The Book of the Crowman

by Joseph D'lacey

  Finally, she slips out of the roundhouse to gather mushrooms for their supper.

  Some of the fields were so dead-looking the earth was grey.

  Gordon knelt from time to time to hold the dust of it in his hand. He let it fall from his fingers, sometimes like ash, sometimes like sand. Either way, nothing would grow in that earth. Not every part of every field was dead, though. Some strips and corners remained green and had long since turned to meadow. There the grass was long and interspersed with all manner of wild plants and weeds. There too, Gordon knew, small animals had made their homes or taken shelter. Seeds waited there for a spring that had taken too long to come. Whether the people survived or not, those seeds would still be waiting in a generation, ready for the seasons to return. Each time Gordon touched the long grasses that grew in those islands of life, a thrill of anticipation ran up into his chest, quickening his heartbeat, quickening his pace.

  Denise, who had dragged her heels from the moment they left the motorway, fell further behind at those moments. These were the times she would call out to him.

  “Where’s the bloody fire?”

  “What?”

  “Why are we running, Gordon?”

  “We’re not running, we’re just…”

  And he’d be off again before he could put it into words.

  After a while, though, it became clear that Denise really couldn’t take the pace. The land had been flat when they first left the motorway. Now it was beginning to roll a little. She would catch up on the gentle downhill slopes but the inclines were wearing her down. Gordon scanned the landscape for what he wanted and saw it about a mile away.

  He turned back and shouted to Denise.

  “We’re nearly there.”

  She struggled for enough breath to respond.

  “Nearly where?”

  “Somewhere we can stop.”

  “I don’t need a special place. I can stop right here.”

  “I mean a place where we can camp.”

  “Camp? I hate camping.”

  Gordon watched Denise puff her way up a hill he’d barely noticed was there.

  “Well, what else would you call sleeping and eating outdoors?”

  She caught up to him.

  “I don’t know,” she said. “When you mentioned food and shelter I just assumed there might be… I don’t know, an old farmhouse or something.”

  “Buildings attract attention. Everyone’s looking for buildings. They’re not safe.”

  “Are you saying we’re just going to lie down and sleep on the ground?”

  “No. But we’re not staying a in a bloody hotel either.” Gordon turned and set off again. She didn’t follow. “Come on, Denise, there’s a lot to do before we can eat.”

  “I’m knackered. I can’t walk any more.”

  He looked at her face. She believed what she was telling him. The truth was, she could walk farther. A lot farther. If their lives depended on it, she could probably run another five or ten miles before collapsing. This didn’t strike him as the time to be proving a point, however.

  “I’ll carry you,” he said.

  “No way.”

  “It’s not far.”

  “That’s all you ever say, ‘it’s not far’.”

  He pointed.

  “It really isn’t. See that bit of woodland down there?”

  “Yeah.”

  “That’s where we’re going. Can you walk that far? If you can’t, I’ll carry you.”

  “Ha. You might be able to pick me up, but you couldn’t carry me fifty yards.”

  Gordon’s smile was sly.

  “What will you bet me, then – that I can carry you the whole way?”

  “I’ve got nothing to bet with.”

  “Fine,” said Gordon. “Make it a sportsman’s bet.”

  He held out his hand. Denise shook it.

  She was in his arms and off the ground before she could resist.

  “Hey! I’m not ready.”

  Gordon didn’t answer. He ran. And Denise screamed.

  The world fell silent. All he knew was the joy of the power in his muscles and Denise’s fists battering against him in mock terror. He felt the wind rush past his ears and the thumping strength in his heart. A mile away, the distance shortening to the flying of his feet, the trees called out their quiet beckoning. No sound came in through his ears; their voices were already inside him.

  Return, brother, to sit among us once more.

  He grinned.

  It could have been the wind in his face forcing tears from his eyes.

  How he’d missed the land. How he’d missed the trees.

  Denise stopped struggling and clung to his neck, watching the brightness behind Gordon’s eyes grow stronger. She’d been certain he would drop her – worse, fall on top of her – but she could feel the raw power in his arms and legs. He was thin and tall but his ragged clothes hid a strength unlike any she’d known. She’d never touched a man with this much life in him. He was elemental.

  His delight at running free through the open land spread into her. By the time they reached the trees, with Gordon barely out of breath, she was smiling as broadly as he.

  He dodged through the trunks and over fallen logs and branches, feeling the coolness of wooded shadow darkening his blood, enlivening it with the life of the land. The Earth was not dead, she merely slept; reserving herself for those that were true, those who would love her.

  At the far edge of the trees, he found what he knew would be there; a small river. There on the bank he let Denise down, let her feet engage the living land. He inhaled the clean breath of trees and the clarity of the air above the water. His feet seemed to grow roots.

  Denise’s kiss – warm, soft lips pressed like a boon to his cheek – came as a surprise.

  “I underestimated you,” she said.

  Gordon managed to smile but the kiss had made a boy of him once more. He didn’t know what to say.

  “How did you get so fit?” she asked.

  “I don’t know. Three years on the road… you know, it’s… kill or cure.”

  “It certainly cured you. It’s like you’ve been training for something.”

  He looked across the river.

  “Perhaps I have been.”

  Out here, he could enjoy being next to Denise. It felt alright. Within the gaze of the trees, it felt honest. In this moment of simplicity, he knew he enjoyed being next to Denise. When he felt her fingers reaching for his hand, though, he moved away.

  “I’m going to build us a camp,” he said. “And I’m going to get some food. You can sit and rest if you want. Drink some water. If you get nervous, call out to me. I won’t be far away.”

  Their eyes met and he smiled, but he walked away before she could do or say anything else. There was a lot to do, after all.

  23

  Megan makes no sounds when she returns to the clearing, her footsteps as silent as Mr Keeper’s when he hunts. This human wild-thing that she knows herself to be is the most incredible form of life. It is close to divine in its abilities because not only does it move through this land, it shapes the land as it goes. It can form the world around for good or ill merely by passing through. If its thoughts are wrong, if it is disrespectful or even simply ignorant, it creates destruction at every turn. And yet, with the mind and body attuned to the landscape and the rhythms of the earth, this human wild-thing can enhance creation, give rise to more beauty, elicit the sacred in all things and live in moment to moment rapture. The line between the two states is so very fine, it is like silk from the tiniest spider. One side of this line leads to destruction in all things, the other to exponential abundance.

  Megan steps into the clearing, shy of the sudden space and lack of cover, skittish as a fawn. She recovers quickly, finding the hunter within herself. This clearing is a place where she belongs. She walks with bold, purposeful steps towards the door of the roundhouse, ready to take her position as guardian of this space for the night, to
play the role of Mr Keeper for as long as is necessary.

  When she is only a few steps away from the roundhouse door, her mind full of the little details of the evening ahead, she hears something behind her.

  She stops walking but does not turn.

  Her awareness flings itself out behind her as she senses the space. Something else is here with her in the clearing. She knows this even though there is nothing to see or hear or smell that is any different from just a few moments ago. Something breathes behind her; something powerful and primal.

  The moment she begins to think about what it might be, her new sensitivity locks up and she is left as weak and humanly ordinary as she has ever been.

  All she can do is turn. Slowly. Very, very slowly.

  Before she is even halfway around her peripheral vision is picking up everything it needs to know about this thing that now shares the clearing with her. A dark shape, low to the ground, muscles bunched and quivering under thick black fur. For just a moment she considers not turning any further and continuing to walk, pretending the thing isn’t there. Just as swiftly she adjusts her thinking. To turn her back on a creature like this is no better than suicide.

  She has heard of these beasts, everyone has. But no one ever sees them. Megan faces the thing fully and meets its pale green eyes. The cat is enormous and stands less than six good paces away; a bound or two for the animal if it decides to pounce. Its presence is overpowering. Waves of strength and streamlined aggression expand from it. Its spirit fills the clearing, obliterating any presence Megan might have felt she had. Its face is so broad and the jaws so well-muscled it looks almost bearlike. Long silky whiskers poke downward from either side of its mouth and its small ears are angled towards her.

  It is sensing her, appraising her. And Megan knows what it perceives: tender, easy meat.

  Its eyes lock with hers, mesmeric and intelligent. All the strength and power she felt only moments before drain into the earth and her legs begin to quake out of her control. Even though she has urinated only a few moments earlier, she now has the strong urge to do it again. So strong, she isn’t sure she’ll be able to stop herself. She tries to swallow and can’t. Her heart gallops loud and fast, her breath catching high in her chest.

  She hears a low rumble and it takes several seconds for her to realise it’s a growl eliciting from deep inside the creature’s chest. The growl gets louder, the threat in it enough to make her want to run and never stop but Megan knows that to run is to die. Her body screams its desire for flight; her mind reins it back. The huge black cat opens its jaws and the growl becomes a roar. Megan takes a faltering step backward. The cat advances one stealthy pace and that single, oily motion shortens the space between them. Their auras mingle in the piny evening air.

  Lost for a moment in the spell of its green eyes, Megan remembers her windswept journey with Carissa, a journey that brought them to this very clearing, the ground slick with fresh blood. A whimper rises in her throat and she stifles it with a clenched fist to her mouth.

  The cat advances again but now Megan locks up, her body overloaded with fear. The cat’s mouth draws back from its long white teeth. Its ears flatten against its head and it hisses. The hiss ends in a screech as its mouth opens to reveal the full terror contained in those jaws. Megan sees the tightening and rippling at its shoulders and haunches; it retreats towards the ground momentarily and then it leaps straight for her.

  As the black cat glides towards her through the silent air of the clearing, she sees its talons extend from the coal-dark moss of its paws. Each claw is as big as one of her fingers. Its mouth is stretched wide in a roar and in readiness for the bite which she hopes will end her life. She prays not to be alive when the creature tears off chunks of her flesh, chews it and swallows it.

  Great Spirit, spare me that…

  Her knees collapse easily as she dives low, making her bid for a few more seconds of existence. She hears its claws cutting the air, smells its foul breath and feels the heat of it like steam. The cat passes right over her as she hits the dirt with her hands clasped over the back of her neck. Its landing is almost totally silent but she hears its breath huff out as its weight reconnects with the earth. She waits for the searing of its claws and the finality of its bite. Nothing happens. She rolls over quietly.

  The cat has ignored her. It paws at the door of the roundhouse, trying to claw it open, a softer growl now coming from its throat. Its tail flicks and snaps from side to side in irritation. Finally, a couple of claws snag a decent grip on the soft wood of the door. The cat tears it from its housing, sniffs the threshold cautiously and then disappears inside as though into a cave.

  Any moment now the cat will come out of Mr Keeper’s roundhouse and realise what it’s missing. She could run. Now, if she is quiet, she might make it back to the village and raise the alarm. The men would come out and drive the beast away. She rolls into a crouch, ready to spring up and pad away as silently as she can.

  The cat’s head appears at the door, rising and falling with its rapid shallow breathing. Its regards her calmly and then it is gone again, back inside. It’s only now that Megan notices the blood trail. She looks back in the direction from which it came; the gory traces extend to the edge of the clearing. Does this animal know Mr Keeper? Perhaps it knows it can come here to have its wound treated. It wouldn’t be the first time Mr Keeper had taken in an injured wild animal and nursed it back to health with herbs and poultices.

  With Mr Keeper still absent, the responsibility for this creature falls to her. She knows he would want her to step into his shoes and help the animal if she’s able. After all, healing is a major aspect of her training.

  Can I really treat a wounded black panther without getting myself killed?

  Megan has no answer for this.

  Nor does she have any choice now about her actions. To run away would be to end her training and step off the Black Feathered Path forever.

  She edges towards the doorway of the roundhouse, unable to see inside. The light is seeping away fast with the approaching dusk. At the entry, she hesitates. There’s a huge presence within. She can smell it and she can feel it. Listening hard she can hear the gentle rumble of purring. Perhaps it’s this sound which encourages her to enter. She picks up the door, and leans it as best she can into the space it has been ripped from. It takes time for eyes to adjust to the gloom within. Some of the failing daylight enters through the wind-eye and the stove throws out a few flickers of orange through the crack in its door, but even after her eyes become accustomed to the darkness, the roundhouse seems to be empty.

  She moves as quietly and carefully as she can towards the stove in the centre of the murky space. Once there, she scans the inner walls. There’s nothing to see. Nor does anything appear to have been disturbed. There’s only one place the animal can be: the place she has never seen.

  At the far side of the roundhouse is the blanket strung across the low ceiling, making a fragile, flat inner wall. This is the private area where Mr Keeper sleeps and as he has never shown her the tiny space, she has known never to enter it. Now, though, things are very different. She hopes that when she explains all this to Mr Keeper, he will understand and judge her fairly.

  She moves towards the curtain, quietly at first but then, not wanting to startle the hurt creature, she lets her feet rustle on the matting to telegraph her approach. Even now she is fearful that the cat will erupt from behind the flimsy blanket, knock her down and tear out her throat. This is enough to make her freeze as her hand reaches for the edge of the grimy fabric. She sees that her fingers are trembling.

  Unable to breathe or swallow, her heart fat in her chest and her neck throbbing with the beat of it, she watches, detached, as her hand pulls the thick veil to one side. The form lying on the matting is not an animal but a man, a naked man. His whole body shakes. His thin limbs are tightly muscled and sinewy. His pale and dirt-spattered ribcage expands and contracts as he labours to breathe. The skin at his knee
s and elbows is wrinkled and leathery. His hair is long and matted; leaves and tiny twigs are caught up in it. His lively green eyes watch her but he either cannot or will not speak. Along his flank is a deep-looking cut and many other parts of his body are scored or scratched. Thorns are embedded in his hands and feet.

  Megan begins to breathe again. She takes a couple of folded blankets from beside the bed mat, opens them and covers his shivering form. She rushes from behind the blanket, grabs the black kettle and puts water on the stove to boil. She lights several tallow candles and by their glow collects the herbs and other medicaments she thinks she will need, along with strips of clean cloth which she will use as bandages. She pulls the blanket to one side, exposing the man to the light and places everything she has collected beside him.

  When the water has boiled, she pours some into a wooden bowl and takes it to the man’s side. With suddenly very steady hands, she begins to wash and tend Mr Keeper’s wounds.

  24

  Working as fast as he was able, Gordon made and set his traps first. Snares were easy enough; he carried those with him everywhere he went. All he needed were pegs to secure them, fashioned in moments from fallen branches. For his river traps, he needed to cut some new wood. Twigs of hazel were the best for weaving into an oval shaped cage. As bait he placed inside the cage a dead crow that he’d discovered beneath the trees, its feathers sleek and oily black, its body warm and pliant, as though it had fallen in response to his need. He hoped the slow-moving water in the bend of the river he’d chosen would prove fruitful. When everything was in position, a good distance from where he planned for them to spend the night, he returned to Denise.

  She’d fallen asleep sitting up against a tree. Her mouth hung open, such was the depth of her slumber. Without any consciousness to animate her face, Denise looked many years older than her age. Sitting there like that, her breaths coming long and slow, her jaw slack, he could imagine her dead. Everyone was tired of this world except him, it seemed. How many people lay down at night praying not to wake up, he wondered? It happened on the motorway everyday. Come the dawn, there were always figures who didn’t rise from their narrow resting places by the side of the worn and shattered highway. He hoped Denise would have a reason to keep waking up in the mornings even though her child was dead. There was nothing wrong with this world that people hadn’t done to it. It could have been such a beautiful place.