These Dark Wings

by John Owen Theobald

  ‘Evacuated? Now?’

  ‘Yes. Some to Gloucester, others north.’

  My heart seizes. Flo has already been taken from me; poor Leslie was killed. If Kate leaves too...

  ‘Malcolm is being sent to Gloucester to stay with his father. And Mavis’s boy, Carson. Rosemary and Jill Parrett. And the Squire family.’

  The world seems to move more slowly. Uncle is there, sitting beside the bed in his old suit and tie; I can’t seem to piece it together. What is he saying?

  ‘Mr Squire was so distraught. You should have heard him after Timothy ran from the shelter that night. Gregory had to hold him from running out into the bombing after his son. Now, with the latest attack... it was too much. He loves that boy. They had to go somewhere safe, the whole family. Timothy Squire had to go away, Anna dear.’

  ‘When? When are they going?’

  His face is drawn tight.

  ‘Malcolm and Carson leave at noon, I believe. The others took yesterday’s train.’

  Sunday, 18 May 1941

  Leslie’s mum was nice enough to lend me a hat for Chapel. It is quite unbecoming, covered in fake blue flowers, and far too big, but at least no one can see my hair. I shall have to wear this hat for several more weeks.

  Maybe by then Timothy Squire will have returned.

  ‘Oh, my dear. When you asked me if Mr Squire’s boy, if Timothy, had left anything for you, I thought... Well, I did find a curious thing, on the floor by the bed, but I thought one of the nurses must have dropped it...’

  ‘What? Where is it?’

  We are leaving Chapel along with all the others when he casually mentions this. Sparks says a jolly hello in passing but I don’t even respond. I am surprised he noticed me, hiding under Mrs Ballard’s hat.

  Uncle looks taken aback. ‘It is, ah, it’s just here.’

  For an eternity he rummages in the pocket of his brown suit, before handing me the small object.

  ‘What is it?’

  Uncle squints in the sunlight. ‘I don’t know. I thought perhaps you might know. I assumed it was nothing at first, a trifle left in this old suit, until I recalled where I picked it up. I had hoped, given the circumstances, that maybe it had some significance?’

  None that I can see. What the bloody hell is it? Is it a joke?

  It looks like a tiny piece of metal, the size of a thumb – a piece of a bomb, or shrapnel maybe? Then I see the weird shape at the base, almost like a...

  ‘What happened to the study? The night of the May raid?’

  Uncle shakes his head sadly. ‘I am sorry, my dear. The study was destroyed along with the school.’

  Not all of it, I think, putting the half-melted silver dog into the pocket of my dress. Timothy Squire.

  Uncle has started walking again, giving up the mystery as lost. I keep pace, my face blank. In my pocket, though, I can feel the weight of the metal figure.

  A final act of scavenging.

  Wednesday, 21 May 1941

  Everything is different now. I can walk without pain, some of my hair has grown back (but I am never without Mrs Ballard’s hat), and the weather is warm and bright even as dusk falls. But things have not changed this much. Something very unusual is happening. Soldiers are acting oddly and extra Warders walk their beats. Everyone seems in a tizzy, the nurses and the NAAFI girls, women and men walking quickly, heads down.

  I have seen it, spending the week sitting on the Green in the sun until Uncle fusses and sends me back to bed. I took the news of the others leaving poorly, I suppose.

  Or is he trying to hide something from me?

  Official word is that Hitler has given up on the raids. The unofficial word is that one more night like the last raid would have been the end. Kate says that Churchill was by the phone, ready to surrender. So what is happening now?

  More guards are entering the Tower. Doing my best to look uninterested, I close my eyes and lean my face into the sunlight. I have spent the past few afternoons here alone. Grip scarcely leaves the roost now. Even if he is sick, at least he is unhurt. Again you did nothing to try and save him.

  I saved Malcolm. But he is a boy, a human – a friend.

  I open my eyes again to some new noise.

  A Scots Guard comes up to me. He is tall and handsome, younger than any of the Warders. I smile up at him.

  ‘You’d best get back inside.’ His tone is stern.

  ‘Uncle lets me stay until the two o’clock bell.’

  In truth, Uncle wants me back inside by 1.30, but I must find out what is going on.

  ‘Well, not today, love. Get back inside. On you go.’

  He grabs me, not gently, and steers me away from the Green. I have no choice but to go. Before I turn the corner, though, I sneak a look back, and I can see, like a kicked ant-hill, Scots Guard soldiers swarming over the bridge. Getting ready.

  For what?

  I wait until nightfall to find out.

  It is quiet, the usual cheers from the White Tower silenced. The Scots Guard must be taking a night off from their dances. Poised, watchful, they man the battlements and crowd the West Gate entrance.

  I will not be locked away in my room. I will see what is happening. I will know the truth.

  This is why Uncle gave me the dagger. It is dull, of course, the blade more suited to butter, if by some miracle butter should arrive. It will keep you safe, Uncle had said, realizing what was coming, that everyone in London should have a weapon of some kind. The handle is of yew, the same wood as the longbows of the famous yeoman archers. And then Churchill’s voice, a low growl. You can always take one with you.

  Dark clouds drift in the black air. Something catches my eye in the distance. I almost stand on my toes to see the figure, moving. I know it is Oakes – walking away from Traitors’ Gate.

  And he is not alone.

  Oakes disappears back inside the Inner Ward; the other figure is still there.

  Then the figure turns – I am sure of it – and walks deeper into the castle.

  For a full minute I pause, my ears straining for every sound. Nothing except silence and the echoing wind.

  There was a man, though. And I know where he was going.

  I know the route so well that the darkness doesn’t slow me.

  One of the Scots Guard, unfamiliar with the Tower, briefly flicks on his lantern to orient himself. I stop. Violet would give him an earful. The war is not over and the blackout must still be maintained. My heart beats and beats. The soldier disappears.

  Kraa.

  A raven’s call cracks the still air. Loud and unmistakable, it echoes across the Green. I knew it.

  No. I stop my thoughts before they can run off. It is just a bird, calling as it always does.

  But Grip should be asleep – he should have been asleep for hours now. Ravens are not like us; when it’s time for sleep, they sleep. And when the sun comes up, they are up.

  The night air feels suddenly colder. The croak does not come again, yet I am certain that I heard it. Not the usual low gurgle. A harsher, grating call. The warning.

  Grip?

  The last raven in the Tower of London.

  Reaching the roost, I stop. Night and shadows surround me. I squint through the folds of blackness.

  Someone is there, standing in front of the cages. It is not Uncle – or any Warder.

  The spring wind turns cold. No, it is not a spy, or a Nazi come to kill Grip. It is a regular soldier, from the Scots Guard. A trick of my hungry, exhausted mind. A trick of this place.

  I walk up and stand boldly before the figure.

  ‘And who are you, miss?’ comes a voice.

  He is a soldier; I can just make out a uniform. He turns away before I can see his face.

  What am I going to say? That I have Uncle’s permission to be out? That I am the assistant Ravenmaster, and it is my responsibility to ensure that my bird sleeps through the night without disturbance? I am a mad young girl in a too-big church hat.

  Slowly the fig
ure walks – limping slightly – to Grip’s cage, pausing before it. Good luck to him. Ravens are invisible in the dark.

  The uniform, I can see now, is not of the Scots Guard. The figure does not look at me again, but now I am frightened. All at once my prepared speech vanishes from my thoughts. The voice, strange and guttural, speaks from the darkness.

  ‘Do you have a name?’

  I do not run. Something in me stirs, I adjust the brim of Mrs Ballard’s hat, and I speak.

  ‘I am Anna. The Ravenmaster.’

  There is a pause, and when the voice resumes it is clearly pleased. It is English, though not as people normally speak it. I have heard this accent before.

  ‘You care for the raven? He is quite majestic. Perhaps a little lonely.’

  I nod, unsure whether or not the voice can see me. A cold feeling runs down my arms. Is it the same man – returned now in his uniform? Oakes’s friend?

  Turn round.

  ‘You are the Nazi.’

  The man steps into the moonlight. Tall, with dark bushy eyebrows, a firm jaw, and black hair with a shine matched only by the black of his eyes.

  ‘I am a Nazi, yes.’

  He bows, and in the silent night his heels click loudly to attention. The uniform I recognize clearly from the Spot at Sight posters all over the city. Before I can react, before I can run screaming from this dreadful Tower and the lies and the traitors, the voice speaks again.

  ‘My name is Rudolf Hess. I am the Deputy Fuhrer of the Nazi Party.’

  13

  ‘What do you feed him?’

  It takes me a moment to understand the question. To be so close to such evil. I stand still in the moonlight.

  The Deputy Fuhrer of the Nazi Party. He is not lying, that much is obvious.

  ‘Biscuits... and blood. Meat.’

  He makes a pained face, holds his stomach. ‘Meat is bad for the digestion.’

  Orrk. Orrk.

  Grip croaks as if in protest. We both turn at the sound. The bird cannot be seen. Only sounds, shuffling amid the branches, and low, gurgling croaks. He is not Grip, a single bird with a bad temper and a taste for chocolate. In the darkness, he is a raven – all ravens, every raven.

  ‘Do not worry, Ravenmaster Anna. I mean no harm to your bird or your country.’

  ‘Why are you here?’

  He stares down into the cage for another moment and then looks up to the sky. The voice continues, slow and cavernous, suited to the ancient stone around us.

  ‘I had a dream, several months ago. A dream where I flew to Great Britain and stopped this wasteful war. I am Hitler’s second-in-command. You see that I am the only one who could do it? I knew it too.’

  ‘Oakes let you in?’

  He looks at me with a sad smile. ‘I came as an ambassador. An ambassador for peace.’

  ‘But... you are a Nazi.’

  He is smiling now, and his eyes shine even brighter. ‘You must never ignore your dreams, Anna the Ravenmaster. I was walking, with footsteps that echoed all around me, through the halls of an ancient English castle, bringing peace between nations. They think I am a prisoner, but I was meant to come here.’

  It is a trick. I know at once. He knows about the prophecy. Oakes has told him. Without the Tower ravens, the kingdom will fall.

  He is here to kill Grip.

  He is staring at me. His eyes are not unkind, yet something in them makes me shiver.

  Where are the guards? I am suddenly aware of the knife in my jacket. If he opens the roost, can I stop him? Where is Uncle – or Sparks?

  I saved Grip from bombs and starvation. I can save Grip from you.

  Churchill’s voice returns, slow and deliberate. You can always take one with you.

  ‘All of your allies have surrendered. France, Belgium, Holland, Norway, Denmark, Poland. Our army is three times the size of yours. But the English are an intelligent, sympathetic people,’ Hess is saying. ‘Peace parties exist here. There is a real war that must be fought, but it is not between Great Britain and Germany.’

  I think only of the knife in my coat. The moment he opens the cage.

  ‘Your father is a soldier?’

  My hand itches. ‘My father is dead. My mother was killed by the Nazis.’

  He stares at me for a moment. ‘War killed your mother. War that Churchill wants to continue. That is why I came. That is why I sacrificed everything – my position, my family, my life, my country. That is why. For peace.’

  He is lying, of course, his twisted German mind trying to manipulate me, to force me to listen. I do not let my hand drop.

  ‘You do not believe me,’ he says after a moment. ‘I do not blame you. Maybe no one will listen. But still, I had to. Don’t you see? But here. Take this. I see that my guards are coming for me again.’

  I hear it too, now, the men approaching. Oakes is among them. Hess takes a folded piece of paper from his pocket. With a trembling hand I reach out. I take it.

  The guards are nearly here.

  ‘It is in English. A poem I wrote, long ago. Good luck with your bird, Ravenmaster Anna.’

  I step back into the shadows, and Oakes and two Scots Guards appear and direct him back to the King’s House without a glance towards me. In the darkness the clacking of my teeth is the only sound.

  ‘Uncle, I am so sorry to wake you—’

  ‘Dear God, Anna. What is it?’ His eyes are heavy with sleep.

  I step inside the dark room, my hands stinging from pounding on the door.

  ‘Uncle, you must do something.’ My voice is breathless. ‘He is here for Grip. To kill Grip.’

  Uncle has lit a candle. He wears brown pyjamas, and a blanket cast hurriedly across his shoulders. He looks so old, so tired.

  ‘Anna. Anna. What are you talking about?’

  ‘The prisoner. Hess.’

  His eyes are open now. He shakes his head. ‘Anna. There is no prisoner here—’

  ‘I saw him! I stood not five feet from him.’

  ‘You are to stay away from King’s House. Do you understand?’

  Uncle looks at me with pleading eyes.

  ‘He was at the roost. I don’t know why – why the guards weren’t watching him. I went to check – Grip was calling – and he was there. He means to kill Grip, Uncle. That is why he is here. Don’t you see? He is here on purpose. Oakes let him in. Now he knows the prophecy – he knows about the Tower ravens.’

  ‘Anna, there is no—’

  ‘Stop lying to me.’

  ‘Anna,’ he begins again, but my voice rises over his.

  ‘Stop lying. Stop. Please.’

  ‘My dear, this prisoner is top secret. No one knows he is here. No one. Yeoman Oakes did not let him in – Hess was captured, in a field in Scotland. He is under guard – the best guard in the world. Do not fear him. Grip is safe, and so are you. Now go to bed, please.’

  I go. My body is heavy with exhaustion; my mind spins. To have been that close to such an evil man, to a Nazi.

  What would Timothy Squire say to that? How brave I was. Flo will never believe it, not a word of it.

  With a start, I remember the note Hess handed to me.

  We are allowed fires again, and the flames bring welcome heat to the damp room. I reach into my coat, take out the small paper. It is a poem. I cannot keep it, not something given to me by a German. Not even to show Flo the proof.

  I read it once, mouthing the words, before adding it to the flames.

  LET THE WAVES IN THUNDER ROAR,

  LIFE OR DEATH MAY BE YOUR LOT –

  WHETHER WRECKED OR SAFE TO SHORE,

  EVER STAY YOUR OWN PILOT.

  Tuesday, 27 May 1941

  The smiling face of Hess dissolves. No guards stand outside the King’s House. On the Green, too, the Warders have left, and the watchfulness of the Tower seems at rest. Grip is fine, if somewhat flustered by the late-night visitor.

  I hurry back to the Bloody Tower in hopes of an early breakfast. If Uncle is in the Sto
ne Kitchen alone, maybe I can ask him more about what happened to Hess. Why was he here? Did he really fly to Britain to make peace with Churchill? But Uncle will never tell me.

  But Uncle is not alone. I can tell before I reach the door. He is talking to Oakes. Just hearing his voice, I can see his bald spot even through the stone wall. Why is he at breakfast so early? At first I think they are discussing Hess; they are not. They are talking about me. Is that all they do? Hide behind closed doors and talk about me?

  ‘What she did, yes, it is tragic, but it is also pure selfishness.’

  Me? Is Uncle cross with me?

  ‘Please, Henry. Her husband – the girl’s father, after the war broke out... She needed to protect her. At any cost.’

  Uncle cuts him off. ‘It was a senseless, twisted scheme. The child should have been evacuated. With her school or with some group. Overseas, the countryside, wherever they would take her. She should not be here. It is not safe. Anna does not belong here.’

  I don’t hear anything after that.

  I do not belong here.

  So I will leave. All day I have planned it. But first there is something I must do.

  I try to lure Grip back to his cage. The sick bird does not meet my gaze, but waddles silently into the roost. I place the meagre food beside him, closer than I would normally dare, before taking a slow step back. Grip glances at the meat, and finally at me. Does he know? Know that I am keeping a shred with me? I need to.

  You understand.

  Whether the bird understands or not, he turns to his food, eating weakly. He is half his usual size, and clearly very ill. No croaking, not a single Orrk. There is something deeply unsettling about a silent bird. Uncle would diagnose an infection. I know better.

  I close the cage tightly.

  I cannot wait. By the morning feeding, they will notice that Raven Grip is dying. The last of the Tower ravens. Hope will be lost. If the ravens leave the Tower, the kingdom will fall. I remember the prime minister’s words, hear the serious, gravel voice in my head.

  Hitler’s eagles are no match for Britain’s ravens.

  The words ring around my thoughts.

  She should not be here. Wherever they would take her.