The Book of the Crowman

by Joseph D'lacey

  69

  Megan reads in silence for a long time – it must be hours because when her concentration breaks and she looks up, Mr Keeper is asleep. She reads on into the night, comparing the books until she’s quite certain of her conclusions. She does, eventually, sleep but all too soon she hears Mr Keeper preparing his first smoke of the morning. She wants nothing more than to go back to sleep. For a month or more.

  “Pleasant night?” he asks.

  She sits up.

  “Far from it.”

  He passes her a skin.

  “Drink some water. You’ll feel better.”

  “No, I won’t. I want to know what’s going on.”

  “Questions, Megan? There’s a surprise.”

  Megan sits up from her bedroll. Furious with Mr Keeper’s nonchalance.

  “This may be amusing to you but it means everything to me. Everything. Can’t you understand? Don’t you remember what that feels like?”

  He lays his pipe down half smoked and lets his eyes meet hers. Immediately she is full of remorse. She has gone too far now. Broken the respect that has gone tacitly between them all this time. Mr Keeper ages in those silent seconds and she can’t bear to hold his gaze. She looks away.

  “You’re quite right, Megan. I’m sorry to be so… curmudgeonly. Laughing at things has become my way of dealing with what can sometimes be a confusing and painful experience.”

  “Being a Keeper, you mean?”

  “I mean life.”

  Megan doesn’t know what to say.

  “Look, Megan, I know what you want to ask me and it’s OK. I asked my Keeper exactly the same thing and everyone who writes this book and completes this journey is bound, literally bound, to ask the same question. You want to know why the stories aren’t the same. Right?”

  Megan nods.

  “The truth is, we receive the story of the Crowman through spirit, by being in touch with something that is not entirely of this world. None of us hear it in identical terms, no matter how hard the Crowman tries to speak it the same to all of us. The language of spirit is different from ours. It’s a miracle that we hear it at all.”

  “But, Mr Keeper, some of the names are different. Even some of the places. The way it begins. The way it ends…”

  Mr Keeper picks up his pipe again and continues to smoke now that they are over what he seems to think is the worst of it.

  “Would you agree that the stories are broadly the same?”

  Megan sighs. She can’t help but feel a sense of bone-deep defeat.

  “Yes, but so what? Aren’t the differences between them big enough to invalidate the whole story?”

  “That’s a question for a Keeper’s own heart, Megan. I can’t answer it.”

  “I don’t understand. Is any of it even real? Did any of it even happen?”

  Mr Keeper finished his smoke and put the pipe down again.

  “Megan, come here.”

  “No.”

  “Come here and sit with me for a moment. Please. I ask as a friend. We are friends aren’t we, you and I? After all that’s happened, surely you can allow me that one assumption.”

  Megan is weeping even before she reaches him.

  “Of course we’re friends,” she stutters. “Of course we are. I just… it feels like you’ve taken everything away from me. I love him. You can’t go telling me Gordon Black is just something I conjured from my imagination.”

  Mr Keeper folds her into his arms and rocks her for long moments. For now, she is too upset to listen but she knows he’s waiting for her to be calm enough to take in something more. She works hard to regain control. Gently he takes her shoulders and pushes her away from him. He looks into her eyes.

  “Remember this, Megan: if the story wasn’t real, none of us would be here now. There would be no world. It would have ended generations ago. It’s true, we created the Crowman by telling his story, but his story existed long before we did. It can’t be a myth any more because we’ve made it real. Do you understand?”

  “Are you saying that the myth created us before we could recount it?”

  “Yes, Megan. That is exactly what I’m telling you.”

  “But how much of it is the past and how much is just…” Megan breaks down. She can barely get the words out of her mouth. “…a story?”

  “I don’t think anyone will ever know. Not for certain. There was certainly a boy who grew into a powerful man. There was certainly a force of evil on earth so powerful it almost ended the world. The boy certainly opposed it and through his self-sacrifice, defeated it. There were prophecies. There were earthquakes. There were storms. There was famine and sickness. There was a war. And this boy, this boy who became a man – as he does in every book in this library – led an army against the forces of evil. And though they lost the battle, his death, his passing back into myth, won the war. That is the story we Keepers tell and by telling it we keep this world alive. Yours is the most beautiful and powerful ever placed in this library.

  “What you must ask yourself today, Megan Maurice, Keeper of the Crowman, is not how much of the story is true but how much of it is alive. My answer would be that every page of it is alive with the presence of the Crowman. I have seen him with you from the start, Megan, and the two of you share a special connection. I could see that in the way he first presented himself to you.

  “The spirit of the Crowman was born long before humans but his story could only be told after we had come to that point in history, that place in the weave, at which we would either end ourselves or be reborn. We were always going to come to that moment of crisis; it was built into us and it still is. That was the trigger that caused his energy to enter. That was when we called on his spirit, not merely as individuals, not as a nation, but as a world. His seed was alive in all of us and we called from a deep place in ourselves that most people don’t even know exists. That is the place where Keepers work from, Megan. Once we’d summoned him, the Crowman prophecies began. By keeping his story alive, we keep the dark side of ourselves in balance by allowing his darkness in.

  “You have kept the world alive, Megan. But not, as the Keepers who came before you have, for one more generation. You have reunited us with the land forever. You should be proud, Megan.”

  “I don’t feel like I’ve done anything more than tell some silly fireside tale.”

  Megan weeps harder into Mr Keeper’s shoulder. He holds her tight for a few moments more.

  “Megan.”

  When she doesn’t respond, Mr Keeper gently breaks their contact.

  “You have to stop crying now, Megan. There’s work to do. It’s time for you to share his story with the folk in Beckby and hereabouts. After that, you must take it to the other Keepers. You are the last of us. The one who carries the Crowman’s tale. It is as perfect and fragile as a snowflake and you must find a way to keep it safe for everyone.”

  Megan sniffs and wipes the tears from her face. She heaves a sigh and nods to her mentor.

  “I’ll do everything I can.”

  He grins.

  “I know you will. And it will always be enough, Megan. I’ve never known anyone worthier of such a responsibility.”

  Megan glances around the library and shivers as she thinks of all the Keepers who have travelled the weave in pursuit of the same words. Even then, after so many generations, only one book is correct. And now her dark angel, her guide in the realms of spirit has stepped back once more into shadow.

  “He told me he had to leave me for a while,” says Megan. “And that I was to look for him in inconsequential things.”

  Mr Keeper nods, smiling as though he remembers a similar admonishment from a distant moment in his own life.

  “He said there’s a part of him that knows me from a time before. From a time in my story. He says I’ll be reunited with that part of him some day.”

  “That’s between you and the Crowman, Megan. Not for my ears.”

  “I think I know who I was. He watched me die
a long time ago. I think I loved him even then.”

  Mr Keeper places a hand on her arm.

  “Are you going to be alright, Megan? Do you understand now?”

  “I think so. I…”

  “What is it?”

  “The men from the mill. Do you think–”

  “They won’t bother you again, Megan.”

  “No. It isn’t that.”

  Mr Keeper looks impatient.

  “What then?”

  “Not just them, but all men who still seek the power of technology. They’ll never stop, will they?”

  Mr Keeper struggles to his feet, his joints clicking loudly, the sound echoing off the stone.

  “Come on, Megan. We can talk about this on the way home. If we don’t leave soon, you’ll miss the celebrations.”

  For a few moments, Megan doesn’t move. He’s evading the question. Putting her off in the hope she won’t pursue it. Why? Before it becomes an issue she stands up too, feigning a breezy mood and a keenness to be on her way.

  She mimics Mr Keeper’s packing up of his bedroll and follows him as he makes sure they have everything before blowing out the candles. The only light now comes from the passage leading up to the door of the library. He guides her out and up, pulling the door shut with a solemn thud. The horses look as though they haven’t moved and seem very content considering how they’ve spent the night.

  Mr Keeper puts his horse into a trot and Megan’s mount follows its lead. She does have questions but they are fewer than she imagined. Much of their trip is silent but for the sound of hooves on hard ground. Everywhere Megan looks and in all the creatures and plants and shapes of the land, she sees the touch of the Crowman. He may no longer be with her but it is as though he has been there before them and left his sign. She can no longer put it into words but it she understands better now than ever she did before. She smiles and is glad in her heart because she knows the Crowman is close and real. He is more real than she.

  70

  It is midmorning when they reach the village and Megan can see the black Crow Pole the villagers have erected in the centre of the circular hub.

  At the top of this tall wooden mast sits a carving of a huge white crow. Below it hang streamers of black and white. Tonight the children of the village will dance in and out of each other, weaving the black and the white together, and Megan now knows where this ritual originates, even though most of the villagers no longer remember. The white crow is the light that is always above us. The black pole is the blackness of the human heart. The black and white streamers are our potential for evil and for good. By dancing, by binding them together, we can keep the blackness of our hearts in check forever. The Crow Pole also represents the tree where the Crowman died, the darkness and the light that streamed down upon him from above.

  Seeing all this and making such simple sense of it gives Megan a deep aspect of peace. She rides behind Mr Keeper through the outskirts of the village and back into New Wood, happier and more content than she has been since her journey along the Black Feathered Path began.

  At the roundhouse, Mr Keeper busies himself with unpacking the saddlebags. For a long time he disappears inside and she thinks that, as is often the way, this is his version of goodbye. But before she walks away from the clearing he emerges again, this time with a heavy pack and wearing his thickest winter furs.

  “Haven’t you gone yet?” he asks and then grins before she has time to be upset.

  “I was waiting for you.”

  “Ah. Well, I’m not coming.”

  “You can’t miss the Festival of Light!”

  “I haven’t attended for years. It’s not really the thing for Keepers to be part of the community in that way.”

  When she thinks about it, Megan realises he must be telling the truth. She doesn’t remember seeing his face at any of the festivals.

  “Now, I want you to return these fine animals to Mr Lilley at Hay Cottage and tell him how well-trained they are.”

  “Where are you going?”

  “I’ve got some travelling ahead of me.”

  Megan’s glad heart is falling into shadow.

  “When will you be back?” she asks, not sure she wants to hear the answer.

  “Well, I’m not sure exactly when. It could be a while.”

  There is silence between them. The silence fills with portent. Mr Keeper clears his throat.

  “So, I’ve been meaning to ask you if you’d look after the place for a while.” He nods towards the roundhouse and looks quickly away. “Just until I get back.”

  “Of course. I can come over every couple of days and–”

  “No, Megan.” His look is a glare for a moment. It softens immediately. “You have to stay here. You’re a Keeper now. You can’t go home. People will need you and this is where they will come to find you. Do you… understand?”

  She is very afraid that she does.

  “Where will you go?”

  “Oh, north, I suppose. To begin with. And then east.” He nods to himself. “Yes, definitely east after that.”

  “Mr Keeper?”

  “Let’s not make this more complicated than it already is, Megan.” He sets off for the forest path. “Come, I’ll walk with you to the edge of the wood. Bring those horses. After you drop them off you can join the celebrations.” He looks back. “But this will be the last time you attend, alright?”

  She is unable to speak. It is not alright. Not at all.

  But she has made her vows and she will honour them. She has taken an oath and she is marked with the sign of the Crowman. She can alter none of this and, in her heart, she knows doesn’t want to. The Black Feathered Path is a long, long road. Megan realises now that, for her, it is only just beginning.

  At last she uproots her feet and follows Mr Keeper, leading the first horse by the reins, the second following dutifully. She doesn’t so much walk with Mr Keeper as stare at his bulky back pack as he hobbles along. Time and his injury have worn him down. He is not the powerful man she remembers, the man who came to their door and enchanted her, what now seems like years ago. And yet he is still adept and strong in ways less obvious. Power walks with him, if not within him.

  They reach the edge of New Wood far too quickly and Mr Keeper pauses before turning. She waits for the moment, afraid of what she will see on his face: dismissal; the putting of her behind him. A faraway look already in place so that she is able to say goodbye only to the ghost of him. Perhaps just the simple sadness of a man who has already lived most of his life and has little to look forward to in what remains of it.

  When he turns to face her, he is grinning. As full of mischief and trickery as he ever was. And he is kindly too, just like he was one the day they first talked in Amu’s kitchen.

  “Stay on the Path, Megan Maurice. Watch for the Crowman in everything you do and wherever you go. Look for him in the folk you meet, whether hereabouts or distant. And never doubt for an instant that he’s as real as you or I. That’s your duty, Megan. Do you hear me?”

  “I do, Aaron Alwin.”

  “Ha! Well, you’ve earned the right to call me whatever you like, I suppose.”

  In the village hub, fire-crackers explode in rapid-fire. They both jump a little.

  “You’d better go and join the party.” His eyes meet hers. “I’ll see you soon, Megan.”

  “See you soon, Mr Keeper.”

  He turns and walks to the outskirts of the village. From there he heads north. His journey will take him past the meadow, the fallow field and Covey Wood. Megan gives him a head start before following with the horses.

  71

  Mr Lilley is not at home so Megan lets the docile horses into the stable beside Hay Cottage and shuts them in.

  She walks slowly to the village hub, uncertain what she will do when she arrives. She pulls her hood up, not for the sake of the cold but because she feels safer not being noticed. The villagers not already at the hub are making their way there now, noisily and merri
ly. The wine and ale will have been flowing for most of the day. When she reaches the edge of the hub, she sees her parents standing nearby and she goes to them. They move apart and she squeezes between, letting their arms hold her tight.

  In the centre of the hub the children are already dancing, wrapping black into white and white into black. They laugh and sing as they skip between each other to the music from a fiddle and drum. Someone lets off more firecrackers and everyone cheers. She can see Amu and Apa are ruddy cheeked with wine and for a few moments she loses herself in the celebration, remembering how only the previous year, she had danced around the Crow Pole with her friends. Tom and Sally stand on the far side of the hub, laughing and clapping with the music. They haven’t noticed her and for that she’s glad.

  She spends a little longer between her parents and even manages to dance with them a few times, though much of her joy is reserved. When dusk comes, the celebrations begin in earnest.

  Barrels of ale and wine are ceremoniously broken open and more musicians join the band. Many people are dancing now and she is sure that somewhere in the crowd, not far from the pole at the centre of the hub, a tall man in a long black coat and a black top hat dances with them.

  She kisses her mother and father. Over the noise of fireworks and shouted merriment, she says:

  “I’ll see you soon.”

  And then she slips away.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  Black Feathers and The Book of the Crowman were originally written as a single, epic tale. Owing to the length of the work, however, the story was eventually split and published in two parts. For this reason, these acknowledgements remain largely unchanged from book one. However, there were omissions and, since then, more individuals have joined the force who’ve worked so hard to bring the Crowman to life.