These Dark Wings

by John Owen Theobald

  ‘“Uncle”, please.’

  Then, before I could stop it: ‘Mother never said your name.’

  ‘Well, she wouldn’t have.’ He smiled ruefully. ‘Adults can be very foolish, Anna.’

  ‘You take care of the ravens?’ I asked, not wanting to hear some strange man talk about Mum being ‘foolish’.

  ‘That is one of my duties, yes. I am the Ravenmaster. Legend has it that there have always been six ravens at the Tower. Charles II himself said, If the Tower ravens fly away, the kingdom will fall. So you see how important it is to look after them. In fact, I could use a little help.’

  ‘To feed them?’ I said in surprise.

  ‘We are all rationing here, Anna. The ravens get enough to survive, just like the rest of us. Ah,’ he said, interrupting himself as I soon discovered is his way. Once he wandered ahead in mid-lecture, leaving me to imagine how Walter Raleigh met his end. ‘Would you care to observe?’

  I wanted to make an excuse, but his pace had quickened. I still felt a little light-headed, a little less than myself. When we reached the winding staircase, it was all I could do to keep my balance. Uncle noticed, slowed, and at one point reached out to steady me.

  ‘I am just a bit tired,’ I said and we continued.

  Now, though, it is Uncle who is always tired; Uncle who can’t make it up the stairs without a ‘short breather’; Uncle who looks drained and grey and small. His speeches are still the same, though. The Tower is important to the people of London. The ravens are important.

  I shiver, thinking about the birds, warm in all their feathers, again waiting to be fed. All except Mabel, who is alone and free.

  We walk to the cages, Uncle’s voice gliding on, until the words themselves are gone. If only I had a warm hat – or a fizzy pop. Or a way out of this ghastly place.

  Uncle has fallen silent and for a terrifying moment I worry that my thoughts have become words. But he is merely observing the birds, offering here and there an understanding cluck.

  Dusk feeding is difficult. The ravens fuss before returning to their cages. Late to bed, early to rise. We are lucky for the shorter days. Ravens sleep at sunset, so in the summer you must feed them at 5.30 p.m. and then return at 9 p.m. to whistle them to bed. Now, with the bombs, they must be in their cages before nightfall.

  Most kids were sent to the countryside, to families, big houses and fireplaces, windows with normal blinds, a life surrounded by flying birds. I was sent here. To live with fat, squatting ravens and a gas mask that Oakes forces me to carry everywhere.

  To my own cage.

  Dark, swimming eyes watch me.

  Raven MacDonald is already in his cage. He must be hungry. I move inside the bars, filling the water bowl (also the bath). My fingers tremble slightly. Ravens are black. Black feathers, black beak, black claws, black eyes. The entire head, and nearly half of the beak, is covered in thick, midnight feathers. They move around me now – ravens everywhere, sleek and guilty.

  Often, if it proves too coarse, MacDonald will drop the biscuit in the water bowl to soften. He is also known, on his way by, to tug at Uncle’s trouser leg, a sort of greeting. He only glares at me.

  ‘You are safe here, you know,’ Uncle says, misunderstanding my silence.

  ‘I know.’

  ‘You see, Anna, in order to become a Yeoman Warder, one must serve at least twenty-two years in the armed forces.’ He smiles now. ‘Did you know that? We were all there, in the Great War. Now London is the Front, and we are here. Retired, maybe, but soldiers every one of us.’

  I think of all the queer old weapons, axes and pokers that line the walls. Black cannons at every corner, old and useless. Is this how you’ll protect us?

  ‘Mum would have wanted me to have a weapon,’ I say, knowing I sound like a child.

  Something changes in his face.

  ‘Your mother and I lost our brother to the Great War – he came home, but not like himself. Nerves shattered, and he died not a year later. I’m not sure how well you remember your grandmother, Anna. It was very hard on her, losing Richard like that.’

  I don’t remember Gran very well – she was old, shrivelled, quiet. I do remember when the war started, how angry Mum was all the time.

  ‘I helped out as soon as I could, being the eldest,’ Uncle continues. ‘It was a great struggle for us all. Your mum didn’t want that for you.’

  I know Mum didn’t like war – she would say things, write things: wars are always lost. But people had to go and fight. She could not be mad at that.

  She was more angry at how hard life became. Even before that I had worn some of Mum’s old dresses, cut and sewn to (almost) fit me. But it was the winter of the war that I was given her trousers. ‘All the girls in Kensington wear trousers and lipstick,’ she said, though her smile didn’t feel right. The girls at school giggled when I wore them, maybe because Mum never got me any lipstick.

  And what the hell does Uncle Henry know? Clearly Mum didn’t like him. And it’s obvious he never came to visit me. I can’t even look at him now, afraid my anger will boil over. Uncle only likes the birds because he can hobble after them. He lies about the history and the legends, the need to always keep six, just so he can cut their wings and keep them trapped here.

  Mum talked about Uncle Richard, how he died when they were young. She never even mentioned Uncle Henry. Who is this strange, old, sick man?

  He is watching me and leans forward. ‘Are you all right, my dear?’

  I am being hard-hearted. He is worried about me, that is all. In my thoughts I apologize to him. He is a lonely old man who loves the Tower. I know that he stands at the walls at night, using his secret whistle to try and call Mabel home.

  ‘Uncle,’ I say, ‘Has nobody ever escaped the Tower? Truly?’

  ‘No one has ever escaped from the Tower alone. But I suppose one prisoner did... disappear.’

  ‘Disappear?’

  ‘Well,’ he sounds strangely pleased, ‘I guess you two have something in common after all.’

  I have no idea what he is talking about and can only smile weakly.

  ‘Did you know that Yeoman Oakes is right now – maybe this very moment – writing a history of the prisoners in the Tower?’

  He stares down at me expectantly.

  ‘That sounds very interesting, Uncle.’

  ‘Yes, well, I certainly think so. Now, you must go and ask him about the prisoner who disappeared. He can do more than tell you the story. He can show you. Go on, I can finish up here.’

  He scatters the meat in Cora’s cage, tempting her inside.

  What can Yeoman Oakes show me? About a prisoner who disappeared? While I worry again that Uncle is very unwell, he is red and smiling as he ushers me across the Inner Ward to the Guard’s Hall.

  Oakes is not there.

  With a sigh of relief, I dash back towards my room. Even the small chamber filled with spiderwebs seems a blessing. Uncle gave me a hot-water bottle earlier, which might still be warm. The wind finds me in corners, chases me round passageways. By the time I climb up the ramparts, I am beginning to feel like myself again.

  Then I see Oakes.

  He is walking – striding – across the Outer Ward towards Traitors’ Gate. Why? Warders come and go across the bridge at the West Gate. Nobody uses Traitors’ Gate, which is flooded with water and blocked by a spiked gate. Am I imagining it, or does something about him look guilty? He certainly isn’t writing a history book.

  I stop, peer down at him.

  Oakes doesn’t seem like one of those men who had a bad time of it in the Great War – who had their nerves shattered, like Uncle Richard. Something, though, is definitely wrong with him.

  He passes the Watchman, and after some exchange the Watchman leaves. Oakes looks around, clearly checking to see if anyone has their eye on him, and then steps over the chain fence. His hat disappears as he descends.

  What – into the water?

  I lean over the edge of the ramparts to see.
There is no water and Oakes has taken the stone stairs and marched right up to the wide span of the arch.

  A man stands on the other side. I squint to see him. I can make out the chequered pattern of colour through the black bars. A tweed hat, a brown coat.

  Who is he? Why is Oakes having a secret meeting with a man at Traitors’ Gate? I duck behind the turret, my mind racing. Something is wrong. And why is there no water at the gate? I walked past yesterday and there was definitely water. Glinting with coins that tourists had tossed in. And the way Oakes looked around. Who could possibly be on the other side of the gate? The portcullis, Uncle called it, a heavy black gate with spikes. Obviously someone is visiting the Tower in secret.

  To see Oakes?

  I brush aside the stiffening fear. No, I can hear something... a scraping. It is a raven. Just there, not a foot away, sharpening its beak on the battlements. A feeling of shadow falls over my body. Merlin? Where did he come from?

  Another sound. Human footsteps. I am suddenly frantic. Oh, Merlin, you great menace. I will be caught. It is Oakes, I know it. He is coming up the ramparts. My breath catches.

  He knows. He knows I have seen him.

  A drumming sound of feet on the stairs follows me. Panting, I turn. Too fast, one foot catches the other, and I am lying on the stone.

  A hand falls on my shoulder and I almost scream.

  ‘Careful now,’ comes a voice. ‘Dark enough in these towers, even in the day. Up you come.’

  It is Sparks, the Gaoler. He chuckles, unaware of frightening me half to death.

  ‘Well, how are you, little miss?’

  Although the Gaoler is an important person in the Tower, Sparks acts very kindly to me. He never eats at the Bloody Tower, but once we played cards in the tavern, and he let me win, happily drinking mugs of ale – ‘settling the dust’, he said in his deep Glasgow voice.

  Sparks extends an arm, helps me to my feet. I smile as best as I can. My knee throbs from the fall.

  He takes off his blue hat, wipes his forehead. The hair that remains to him is bright white, like clumps of snow over his ears. He is the only one in the Tower of a grandfather age. He looks out over the ancient castle, red in the sunset.

  ‘Pretty sight, isn’t it?’

  No sign of Oakes down there; only Merlin, his black eyes inspecting me, his head almost turned upside down.

  ‘It is beautiful, Yeoman Sparks.’

  ‘In 1928, at 1.30 a.m., a tidal wave swept over the wharf, filled the moat up to its gills. Worry is that a direct hit from an incendiary could flood it all again. And we’ll be needing those carrots.’

  It is hard to imagine the moat filled with water. The trench of earth is now an allotment of vegetables, worked daily by both men and women. And it is always carrots.

  ‘I hope the moat stays dry, Yeoman Sparks.’ My hands are still unsteady. ‘I must go and feed the ravens. With Uncle taken ill – he needs my help, sir.’

  He puts his hat back atop his glistening head. The old face, a mask of lines and wrinkles, splits into a smile.

  ‘Those birds. Next thing we know, you’ll be just like Henry, and then we’ll never hear a word about the Tower that doesn’t involve those bloody ravens. Come on, dear, I’ll walk you back safe and sound.’

  ‘Allow me,’ comes a voice.

  Standing at the end of the passage is Oakes.

  ‘Yeoman Oakes, sir.’

  He is looking at me with sharp eyes. Sparks has almost disappeared down the passage. Should I cry out? Call him back?

  ‘What are you doing up here?’

  I can think of nothing else to say – should I just run?

  ‘Looking for you, sir. Uncle told me to find you. But you weren’t in the hall—’

  ‘Looking for me?’

  There is no doubting that he is angry. At breakfast, Oakes is always so quiet he seems to be listening, which makes me nervous. Once he starts talking, though, I always wish he’d go back to staring at the wall. His voice is dry and cracked, as if he needs a glass of water. Or port.

  ‘Yes. I have a question, sir.’

  He knows. He knows I saw him.

  ‘What is your question, Anna?’

  ‘It’s about the... man who disappeared all those years ago. The prisoner.’

  ‘I see.’ He is still looking at me, searching. ‘And your uncle asked you to come to me?’

  ‘He said you could show me something. I don’t know what he meant, sir.’

  ‘Aha.’ Even as he tries to hide it, his face perks up. ‘So you’ve been inside the Salt Tower?’

  ‘No, sir.’

  For a moment his strange look returns.

  ‘Well, Anna. Then I’d better take you. Let you see it for yourself.’

  ‘I should go back... to help Uncle with the ravens.’

  Oakes does not even turn round. Why is he so horrible?

  ‘I was beginning to worry that you had no curiosity when it comes to Tower history, Anna. I wonder how Hew Draper caught your interest.’

  I can find no words. Hew Draper? Is that the man who disappeared?

  We walk in silence across the Inner Ward.

  He leads me alongside the curtain wall. I follow the blue coat and hat, always a few steps ahead. The wind is up, and in the coming night it is cold. I walk stiffly on.

  A tower stands just ahead, at the end of a short bridge. The outer stone rises up before me, dark and stained. Uncle may have said this was an important building. I stare at it, fighting to bring to mind anything helpful. The bridge shines damp.

  ‘Ah,’ he says, turning a corner. ‘Constable Tower. It will bring us to Salt Tower. Let’s hurry now, and see it while there is still light.’

  See what?

  Oakes beckons me across the bridge without another word, his cloak trailing in the wet leaves. I look up this time, staring hard at the dark stone.

  I am not afraid.

  We enter the tower in silence. The archway is narrow, even for me. I squeeze down the dark hall (how did Oakes manage?) and take the very steep stairs. Up and up, finally leading to a room.

  All I can see are old weapons and dust. It is windy, even inside, and just as I think it, the wind picks up, echoing in the silence. We move deeper into the tower, past rooted pillars and giant arches, all smooth grey stone, the colour of nothing. Suits of armour stand to attention.

  The passage continues for what seems like miles. Already I long for a roofless space. Oakes gestures for me to follow him deeper inside. I can move freely enough – I can feel my arms and legs again (and the bruise already forming on my knee).

  The air is damp, heavy, the faint light giving Oakes more than one shadow.

  Winged figures – angels, I guess – stare down from the walls. The endless stairs make my knee ache. Stumble-footed, I climb. The temperature drops with each step. A cough floats down on the cold air. Our steps ring in the silence.

  Oakes slips through a narrow archway that opens up to the large upper room. Another stale, clammy room, with thick wooden rafters holding back the stone.

  All at once I see something. Opposite the window, near the floor.

  It’s like nothing else I have seen in the Tower. Intricately detailed, quite beautiful, it is... something... carved into the wall. A drawing, or a sign. Obviously it does not belong here. It is not part of the Tower.

  ‘Hew Draper made this. An innkeeper from Bristol, and a prisoner here a long time ago.’

  Wind breathes through the room, and I step closer to the carving. The series of criss-crossing lines leads out from the centre. Is it a map of the secret tunnels and passageways of the Tower? Is this how he disappeared?

  ‘So it’s... a map?’

  Oakes smiles. ‘In a sense. It’s a form of zodiac wheel. Beautifully done, each constellation rendered alongside the days of the week and hours of the day. All perfectly accurate.’

  A map of the night sky? Why?

  Before the blackout, only a few stars were ever visible in the city.
Now, when I walk back from the shelter, I lose count. But I don’t know the name of a single star, not one.

  ‘How did he make these drawings, of the stars and things?’

  His smile grows. ‘Same way as all the others did. Using the knife he ate with.’

  ‘How did it... help him to escape?’

  He laughs, a not unpleasant laugh, his shoulders going up and down.

  ‘Well, perhaps it did. He certainly vanished without a trace. Of Hew Draper’s death, of the rest of his life – there is no record. At the time they thought it was sorcery.’

  Sorcery? A small leak, quiet but steady, drips water in the corner. After another moment of expectant silence, I cough. Oakes is not a spy, or a traitor. Would a traitor really meet with someone at Traitors’ Gate? I was just spooked by Merlin. And there is no secret tunnel out of the Tower. Oakes is simply a boring old man fascinated by walls.

  Still, other thoughts nag at me. Oakes at breakfast, muttering about ‘making peace with Hitler’.

  Salt Tower is locked, and we leave by another exit, which includes even more stairs. I grip the rope tightly, wishing there was a banister for balance. But who was he meeting with? Warders never seem to talk to anyone except each other. That man at the gate was definitely not a Warder. Could he have been meeting with a spy – a German?

  Oakes has marched ahead down the dark passage. There is a draught here, and the walls seem to lean in. I stop when a sudden thought strikes me. Always Oakes talks about how he hates Churchill. About peace with Hitler.

  Churchill is coming. Next Sunday.

  I stand fixed, staring helplessly. What if Oakes is a spy? What if he is plotting to kill the prime minister? He thinks it will end the war. He is mad... No one is safe. Anything is possible.

  ‘But nobody knows what did happen to Hew Draper,’ comes the dry voice, ‘he simply vanished – into the corridors, inside the keep. Some people say he is still here somewhere.’

  His voice echoes back to me.

  ‘So please be careful, Anna. In gloomy old places like this, we sometimes see things that are not truly there.’

  Sunday, 6 October 1940

  For another night the raid is over. Still, I listen, each slow breath escaping in plumes. I must be certain Uncle has gone to sleep. Even after a long night in the shelter, he might trudge up the stairs to check on me.