The Book of the Crowman

by Joseph D'lacey

  If this is the end, then bring it on.

  Let it burn, he thought. There is no future.

  Let it burn.

  28

  This morning is the coldest of the season so far.

  Megan’s ears ache and redden at the touch of the air as she searches for the right place between the pines. She has slept nearby Mr Keeper, waking each time she heard him stir or cough or groan, which was often. Even when his sleep and breathing seemed untroubled she woke and checked on him. Now she is stumbling with fatigue.

  Wrapped in furs from the roundhouse, she walks between the silent trees looking for a space that feels right. She finds what she wants in an area where two pines have fallen, leaving a gap that stretches up to the sky. She sets the snares and places scraps of rabbit meat around them. This is one of the many things Mr Keeper has taught her how to do but she didn’t think she would need the skill; especially not so soon. Three should do it, she thinks, though she does not look forward to dispatching the creatures the snares catch. No matter how willingly they come, killing is never without its price; somewhere it is noted, remembered.

  When everything is ready, she disguises the snares and kneels a short distance away, incanting the prayer Mr Keeper taught her for this kind of hunting She repeats the simple invocation about fifty times, barely whispering the words into the breath of the woods and yet knowing with total certainty that they have been heard.

  She leaves quietly and returns to the warmth of the roundhouse.

  Rather than a trembling act of bloodstained terror, the slaughter is quiet and sacrosanct. Megan talks to the three rooks, strokes their feathers and thanks them for their sacrifice before she breaks their necks one by one. She dismantles their bodies right there beneath the trees, where the sky can watch her hands working. She separates the usable meat from the bone and feather, the sinew and claw, placing it in a wooden bowl; warm vapour rises and fades into the silent, still air above it. What remains of the rooks she buries, adding a little of her own blood from a nick she cuts into her forearm.

  Back beside the stove in the roundhouse, her fingers still creaking with cold, Megan puts the meat in a black cook pot with quick-bine, ale and some seasoning. Worrying about Mr Keeper’s many external wounds, she adds a whole head of crushed garlic to ward off infection. For most of the morning, the mixture cooks on the stove, bubbling gently, its aroma filling the warm air of the roundhouse. When it is ready she wakes him.

  The canal’s surface was speckled with unmoving debris. Paper, plastic and half-submerged pieces of waterlogged timber. Here and there, the partially decomposed bodies of birds and other animals. Twice Gordon noticed bloated human carcasses, filled with gas and breaking down but as yet untouched by carrion eaters. Perhaps the water was poisoned. It didn’t matter; this wasn’t water they were going to drink. The canal formed a clear, relatively direct path, sheltered by hedges and trees and a good distance from the roads for most of its course. It was the perfect route north. And, if his hunch was right, the Grand Union Canal led all the way to the Midlands. If they hadn’t have left the motorway, if Gordon hadn’t climbed his hill the previous day, he would never have thought of it.

  The narrowness of the path also meant Denise couldn’t have walked beside him even if she wanted to. It wasn’t so much that he wanted to lead and her to follow; he just didn’t want to have to talk. His excuse to himself was that she stopped him from concentrating. The real reason was harder to accept but that didn’t make it go away; this kind of closeness, with anyone, was dangerous.

  He’d never travelled with anyone before. He’d always avoided friendships and kept moving to stop himself from growing roots it might be painful to cut later on. But if the end of everything was so close, why didn’t he want to spend as much time as he could with Denise, enjoying her company in every way possible? Even if he couldn’t hold it in his mind for more than a few moments at a time, the answer was simple. He didn’t love her. He didn’t even like her particularly. He didn’t want to play his last days out in a lie – a thought swiftly followed by:

  But they’re already a lie, though, aren’t they?

  This was all an act. To travel together, for him to provide for her; he was doing out of guilt. The one thing that didn’t feel false was their sex; not until the crashing waves of tristesse which swiftly followed every coupling. He wanted her and yet being with her hollowed him out somehow, left him barren. How long they could go on like this he didn’t know but he couldn’t just leave Denise out here alone. He’d get her to somewhere safe. Get her among the Green Men.

  And then he’d move on.

  The only thing that felt good was his coat of black feathers. She’d made a flippant comment about it looking like armour but it was true: the coat made him feel safe and strong. After years of hiding all the black feathers he’d found along his path, he now showed them to the world. Black was his true colour and the crow was the symbol he sought in everything. It was right that he wore this coat for the final part of his search. He was close now; there wasn’t any doubt in his mind. There were only two possible outcomes:

  If he didn’t find the Crowman or didn’t find him fast enough, the land was done for. Everyone would perish, even the Ward. But if he could track down the Crowman, and quickly, the chances were that the Green Men would someday triumph over the Ward. Once the Crowman had reconnected the people with the land, the Ward wouldn’t have the strength to stand against them. Gordon would have completed his sworn duty. He would dismiss himself then, find a secluded spot where he could live out his days. He had grown to love the chase, he had become it. But when the chase was over, what then would he be?

  Denise’s footsteps catching up to him made his shoulders tighten.

  “Hey,” she said.

  “Hey.”

  “What are you thinking about?”

  He’d lost track of how many times she’d used this opener since they left the M1. In the end he said:

  “Why do you keep asking me that?”

  “I don’t know. I mean why wouldn’t I? You’re always so quiet and intense. You seem so angry.”

  “I’m not angry.”

  “Well, you seem it.”

  “I’m not.”

  “So what are you thinking about?”

  Fuck, he thought, why didn’t I leave her in London?

  “Listen, Denise. There’s a reason why brains are encased in a shell of bone; it’s because they’re private.”

  “Don’t you want to talk to me?”

  “Sure. Of course I do, but… you can’t just ask people what they’re thinking like that.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because it’s not a real conversation. Why don’t you tell me what you want to talk about and then we’ll talk about it. It’ll happen naturally. You don’t have to do it this way.”

  “I want to talk about what’s going on inside your head.”

  Gordon stopped walking and turned around. He needed to know how Denise looked in that moment; whether she was winding him up or if she was serious about the question. Either way she was being incredibly stupid. From the look on her face, she seemed genuine.

  Fine.

  “I’ll tell you what I’m thinking about, Denise. I’m thinking about how the Ward took away my family and turned me into an outlaw. I’m thinking about the people I’ve killed while I’ve been searching for the Crowman – I lost count a long time ago. I’m thinking about what people have done to the world to make the land turn against them. I’m thinking about the millions who’ve died and the ones I could have saved. I’m thinking about all the things which have been lost already and I’m wondering if it’s even worth trying to carry on when things are this messed up. I’m thinking of the hundreds of thousands more people who will die at the hands of the Ward and I’m thinking about what will happen to this world if I don’t find the Crowman. I’m thinking about the things that need to happen if this land is ever going to heal and I’m wondering if I have the strength to
keep searching and keep fighting. Most of all, Denise, I’m wishing that this wasn’t the life that was handed to me. I never asked for this, I don’t want it and I never have.”

  His face muscles were twitching as he turned away and continued to walk, faster now; the pace he would have used if he was travelling alone. A mile or so later he slowed down and looked back. There was no sign of Denise.

  “Shit.”

  He retraced his steps, running.

  29

  Denise was where Gordon had left her but she was sitting down now and staring across the canal.

  He stopped running when he saw her, approaching at a fast walk. If he hadn’t argued with her, if he’d just found her sitting like this, he’d have said she looked half-amused and half-bored. When he reached her he knelt but he didn’t have the strength to take her hand.

  “I’m sorry,” he said. “That’s been brewing for a long time. It wasn’t fair to aim it at you.”

  Her eyes drilled some distant point.

  “I’m glad you could trust me with it.”

  “What do you mean?”

  She turned to him.

  “People who never fight aren’t being honest with each other. My mum and dad used to argue a lot. But they were happy. Comfortable with each other. Know what I mean?”

  Gordon nodded but he didn’t. Not at all. The only person he’d ever been able to talk to honestly was Jude and there were some things he hadn’t even told her. His parents had always seemed happy together but they’d argued only occasionally. Here was Denise using his outburst as a way of building even more into their relationship.

  Wrong, wrong, wrong.

  He had to look away.

  “It does beg the question, though,” she said.

  His neck prickled.

  “What question?”

  “Why are you being like this?”

  There were many inconsequential but fascinating things to see on the other side of the canal. The way empty beer cans had rusted. The way the rushes had died. The way–

  “Gordon, look at me, will you.”

  Heat rising into his face, he forced himself to meet her gaze.

  “You seem more than content to fuck me into exhaustion for half of every night. You do it with more passion than I’ve ever known. Like you love me. And then, when daylight comes, you barely speak a word to me. Why?”

  He found he hadn’t breathed for almost a minute. He let his breath go in a stagnant sigh.

  “It feels wrong,” he said.

  “What does?”

  “Us being together. I wouldn’t have… chosen it.”

  “Neither would I.”

  “Really?”

  She nodded without a trace of doubt.

  “Really. You’re not my type. You’re too… good. Well, most of the time you are – when you’ve taken what you want you’re like all the rest of them.”

  “No. Don’t say that. I’m not like other men.”

  “Oh, you’re depressingly similar, Gordon Black, no matter what you might think.”

  Stung, Gordon looked away again.

  “I know what your problem is,” she was saying. “You’re an idealist. You want perfection in an imperfect world. You want things to be clear cut and simple. That’s not how life is.”

  He nodded, unable to disagree even though he wanted to.

  “I know.”

  “Me, I can live with imperfection. I’ve done it all my life. I’ve made the best of a bad family, a bad home, bad relationships, bad times.” She took his hand. Her fingers were cold and desperate. “The world’s so screwed, so damaged. There’s so little left that feels good in it. I know what you’re feeling. I really do. But, you and me, we’re not as bad as you think. We’re alright. And I’m going to make the best of this, Gordon. I’m going to make the best of you. Of us.” She squeezed his fingers. “Do you think you can do the same?”

  He even managed to smile, though it was weak and fleeting. He looked into Denise’s eyes and knew they had stepped closer to one another in spite of everything. There was nothing in those eyes for him to fear.

  What scared him was himself.

  “Yes,” he said. “Of course I can.”

  He stood up and held a hand out to her.

  “Are you ready to move on?” he asked.

  “Are you?”

  He nodded, almost smiling again.

  “Come on. Let’s get going.”

  For a while they walked hand in hand, Gordon negotiating the crumbling edge of the canal towpath and Denise dodging the brambles and thorns of the overhanging hedge. It made more sense to walk single file and soon their fingers slipped apart. Denise took up her customary position on Gordon’s six and tried to keep up as his pace increased. From time to time he glanced back and smiled and Denise smiled back.

  She didn’t ask him what he was thinking about.

  As the day began to wane, Gordon kept his eyes open for somewhere they could stop for the night. While it was a great way to make progress north, the towpath afforded no place to pitch camp. Denise fell further and further back and, though she didn’t complain, Gordon could tell her feet were sore again. Their cooked meat was gone and they were down to a couple of cans of tomatoes and one small can of sweet corn; it was hardly worth opening them just to eat them cold. The lack of food made Gordon clear-headed and light of foot but he knew that wouldn’t continue indefinitely. They needed rest and he needed time to hunt.

  In the late afternoon he spotted a thickly wooded area on the opposite side of the canal; so dense were the trees that they formed an almost black wall of wood. If they could find a small clearing among them, it would make great place to shelter. At the next bridge they came to he squeezed up through the gap between the hedge and the brickwork. A couple of minutes later, Denise limped up after him.

  “You OK?” he asked.

  “Fine.”

  He knew she was lying but he appreciated her perseverance. Travelling, living outside, was making her tougher. They crossed over and walked back a few hundred yards to the edge of the woodland. It was only as they came amongst the tightly crowded trees that Gordon smelled smoke and the unmistakable aroma of flame-roasted meat. His stomach rumbled. The fire must have been well-established and carefully tended – he hadn’t seen any smoke from the towpath. He turned back to Denise.

  “Someone’s beaten us to it,” he whispered.

  “What do we do?”

  Gordon weighed it up.

  “We can either introduce ourselves and ask to share their space and their fire or we leave. Walking into someone else’s camp is never easy, though. No one likes intruders.”

  He looked out through the trees. The light was already failing. Their chances of finding another place before dark were slim. Though he wasn’t averse to sleeping under the overhang of the trees lining the canal towpath, he didn’t think Denise was quite that wild yet.

  “There’s one other thing we could do,” he said.

  “What’s that?”

  “I could take a peek. See if the natives look friendly or not. We could decide what to do then.”

  Denise’s eyes were wide.

  “I’m coming with you.”

  Gordon shrugged off his pack and left it at her feet.

  “There’s nothing to be worried about, Denise. It’ll be quieter if I go alone. I’m used to this and I won’t make a sound. Worse than walking into someone else’s camp is getting caught sneaking around outside it. Sit here and rest your feet. If you don’t make a sound, no one will see you.”

  He squeezed her hand and turned to go. She tugged the feathers at his sleeve and he looked back.

  “Be quick,” she said. “I don’t want to be alone out here.”

  “Ten minutes. No more. OK?”

  “OK.”

  30

  Gordon let the trees and the earth fill him with the spirit of the hunter.

  He drew stealth and strength from the air. His breathing slowed, his heart rate droppe
d; he became still. He knew which way to go and he could sense presences at about ten o’clock from his starting point. Half a dozen people, he guessed.

  Silent and swift, he flowed between the trees more like a shadow than a man. He heard the hiss of red-hot embers, the spit of grease falling into flame. The waft of cooking intensified. It could only have come from a large fire and a sizeable catch. For a moment he lost concentration. The aroma made his stomach grind against itself. Saliva burst beneath his tongue. In the next instant, discipline overrode his hunger.

  He advanced.

  The wall of trees between him and the camp thinned until he began to see figures ranged around a broad fire pit. It looked as though the clearing had been forced by the cutting down of trees – there were low stumps everywhere. A couple of them formed seats for the clearing’s dwellers. Judging by the way things were laid out, this crew – at least eight strong that he could now see – had been living here for some time. The fire pit was well looked after and much used. Several longbows leaned against a tree. The shelters were good-sized ex-military tents with a few patches but the way they sagged in places was a sign they’d been up for more than just a few days. The camp had a permanent feel about it but Gordon still couldn’t decide whether it was a safe place to ask for shelter. If things got unfriendly for some reason, they were certainly outnumbered.

  He tried to get a better sense of the individuals.

  They could easily have been Green Men. They seemed to understand outdoor life and they all wore the drab browns and greens that made hiding and hunting in the countryside easier. Of course, much of that drabness came from dirt and constant usage. Spare clothes were harder to come by with each passing month. Secondhand often amounted to peeling garments from a corpse approximately your own size.