The Book of the Crowman

by Joseph D'lacey

  Pike removed Gordon’s genitals next and threw them to the crows. The birds hopped back, flapping and startled. Then they closed rank to squabble over the tender off cuts. All around Megan, people began to weep and moan, Wardsmen and Green Men together, to hold out their hands to Gordon even though they could neither touch nor comfort him.

  Pike used his blade to open Gordon’s belly from sternum to groin. He held the dripping red blade in his mouth as he forced his massive grey fingers into the wound to tear it wide open. He looked into Gordon’s face as he snagged a loop of intestine around one thick, callused finger and backed away down the hill. Gordon’s guts followed, tumbling out of him onto the dirt. Mist rose from them and from the great cut in his abdomen. The slippery mass of coils disentangled and lengthened as Pike receded from the tree until, several yards away, they reached their limit, pulling Gordon’s grey-blue bowels through the lower lips of the knife wound and momentarily exposing his stomach at the top. When Pike dropped his piece of intestine, Gordon’s tugged-upon stomach disappeared again.

  Pike walked back up the hill, with difficulty because of his damaged leg. At the top he wiped his knife on a cloth and returned it to his battered leather workbag. He regarded the boy for a few moments before picking up his tools up and limping stiffly away. Crows and magpies scattered as he stomped between them but they soon closed rank behind him and, when he reached a safe distance, they leapt onto Gordon’s entrails and began to feast.

  Megan looked back into the crowd. Every face was pale, barring a few Wardsmen who seemed to find the cruelty amusing or even boring; nothing they hadn’t either seen or performed themselves in the basements of some dark Ward substation.

  A girl had fainted near the front of the throng. Megan took a step towards her and saw the hand which still gripped the Crowspar. She knew this girl. At some point in the future, in a city somewhere much nearer Megan’s home, Denise would either drop or throw this crystal, leaving it for Megan to one day seek out by journeying through the weave. She found herself wishing that Denise, racked with guilt, had killed herself in the dry fountain where she’d retrieved the Crowspar.

  Gordon’s voice made her look away.

  “Help me,” he whispered. “Please. In the name of the Great Spirit, I beg you. Somebody help me.”

  Some of the Green Men in the front ranks moved tentatively forwards but the armed Wardsmen stepped into their paths. Gordon wept and screamed at the sight of his unmade body, pecked at now by hundreds of hungry corvids. He begged for an end to his pain but he could not die.

  “Why?” he cried out eventually.

  Megan stepped away from the crowd. No one tried to stop her. It was clear that none of these people could see into the weave but the starving corvids scattered at her approach. She walked straight up the hill, careful to step over Gordon’s extruded offal. When she stood before him, his good eye was closed as he shook his head in denial of everything.

  “Why is this happening to me?” he cried.

  “You sacrificed yourself,” she said.

  Gordon stopped shaking his head and stared at her with his single eye.

  “You.” He almost smiled. “I thought I’d never see you again.”

  “I’ve been with you all along.”

  “Can you help me? Please? Help me to die quickly at least. Not like this.”

  “I’m so sorry, Gordon. I can’t change any of this.”

  Bloody tears of frustration and anguish coursed down his cheeks. Megan caught glimpses of his lungs pumping within his deflated torso. It was almost more than she could bear to see him like this but if he had to suffer it, she knew she must at least be a comfort to him for as long as she was able to stay. Forcing himself to concentrate, his entire body quivering with the effort of focusing on Megan, he said:

  “Tell me one thing, then. I know you know the answer. Where is the Crowman? Where is he? He promised he’d be here. He gave me his word.”

  “He is, Gordon.”

  Gordon scanned the crowd with his blood misted eye.

  “I… I can’t see him.”

  “You don’t need to. You are him. You are the Crowman, Gordon. He is what you were born to become.”

  Gordon twisted his head from side to side in, almost laughing at the stupidity of what she was saying.

  “No, no, no. That can’t be. I’ve been searching for him…” He seemed to weaken then, to become confused. “I thought I’d found him… but I lost him again. He left me alone.”

  “No, Gordon. He is with you. Your spirit and his are united now. He has become part of you and you a part of him. You made the ultimate sacrifice. You have given us the future.”

  “I’m so tired,” he said. “I’ve come all this way and…”

  “It’s alright, Gordon, I promise you. This will soon pass.”

  Gordon stiffened against the nails holding him to the tree and screamed.

  “I don’t want to die!”

  Blood shook from his face, spattering her coat. She heard the whisper of wings and glanced up. Three crows landed in the highest branches of the black oak. They sat there above him, cawing in mirthful disdain.

  His voice dropped to a hushed breath, the whisper of a small, frightened boy.

  “Please… Please don’t let me die.”

  She saw his breathing slacken and his heartbeat wane. His head dropped forward. She reached up and held his face in her hands.

  “You mustn’t be afraid, Gordon,” she whispered. “You cannot die. And we will meet again someday. I swear it.”

  She kissed his forehead, his blood-sticky lips.

  Something pulled at her, drew her back. She thought she was slipping away down the hill at first. The draw became stronger and she knew than that he was bringing her back, back through the weave to her time. Gordon must have felt it.

  “Don’t leave me,” he said, his face still falling towards his chest. “I’ve been so alone.”

  “I’ll never leave you, Gordon Black. I love you.”

  The pull was irresistible. It lifted her from the ground, up and away from the hill. To her left, the sun had dipped low towards the horizon, it was red now; stained by his blood.

  In the tree, the crows called out their throaty rattle, proclaiming the death of Gordon Black and the coming of the Crowman. Megan rose higher, saw more. She was able to see behind the black oak where Gordon’s body now hung, mercifully limp and relaxed. Walking away from the tree was a tall man in a coat of black feathers and wearing a black top hat. Many more feathers poked from its brim and twirled in his long black hair.

  He turned back to her, removed his hat and bowed with a flourish.

  67

  Megan has to hold a kerchief to her face and sit back from the book to make sure she doesn’t dampen the pages or smudge the ink with her freely flowing tears. When she has written the final word, the only space left is the last verso inside the back cover of the book’s leather binding. She blots the still glistening ink, closes the book quietly and gently and sits back in her chair.

  For some time, she has no notion of how long, she is able to do nothing but stare from the wind-eye, her eyes moving across the landscape in random sweeps and vainly trying to see back into the weave. Sitting at her desk though, her only power is that of the journaler and archivist. At this moment, the ability to pass into other realms might never even have been hers.

  In gradual increments the will and ability to move returns to her and she packs away the writing implements and book into their box. Outside it appears to be midmorning, though it is cloudy again and she hasn’t kept track of the movement of the light.

  Megan has run out of road. The purpose that has animated her in waking and sleeping for the last several months has been fulfilled. She has never felt emptier. There are no more tears left to cry and she is no longer confident of the purpose of her world or her place in it. To be without a compass is frightening. It is this simple fear that motivates her to rise. She packs the black box into a knap
sack, pulls on her furs and leaves the bedroom. At the front door she pulls on her winter boots. Her mother is busy in the kitchen, preparing cakes and pies for the Festival of Light.

  “Going far, Meg?”

  “Not sure. I have to see Mr Keeper.”

  Her mother turns then and sees Megan’s face. Megan can only assume that what Amu sees there is beyond deciphering.

  “You’ll be back in time for the celebrations, though, surely.”

  “I’d like to be. But I… don’t know for certain.”

  “Megan Maurice, no one misses the Festival of Light. You make sure you’re back in time.”

  The instant the words are out Megan can see Amu regrets them. She is talking to a little girl and there is no little girl in the Maurice homestead any longer.

  “I’ll do what I can, Amu. You know I wouldn’t miss it unless there was something…” There isn’t any point in trying to explain. Megan goes to her mother and embraces her. At first Amu is rigid, then she returns the contact just as fiercely. When Megan draws away, her mother is unwilling to release her. She kisses Amu on the cheek. “I really have to go.”

  Walking along the snowy track through the village, Megan wishes Tom and Sally would appear. It would make leaving the village again more bearable – especially if she isn’t able to return in time for the festival. There’s no one on the road with her, though, and she departs the borders of Beckby alone.

  Returning along the track through the pines is far easier for Megan than when she left almost two weeks before. When she arrives at the clearing she is surprised to see Mr Keeper outside the roundhouse; even more surprised to see two horses tethered and saddled nearby. Their saddlebags look heavy and are collecting flecks of snow. Mr Keeper holds up a hand to her even though he’s facing the opposite direction.

  As she reaches the roundhouse he turns to her, looking irritated, and says, “Where have you been all morning?”

  “I was… working.”

  “No you weren’t. You were sitting staring out of the window.”

  There was nothing she could say to that. It was easy to forget how far Mr Keeper could see when he chose to look.

  “I’m sorry. I was… gathering myself.”

  “Really? Well, at least you’re here now. Pick a horse – this one’s mine.”

  “What? Where are we going?”

  “Not far.”

  “But… The Festival…”

  “We’ll be back in time for that.”

  “Are you sure? Only–”

  “Megan,” he says, his eyes a-twinkle, “Have I ever let you down? Come on, girl. Mount up.” He holds out his hand. Finally Megan reacts and hands him the box from her knapsack. He removes the book, tucking it under his arm while he stows the box inside the roundhouse. “I’ll read as we go along,” he says. Once again she is amazed at how he swings from grumpy to cheerful in the space between moments.

  “I don’t much like horses,” she says.

  “Nonsense. Get your behind in that saddle before I throw you up there myself.”

  Warily, Megan complies. If her horse even notices she’s sat on top of his back, he doesn’t show it. Mr Keeper unties both mounts and climbs onto his. Megan watches his movements. Some of his energy has returned, she’s relieved to see, but he still moves with difficulty and his back remains subtly bent. His hair seems to have lost bulk and his face is thinner. Getting into the saddle causes him obvious discomfort and Megan suspects that his wounds mustn’t yet have fully healed. Still, he seems happy enough and happier still to be moving.

  He nudges his horse and it walks off towards the path. Her horse follows without her having to do anything. She notices Mr Keeper’s reins are loose and he already has the book open in his lap.

  They travel east and their journey takes the rest of the day. Mr Keeper is the least talkative she has ever known him and at no point does he stop, not even to smoke his pipe. Megan contents herself with watching the landscape slowly alter as they move through it, keeping her eye open for signs of the Crowman. There is nothing. Not even the crows themselves. Some of the route they take she recognises from their journey to Shep Afon but they turn onto a lesser-used track quickly and the land here is new to her once more. This alone breaks the monotony of journey.

  The horses maintain the same unconcerned, unhurried pace throughout the day. They appear to know exactly where they are going, which is fortunate because Mr Keeper never once looks up from the book. Sometime before dusk she notices a lump in the landscape. This seems to be where they are heading. It is too small to be a hill and too large to be roundhouse or dwelling. The lump is situated at the centre of a generous but slow rise in the land, higher up than the rolling hills that surround it in every direction. As they begin the gradual climb that will bring them to the grassy bubble at the top of the rise, Mr Keeper thumps the book closed.

  He makes no other movement or sound.

  Even when they reach the mound and he tethers the horses to a wooden stake driven deep into the turf, he says nothing. He dismounts, walks around to the opposite side of the mound and disappears beneath its rim. Megan climbs down and follows him.

  He really has disappeared. For a few moments she is utterly disorientated. Walking a little farther around the mound she finds grass-covered steps leading down to a dark opening. A stone door, thick as her thigh, stands open. Light flickers inside.

  She descends towards it.

  68

  A few steps below the surface of the land, the earthen mound becomes a small stone cavern, its walls cold and slatey to the touch. Megan traces her hands along them to steady herself and dips her head to keep from hitting it on the low ceiling.

  The cramped passage gives into a small oval space with embrasures at intervals around it. It is in between these hollows that Mr Keeper now moves, lighting tallow candles. At each end of the oval an aperture leads into a new space. Megan steps partially through to find another room of exactly the same dimensions with one difference; the room they occupy is three-quarters lined with black books exactly like the one she has been writing in these past many months. The rooms beyond are empty.

  “What is this place?”

  “It’s the Keepers’ Library for this land.”

  “This land?”

  “There are many lands, Megan, each with their own Keepers and their own libraries. Like all those others, this is where past and future, near and far, the day world and the night country meet. It’s where we can see the weave in all its magnificence. This is where the world continues. We tell its stories and thereby keep it alive.”

  Mr Keeper’s eyes shine in the warm yellow glimmering. Are those tears she sees, ready to spill at their corners? She looks around trying to guess the numbers of books here; perhaps four hundred in this room, with room for a couple hundred more.

  “How long has it been since the Black Dawn ended?”

  Mr Keeper shakes his head.

  “I don’t know. No one does.”

  “And how many Keepers are there?”

  “Not many. Not enough, that’s for certain. Well, until now, of course.”

  Megan frowns, moves to the stone shelves and runs her fingers over the spines of the identical black books. She stops and looks back at Mr Keeper.

  “Why must we keep telling the same story over and over again? Once we tell it, won’t it stay told?”

  Mr Keeper grins and holds up his finger.

  “Ah. Now. There’s a question. Perhaps you ought to find out for yourself.” Mr Keeper plops down on the stone floor and finally reaches for his pipe and tobacco. He fills the bowl with gentle fingers and lights up from a candle nearby. “But first, there’s one more thing you need to do.” He opens up Megan’s book to the last page, the blank verso. From a slot in the wall he draws out a raven quill and a pot of ink. He hands them to her. “Your name,” he says, nodding towards the parchment. “Right there, please. Large as you like.”

  She hesitates only for a moment before dippin
g and writing:

  Megan Maurice

  near the top of the page. She hands the quill and ink back. Mr Keeper places the ink beside him but keeps the pen.

  “Pass me the book,” he says.

  She returns it and he adds, underneath her name, a single line of handwriting:

  Keeper of the Crowman, Guardian of the World

  Her own eyes fill with tears now. When the ink is dry, Mr Keeper adds her book to the shelves, filling a row. He comes back to her and holds her in his arms.

  “Well done, Megan. You’ve been an inspiration to me.”

  They sit quietly then and he attends to his pipe, drifting away from her on wafts and twirls of smoke.

  After some time he says, “We’ll stay here tonight and return in the morning. You’ll be back in time for the Festival of Light.”

  Megan doesn’t miss the implication.

  “What about you?”

  “I’ve some travelling to do.”

  “But why? Where to? Why can’t you come to the celebrations?”

  He waves her questions away like bothersome flies.

  “We can talk about that later. I’m going to fetch our bedrolls. Meanwhile, I want you to read…”

  He stands up with some difficulty and searches the shelves until he finds what he’s looking for.

  “…this. I’ll be right back.”

  The first thing Megan does is turn to the back of the book where she finds, the name:

  Aaron Alwin

  The handwriting is the same as Mr Keeper’s, if a little steadier.

  She opens it and begins to read. After a couple of pages, she frowns and reads back over a section. She reads a page more and then flicks ahead. Not satisfied, she removes her book from where it has barely had the chance to settle and reads sections from each. There’s a swish and a solid thud from the direction of the door. When Mr Keeper returns, she has both books open on the stone floor and is lying on her front with the index finger of each hand resting on the parchment of each book. She doesn’t look up as Mr Keeper rolls out their bedding and prepares them a meal of cured pigeon and chunks of oatbread.