The Book of the Crowman

by Joseph D'lacey

  “Come, Megan. There is still much to see.”

  They glide from the high branches but they land far too soon. Megan opens her senses to whatever is coming, ready to record it all.

  55

  The leafless oaks stood silent and strong, their roots thick and buried deep. Their trunks were squat and massive and though the trees weren’t particularly tall, Gordon guessed they must have been centuries old. That such a patch of oak wood had survived all these years was a miracle. It was no surprise to Gordon that this was the place the Crowman had chosen.

  He said a hurried prayer of thanks to the Great Spirit and entered the shadowy forest microcosm. It was like stepping into prehistory. The striated bark of the trees was softened by a pelt of velvety moss as thick as carpeting. Fronds of delicate pale lichen hung from every branch. Above his head the upper limbs of the trees were bound together forming arches and vaults. They let almost no light through and Gordon had the impression he walked in a wild cathedral with woven branches for its ceiling and roof, the mighty oak trunks forming its supporting columns. He glanced back out to the fields. A shimmer like a heat haze made the figures camped in the distance indistinct and unreal. He had stepped into another world, another time.

  Finally walking in the sacred space he had so long journeyed for, Gordon passed reverently beneath the protective arms of the oaks, between their sturdy legs. He was a child among giants, safe for a moment in the sanctuary and company of trees.

  The wood seemed much larger within than without and Gordon passed through it at an easy pace to begin with. The earthy scent of decay and fertility, the aroma of many fungi poking up through the leaf litter, the dampness of the air as the wood breathed were all the scent of homecoming to Gordon. If he hadn’t had to fight this war, he might have made this dark, moist place his home.

  After half an hour or more of searching, Gordon found himself back where he’d begun. The first chill of doubt, his constant companion for so long now, caressed the skin of his back and bled into his stomach.

  “No. He’s here.”

  He set off again into the cloisters of the oak basilica, this time marking well his route, walking faster and spiralling inwards towards the centre. He made certain not to miss a single tree or space, trailing his fingers across the soft green fur covering every trunk. When he reached the natural centre of the wood, he spiralled his way out in the opposite direction. He found nothing. No footprints but his own. No disturbance to the trees or stunted, light-starved weeds and brambles that grew between them. He looked once more out of the wood, towards the group of feather-wearing fighters.

  They were gone.

  Were they ever there?

  He looked about him. All was silence. The oaks themselves, who would have spoken to him in strange whispers on any other day, made no sound at all.

  I’m alone, he thought.

  A heaviness seeped into his limbs, a trickle of lead into every muscle, slowing and thickening his movements, dragging him down.

  One more look. He has to be here.

  Stumbling now with exhaustion and the promise of ultimate disappointment, he followed the tracks of his first diminishing circle into the heart of the wood. Weariness sat around his shoulders like a wet cloak. His head hung. His strong chest collapsed inwards and his shoulders slumped. The circles of his footsteps grew smaller until he reached the very centre of the wood. There was nothing there. Nothing but trees.

  One particular oak stood thicker and shorter than those around it, the first split in its trunk quite low to the ground. It made a comfortable looking hammock shape. Right now, Gordon could think of nothing more he wanted than to be cradled in the crook of a mighty tree, to close his eyes and forget about the world, forget about his failure and sleep. He could stay here, hidden among the oaks and no one would find him. No one would even come to look. No matter what the outcome of the battle, he would be safe and hidden. Gordon knew he had done everything he could, given all he had to this search.

  He had found nothing.

  Another thought now rose in his mind; one that had circled his consciousness a thousand times, one that he’d kept away with a spear of hope. But now that spear was broken.

  I’m insane.

  He laughed. The sound was muffled and swallowed by the trees.

  I’ve been chasing a story, believing all the time that it was real.

  His laughter became weeping.

  Gordon climbed up into the oak at the centre of the wood and found it comforting and protective. He didn’t bother to wipe away the tears from his face, nor did he try to stop himself from crying. He had no energy left to pretend he was strong. He had no energy left for anything. He curled up in the broad, curved fork of the oak tree and his tears soaked into the moss.

  The wood darkened slowly around him and a mist crept over the ground to swirl and eddy over the roots of the trees. The sounds of the nighttime creatures came from all around. Badgers nosed through the leaf litter looking for worms and grubs. Slugs and snails did slow dances across every surface; Gordon heard the wet crackle of their passage as they slid near his head. Nightjars called out their haunted melodies and fluttered somewhere above. The outer branches of the oaks creaked and clattered against each other in a wind he couldn’t feel down here among their trunks.

  There was another sound. An approach, but not of an animal. Steady, stealthy footsteps. Cloth caught and released by briars. Breathing.

  Gordon reached a hand towards his pocket, only to remember there was nothing there that could help him now. His body came alive again. Heat flowed into his muscles. His heart beat hard and loud, strong once more. He put his palms to the mossy bark below him ready to spring up, either into the higher branches or onto the stalker. He raised his head and looked into the deepening dusk.

  In the shadows a few paces away stood a dark figure. A man. Tall and thin, his outline indistinct because of the feathers he wore. His arms were stretched out to either side. Was it a gesture of welcoming? Of inclusion? A presenting to Gordon of the night or, perhaps, the whole world? Or was it simply communicating–

  “Here I am.”

  The voice was deep, sensitive, resonant. Gordon swallowed, unable to speak.

  “Do you recognise me?” asked the figure.

  Gordon couldn’t see its face in the darkness but it seemed to be the face of a man. And yet, the night made his features swim and whirl. One moment he saw what he thought was a man; the next he saw ancient, intelligent eyes shining with the Black Light. A majestic, downward curving beak, gleaming like obsidian in moonlight. The mist gathered and turned at the figure’s feet. Were they the talons of a great coal-black bird, or the booted feet of a man?

  “I… I don’t know.”

  “Perhaps you’ve stopped believing.”

  “No,” said Gordon. He sat up in the tree. “Not at all. I was disillusioned. Tired. That’s all.”

  “And yet you are unable to sleep…”

  “I was beginning to think I was crazy. Am I crazy? Are you really here? Or am I making this up so that I don’t destroy myself with guilt? The things I’ve done… What if there was no reason? No justification?”

  The figure allowed its arms to drop to its sides. The feathers it wore shimmered, pearly black.

  “You had to come this far,” the figure said. “You had to come this way; do the things you’ve done. And you had to come to the end of your faith. You did stop believing, Gordon. That’s why you’re hiding in here, crying to yourself like you’ve never cried before. The search had to lead you nowhere and the burden of it had to break you before I could appear. Do you understand?”

  “I don’t understand anything any more. Why was I the last one to find you? I’ve met so many people along the way who’ve seen you. Heard so many stories about you. And yet it seemed as if I was held away from you somehow. Why?”

  “It isn’t enough to catch a glimpse of the Crowman, Gordon. It isn’t enough to watch him pass by and perform some miracle. It i
sn’t enough to say you’ve seen him kill a Wardsman or dispatch some evildoer. You have to find him. None of those who’ve seen the Crowman could do that, Gordon, and that’s why they were allowed a glimpse. But you had a destiny that called you, and everything you did and everything you encountered along the way pointed you in this direction. If you’d have seen me too early on, it would have done nothing for you. You had to be thwarted. You had to be outrun. Your belief had to be smashed. Only then would you be ready.”

  Gordon permitted himself a smile. He laughed but stopped; the oaks were grim and the wildlife in the wood had fallen silent.

  “You were just in time, Gordon. Tomorrow there will be a battle. Because of you, because of everything you’ve done, I will be present. It will make a difference. It will change the way things might otherwise have been. There will be a future. And the land will one day bring forth its abundance again. The love between humanity and the Earth will be restored. It will be a Bright Day, Gordon Black. A Bright Day indeed.”

  The figure stepped back into the shadows of the wood.

  “Wait!” said Gordon. “You can’t leave. Not now.”

  “I won’t be far away. You must sleep now in readiness for tomorrow.”

  “But the people, the fighters, they need to see you. The Ward need to see you.”

  “They will, Gordon. And those who live to witness it will never forget me. I’ll be there with you tomorrow. I promise.”

  The figure receded between the oaks and was lost to the night and the rising mist.

  Gordon snorted into the empty wood.

  “Sleep, he says. “Not a bloody chance.”

  He turned over onto his back so that he could look up from his vantage into the night. It was almost black above the trees. He should have been out raiding with Dempsey and the others by now. Tomorrow he would make up for it. He would fight alongside the rest of them. He laid his head against the moss-laden bark and watched the turning mist rise like a tide until it was just below his hammock of wood. His eyes fluttered closed.

  56

  The tree shook. Droplets of dew rained down from the branches. Gordon shifted position. Again the vibration, followed by a distant thud. Gordon opened his eyes, hoping he’d been dreaming.

  He hadn’t.

  The ground tremored in time with faraway sounding thumps. This was no earthquake. He slipped from the embrace of the oak and landed in a crouch on the forest floor, one hand still resting on the warm moss that enveloped the tree trunk. The movement from below came again. Above him the branches of the canopy rattled against each other, shedding more condensation. It was day outside but very little light penetrated the womblike binding of the oaks. He felt safe there. If he decided to stay, no one would ever be able to find him.

  Beyond the oaks and across the fields, though, Gordon knew people were already dying under the Ward’s artillery fire. Out there somewhere the Crowman walked among the fighters spreading courage and hope. Perhaps he already stood at the head of the Green Men’s army, rallying them, telling them to hold fast under the bombardment and then leading them into a battle they now had a chance to win.

  He knew if he hid in the oak wood that he would never forgive himself. He may have found the Crowman but he had not finished fighting the Ward. He would fight with the people, under the banner of the Crowman, and he would play his part in this battle. He would make the same sacrifice as everyone else.

  Gladly.

  He ran then. Between the dark, broad bodies of oak trees whose foundations were thrust into the very history of the land, who had touched the Earth so deeply and for so long with their taproots they knew her better than any human. Gordon let his hands touch their trunks as he passed between them, telling them to send his message into the soil:

  I love you. I will fight for you.

  And asking them to transmit his prayers:

  Send me the strength you gave to these trees. Make my hands your weapons. Give me the power to carry out your sentence.

  The light at the edge of the wood grew brighter as he approached. His feet flashed faster until the weeds he passed became whips to his ankles. Somewhere behind him, hidden by the darkness within the maze of oaks, he heard the voices of crows, rising up from the trees all over the land. He heard their wings pushing at the air, eager to attend the battle. He felt that disturbed wind, touched and stirred by their feathers, gathering behind him, pressing him into the world.

  Gordon Black flew from the trees. The feathers in his top hat sang as the wind passed over them. The feathers in his hair gathered and rolled behind his shoulders, scattering the light from the grey sky. The feathers of his coat billowed up about him and behind him in a black fury, like the frantic beating of ragged, vengeful wings.

  He came to the battle.

  57

  Megan travels in the night country when she sleeps. By day, she writes.

  The Crowman has taken no notice of her injuries. If anything, he unfolds his story with more enthusiasm than before. She knows something is coming. He is drawing her towards it as swiftly as he is able. As the blank pages remaining in her book dwindle, a fear grows within her. The boy has grown cold and grim and relentless as he closes on his objective. Her goal and his are the same and Megan is terrified that his darkness will spill over into her soul.

  Great Spirit, let me never become as wounded or as cruel as Gordon Black.

  She repeats this prayer more and more often as her convalescence progresses and the boy’s history blackens with blood and fury. Outside her window, winter darkens the landscape. The Festival of Light approaches. Only a few days away now, it will take place on the longest night of the year. Megan wonders if she will finish her work before it. If not, she will be unable to attend and that will take her even further from her friends.

  One morning, when the writing dries up and no more story will come, she stands from her tiny desk, throws off her blankets and puts on her winter furs. Through her wind-eye she can see the snow flurries thinning and the clouds beginning to disperse. She needs movement and air. More than that she needs sunlight and she senses it will break through very soon.

  She prepares a small pack and puts her boots on. She could have returned to Mr Keeper days ago but the pace of the Crowman’s unfolding tale is such that she dare not wander far from the book. Her recovering legs can take her far enough from the cottage that she will feel a small sense of freedom today, but she knows nightfall will bring another journey into Gordon’s pitiless world.

  She sets off through light snow but it soon ceases and the day brightens. The mist floats upwards and away from the land. It unstitches and fall apart, allowing golden swords of light through the rends until unobscured sunshine blasts down from sheer blue. There is no wind, and the sun pushes heat into Megan’s face.

  Her limp has almost gone and, though her legs still ache, they feel strong again. She doesn’t even think about where she is going. She passes through the gate into the meadow, its grass and wildflowers having receded under the crush of winter, and up into the fallow fields where last season the corn grew two feet higher than her head. She walks straight across the exposed, dark earth towards bare-boned trees that would be menacing to anyone who didn’t know better. She passes through their boundary and even here among the oaks the rays still penetrate, solid bolts of powerful sunlight streaming heat and goodness into the ground.

  She finds the fallen oak and climbs up into the throne formed by its toppled roots. She can’t believe she was ever frightened by this place. Being here now is like coming home.

  She chuckles softly. Why did such a natural and obvious thing need to be so difficult? In answer, she hears the crows, out of sight in the branches high above, calling down their own good-natured derision. It’s far easier for humans to be stupid than it is for them to be honest, they seem to say.

  She takes a chunk of Amu’s oat bran loaf from her pack and bites into it, reflecting on the harsh wisdom of the crows. When the piece of bread is gone, she r
eaches into her pack for another and stops. She is not alone. Footsteps approach from between the monolithic uprights that are the oaks’ ancient trunks.

  The Crowman steps clear.

  “So, here we are again, Megan.”

  She is stunned at first.

  There has been no warning of his approach. No change in the air, no alteration in her perception. His arrival is similar to that first day all those months ago – as if he is actually here, in person. As flesh and blood.

  He is beautiful to behold. Taller than any man she knows with dark, silken locks falling around his shoulders. Pristine black feathers are woven into his hair and there’s one she hasn’t noticed before – a single white feather as stark in its whiteness as all the others are in the purity of their black. One grey eye regards her in the way a curious jackdaw might, its head slightly tilted for a better view. The other is covered by a patch made from the down of raven chicks. On his head is a black top hat, its nap brushed and gleaming, feathers poking up from the band at various angles and hanging from the rear of its brim. His plumed coat shimmers like charcoal, catching the sunlight. His hands are covered by the length of his sleeves. He seems to absorb the sunlight and radiate it as blackness. His smile is touched by the same black light. It is knowing, compassionate, generous, wrathful.

  Her heartbeat quickens.

  “Are you frightened, Megan?”

  “No. Not this time.”

  “Good.”

  He glances around at the quiet, steadfast oaks. An air of sadness takes him for the briefest moment, dimming his radiance like a small cloud passing between the earth and the sun.