  “You don’t have a choice.”

  “Gordon,” she looked up at him. “This is my life. I can’t abandon it.”

  Gordon pushe
d his fingers back through his hair.

  “Alright. Take out only what you need to survive. I’ll look for a hiding place for everything else. You can always come back here and collect the stuff when things have calmed down.”

  “What if they find it?”

  “This is the best I can do, Denise. If the Ward had anything to do with the three Ds, we’ll be lucky to get away with our skins, let alone all this clobber.”

  Taking a candle, Gordon tore through the house, mounting each flight of stairs three at a time. None of the rooms had anything secure or unobtrusive to offer. When he reached the highest floor of the house there was small landing with an attic above. A small brass ring hung from the access hatch. Held against the wall by brackets was a boathook. When he hauled on the ring, the hatch opened and a set of aluminium pull-down stairs slipped into view. He hauled them the rest of the way down and climbed into the highest level of the house.

  This was where Denise and Flora ought to have lived. It was vast. Loose boards overlaid thick insulation. The entire space was empty. He held his candle up into the gloom. Below the apex of the roof were sections of board resting on crossbeams. They looked like they’d been there since the house was constructed. If he could climb up, that was where Denise and Flora’s belongings would be safest.

  It took him three trips, two with each suitcase and one with two bags. When it was done, nothing could be seen from below except the old boards. He shut the hatch with the boathook and stashed it up the chimney of the fireplace in the nearest room while Denise looked on.

  “Thank you,” she said.

  He smiled.

  “Let’s go.”

  As he slipped through the basement window and Denise handed him the bags, he heard the sounds of iron-shod hooves on tarmac.

  “Quick,” he whispered, putting his hands through and helping Denise out.

  When she was standing beside him, she heard it too.

  “Oh, Jesus.”

  “We can’t go through the back gardens,” said Gordon. “We’ll run right into them. We’ll have to try for the park. Come on.”

  He shouldered his pack, grabbed Denise’s hand and pulled her up into the garden.

  “We’ll never get through all that,” she hissed.

  He drew her to the side wall and prayed to the spirits in the wild garden to let them pass easily. Though the thorns and brambles still plucked at their hair and clothes, they were able to edge around the perimeter with only a few scratches. When they reached the door in the back wall, Gordon mouthed a silent thank you to the garden and then yanked the door open. The hinges creaked in protest and they both cursed the noise.

  “That way,” whispered Gordon, urging Denise along the rat run of an alley.

  At the dead end, he boosted her up onto the wall and handed up her bag.

  “Can you see anyone in the park?” he asked.

  She was quiet for a while.

  “I think it’s clear.”

  “OK. Move along a bit.”

  Gordon leapt high, grabbed the top of the wall and heaved himself up.

  “That way,” he said, pointing.

  Behind them, the clatter of men on horseback was loud. The patrol knew exactly where to go. Before they’d even crossed the park, Gordon heard the Ward smashing their way through the back door of number 257. He knew it wouldn’t take them long to realise he and Denise weren’t coming back. At best, they had minutes to find their next refuge or lose themselves in a crowd. The Ward were getting smarter and quicker all time; it was almost as though they were anticipating him.

  “Come on,” Gordon whispered, taking Denise’s hand and holding it tight.

  “I’m going as fast as I can,” she hissed.

  “You have to go faster,” he said, and, breaking from a jog into a run, he drew her on into the night.

  18

  The bed is warm and Megan is tangled tight in her clothes, blankets and furs, woven into them like a pupae in its cocoon. Scant grey light seeps around the edges of her bed-hood – a tried and tested combination of pillow and bedspread designed to prolong the night.

  The scent of wood smoke is a subtle harbinger of morning by comparison to the knock and clang of Amu preparing breakfast for Apa in the kitchen. Megan wants only to close her eyes again and sleep all winter long. She would like to travel back through the weave, wake up the previous spring and somehow make that season last forever. That was a time before knowledge had made a mule of her, when magic was present but unspoken in everything she saw rather than the stone cold reality and vocation it had now become.

  Sometimes the smell of eggs cooking in goose fat can overcome all world-weariness, and this is one of those times. After flailing around weakly, like an animal in a trap, Megan manages to free herself from her cosy prison and sits up on the edge of the bed. The air creeping in through every crack in the doors, windows and walls has pincers and its nipping wakes her further. She begins to recall her journey in the night country: the brave, dying child trapped in darkness until death; a girl who need do nothing to find the Crowman but wait for him in her stinking sickbed. Even so, the little girl’s illness seemed a terribly high price to pay.

  Megan slips to the floor, looks under her bed and puts her hands on the box, remembering the gift the little girl gave her. She hesitates. The loss of that gift will be like a cut to a trusting, outstretched hand but she must check.

  “Megan! If you want any breakfast you’d better be quick. Your father’s got an appetite this morning.”

  The voice from just the other side of her door makes her jump. She hadn’t heard her mother approach.

  “I’ll be right through, Amu.”

  She readies herself for what she knows will be a disappointment and lifts the lid. The book rests where she left it. She peeks underneath. Nothing. She raises it up to see if somehow the paper has stuck to the leather of the back cover. It hasn’t. Megan dumps the book back into its box and mutters a small curse. Even though she knew nothing would be there, she is weakened by the truth. The girl’s gift, so powerful a symbol, so beautiful a piece of work, has not survived the journey through the weave. Now it is nothing more than a half-memory; not real in the first place and even less so now.

  Something about the girl and the obvious tragedy of her tiny, painful existence touches her still. It’s as though Megan herself were once a prisoner of darkness and disease, sometime long ago, and as hard as walking the Black Feathered Path can sometimes be, she knows that this life is a beautiful reward, an existence most folk can barely imagine, such is the depth of its passion and beauty.

  She can’t help but release a sigh of loss, and what little enthusiasm she has for the day ahead rushes away with her expelled breath.

  “Portions are dwindling, Meg!”

  “Coming, Amu.”

  Her father is at the table eating with great concentration and enjoyment. A thick slice of bread, heavily buttered, with a still steaming fried egg laid on top. This he accompanies with Amu’s spiced gooseberry and apple chutney, the afterburn of which is not to Megan’s taste.

  “Morning, Meg,” says her father through a mouthful.

  “Morning, Apa.”

  “Sleep well?”

  “Not bad, I suppose. A few dreams.”

  “Thought so. I heard you muttering at some strange hour.”

  “Sorry, Apa.”

  He leans across the table and pats her arm with real affection.

  “Don’t you worry about it. We know how important it is, what you’re doing. Not just for you but for everyone hereabouts. And we’re proud of you, Meg, in case you didn’t know. Very proud indeed.”

  Surely that isn’t a tear in the corner of her father’s eye.

  Is it?

  He’s already back into his eggs and when Megan looks at her mother, she has turned away to the stove. A few moments later a fried egg, on a thinner piece of bread with less butter, arrives in front of her. She eats it slowly and long before she finishes, her father
is up and out of the door to check the fields and animal traps, pecking her mother briefly through his yolk-stained beard as he rushes to be away.

  Megan thanks her mother for breakfast and takes a cup of lemon balm tea with her back into her room. She sits at her table, staring out of the window at nothing in particular. To remind herself of the work she has done, she withdraws the black box from its resting place. Placing it before her on the table, she opens it, removes the book and flicks its thick, luxurious pages. Somehow she has filled up two thirds of the volume with her neat handwriting.

  It’s strange. She’s unaware of how and when she’s done all this work but there it is right in front of her. And though the Crowman somehow speaks through every page, he has not yet made a genuine appearance in the boy’s life. He is always a tantalising step ahead of Gordon. But Megan knows, if only from the dwindling number of blank pages left in the book, that the moment in which he’ll discover the Crowman is finally within Gordon’s reach.

  She turns to the last page she wrote and there she stops, frozen, not breathing.

  The little girl’s drawing of the Crowman is there. Inside the book. Not on a separate page inserted among the existing leaves but on the page following the last one she wrote.

  She stares.

  It is the same drawing, exact in every detail. Megan covers her mouth to stifle a small cry. She turns over the page, expecting nothing more but unable to prevent herself from checking the other side of it. There is another drawing, by the same artist.

  It depicts a small mound of freshly turned soil, surrounded by tiny flowers and hidden amidst a thicket of weed and thorn. Megan knows instantly whose resting place this is. The little girl who was so alive in spite of her sickness has been dead for generations, but to Megan, who only met her for the first time a few hours ago, her sudden loss is like a kick to the solar plexus. For long moments she can’t breathe. Worse than losing the little girl is the thought that perhaps her own journey through the weave, back to that dark, dirty room, was the catalyst for the girl’s demise.