Black Feathers

by Joseph D'lacey

  While she writes the first part of the story her sleep is black and dreamless and restful. She wakes early each day and begins again feeling solid and happy in her purpose. Before seeing the Crowman in Covey Wood she had begun to wonder what her life was to be about. She had begun to wonder what meaning it could possibly have, things she sometimes talked about with Sally Balston, though not always with Tom Frewin. She no longer has such questions or concerns. This lends her mind a calmness she had not known before and she senses this as another sign of childhood passing away. She does not miss it but she knows Apa and Amu do. She sees them looking at her sometimes, just a glance usually, and they always turn away when they know she has noticed the observation. The glances are sad and sometimes a little puzzled, as though her parents are wondering where their daughter has gone. If she had the time or the energy to spare, she would sit and tell them that here is Megan, the same Megan they’ve always known, only a little older inside and a little harder on the outside. She would tell them that there is more Megan now than there has ever been before, not less. And she would tell them to rejoice in that knowledge because it is a sign of things being right in the world.

  But Megan has never talked to Apa and Amu in quite that way and she’s not sure she ever will.

  Sometimes she thinks of her friends and her days at school. Tom and Sally have been at her side like a brother and sister for as long as she can remember. All of that seems so far away now as to have been a part of someone else’s life. The time she spends walking to Mr Keeper’s roundhouse begins long before school begins and she always returns long after school has finished. It is as though Megan’s world now and the world of Megan just a few weeks before have separated and drifted away from each other like continents separating, an ocean widening between them.

  It takes three days for her to write the first part of the Crowman’s story, and as she does so she is able to distance herself from the boy at the centre of the tale. But when she is not writing, in those moments before she falls to sleep and those moments before she rises, sometimes when she takes a break to eat or drink, she feels the boy’s presence intimately, like the soul of a recently departed sibling. His story has started in troubled times and with no small amount of secret drama. Already she is terrified for the innocent child with black satin hair and polished grey eyes, the boy with the pale skin and destiny written in his very blood.

  On the morning of the fourth day, it is with no small weight of fear in her guts that she walks back to Mr Keeper’s roundhouse. Soon there will be more to write in the Book of the Crowman.

  It is to be a book of pain with sorrow in every chapter.

  PART II

  TO WALK A BLACK FEATHERED PATH

  I seen Black Jack comin

  Spreadin fire and flood

  His black cloak flappin

  Over bootprints o blood

  I seen him bring down cities

  Seen him wash away the fields

  I seen him grinnin madly

  While the mighty learnd to kneel

  I seen Black Jack flyin

  Leavin sickness in his wake

  All he brings is death for us

  And all he does is take

  If you see Black Jack comin

  Best you hide yourself away

  When you see Black Jack comin

  You’ve seen your final day

  Graffiti on the east wall of the Ward substation, Monmouth, England, pre-Black Dawn era, author unknown

  The Great Spirit is in all things, is in the air we breathe. The Great Spirit is our Father, but the Earth is our Mother. She nourishes us; that which we put into the ground, She returns to us…

  Big Thunder (Bedagi), late 19th century Wabanaki Algonquin

  For the Lord your God is bringing you into a good land, a land of flowing streams, with springs and underground waters welling up in valleys and hills, a land of wheat and barley, of vines and fig trees and pomegranates, a land of olive trees and honey, a land where you might eat bread without scarcity, where you will lack nothing, a land whose stones are iron, and from whose hills you may mine copper. You shall eat your fill and bless the Lord your God for the good land He has given you.

  Deuteronomy 8:7–10

  30

  “He looks so thin.”

  “The fever’s wasted him.”

  “To look at him now, peaceful like this, he could be dead.”

  “He’s not dead.”

  “I know he’s not. I’m not stupid. But he looks like he could be. I’ve never seen anything more beautiful.”

  “What nonsense are you talking, girl?”

  “You know what I mean. You know exactly.”

  A pause.

  “Yes. I suppose I do.”

  “Think of it, if he’s who we think he is and if what people say is right, he can never die. That’s why he looks so perfect like this. Because even death won’t take him away.”

  “I don’t like to hear you talk about it. And anyway, it might not be him. Probably none of the stories are true. Everyone needs hope these days. People will believe anything.”

  “You’ve read the stuff he’s got. You believe in him.”

  “I can’t say one way or the other.”

  “You can, Dad. You do believe. Otherwise you wouldn’t have helped him.”

  “I’d help anyone in trouble. You know that.”

  “But this is risky. He’s not just anyone. If they catch us…”

  “I know. I know.”

  Somewhere, there was light. Rusty light. The smell of leaf mulch and wood smoke. Something cooking. Then there was hunger. And then there was thirst, unbearable thirst.

  “I’ll tell you what concerns me, Brooke. What if he’s not for the good? You’ve heard the other stories. Some say there’s a dark messiah coming, a destroyer – the son of Satan or Satan himself. Maybe that’s who he is. Maybe we’re tending Black Jack.”

  “It’s the Ward who put those stories out. Everyone knows that, Dad. I don’t believe it.”

  “Still.”

  “Even if there was such thing as Black Jack, this isn’t him. He wouldn’t be beautiful like this. He wouldn’t be just a boy.”

  “This boy won’t be a boy for long.”

  “That doesn’t make him the devil incarnate, Dad.”

  A cool draught caressed Gordon’s face and he heard the source of it, outside somewhere: the wind easing through the leafless trees. This was no dream. His body was more comfortable than it had been for a dark aeon. But it still felt heavy, lead bones without muscles to raise them. The rusty light was daylight coming through his still-closed eyelids.

  “No. I suppose it doesn’t.”

  There was another pause then. Much longer this time. Gordon felt their eyes on him. Then the girl, Brooke, broke the silence.

  “I think he’s awake.”

  No point in pretending now.

  Gordon allowed his eyes to open. It was brighter than he’d expected and he blinked and squinted, unable to see anything other than what he’d guessed so far. A man and his daughter, perhaps, neither of whose age was apparent in the blur, sat side by side a couple of feet away from him. The light came in from behind them through a triangular opening. This was not a tent but a canvas shelter slung over a cord between two trees. He was in his sleeping bag and he was naked.

  He tried to say hello but his voice was a dry rasp and the noise he made was unintelligible. Only in trying to speak did he realise just how parched his mouth and throat were. His next word came out with some urgency and though it was only a harsh whisper, both the father and daughter understood.

  “Water.”

  It was the girl who moved first.

  “Wait,” said her father.

  “No. I’ll do it.”

  She was beside him swiftly. With one hand she raised his head a little and with the other she let him take water from a cup. The water was warm, not long boiled, but it was nectar to his dried-out palate. He wanted to tell her that s
he didn’t need to help him but when she let his head back down and he tried to lift it again, he couldn’t.

  Naked and helpless.

  “More,” he croaked.

  “You have to take little sips. And slowly. Too much of anything right now will make you worse.”

  She raised his head again, letting him take a few more small swallows.

  “That’s enough for the moment.”

  The water made him nauseous. His stomach cramped around its tiny cargo of fluid. Nevertheless, it had given his brain a charge, and he felt more awake and aware. These people, whoever they were, had made a camp outdoors and seemed to be there on a long-term basis. Through the triangular opening at the end of the canvassed enclosure he could see a well-established fire and a heavy-looking black pot hanging over it from an improvised tripod. Steam escaped from its lid – the source of the smell of cooking. The cramps in his stomach were hunger pangs. He was so ravenous, the pain of it was making him feel sick.

  At his end of the shelter a wall of woven branches had been laid against the opening. Without it, wind would have been racing through the shelter, chilling him. He was lying across the shelter and there was plenty of space for the other two, but he could see no sign of their bedding. Either there were other shelters like this in their camp or they had their own tents. He didn’t recognise the woodland outside. It certainly wasn’t Covey Wood. He tried to gauge how far he’d walked in the tunnel. Hadn’t Knowles said it was miles long? He could easily be in a part of the countryside he’d never visited before.

  The man’s face was lined and creased. He carried troubles there, unable to hide them. His hair was fair and thinning. It needed to be cut. The same was true of the sparse beard that grew mainly at his chin and below his ears. They might have been living like this for a while. The man seemed kind enough, though there was a hard edge to his gaze.

  Both of them were dressed for outdoor life. Their boots looked sturdy and waterproof. They wore cargo-style trousers in lightweight, breathable material and tough-looking, waterproof jackets with hoods. Each of them wore several layers beneath, judging by the bulky look of their bodies. Curiously, though, their clothes were all drab colours. Greens and browns and charcoals.

  Camouflage?

  Perhaps he had something in common with these people. Like him, they could be hiding. Maybe that was why they’d helped him. Their kindness made him think of his family. He had to bite the inside of his cheeks to stop himself crying.

  He watched the girl slide away from him and exit the shelter. She went to the pot, lifted its lid with a metal hook and stirred whatever was cooking using a whittled branch. The branch had seen plenty of use judging by the stain on its stirring end. More aroma wafted Gordon’s way and his stomach groaned so loud that all three of them heard it. The girl and her father smiled but the man’s smile faded quickly. The girl continued to grin, catching Gordon’s eye for a moment and then looking away. He felt some other movement in his stomach at that moment, something that wasn’t hunger.

  His new carers had only spoken to each other when they thought he was asleep or unconscious. Now that he was alert they kept their silence.

  They don’t trust me.

  He understood their reticence but he didn’t like how it felt. He mustered a little willpower and took a deep breath.

  “My name is Gordon,” he said. The words came but without much force. For a moment they looked at him, frozen. While he had their attention he added, “Thank you for helping me.”

  Once the words were out he felt a heaviness cover him like a blanket, and though he tried to keep his eyes open – he really wanted to talk to them and he really wanted to eat whatever it was the girl was cooking – he wasn’t able to do so. His mouth closed and his eyes closed and sleep rose up for him, dragged him down. The last thing he remembered was the girl’s voice.

  “I’m glad we found him, Dad. I think it’s a sign, you know. A sign things are going to get better for us now.”

  If her father replied, Gordon didn’t hear it.

  31

  Gordon woke to wetness on his arms and chest.

  The girl, Brooke, was washing him with a warm, damp cloth. The abrasive but comfortable pressure was followed by the chill of the outdoors, and his skin prickled after every pass of her gentle hand. Where his skin cooled, the ache of fever sprang up and he knew he was not yet recovered. He kept his eyes closed, embarrassed that he was naked before her. She might stop if she knew he was awake and, though it wasn’t entirely pleasant – the cold and the ache and roughness of the cloth were quite harsh – the attention was soothing.

  The direction of his thoughts and the continued stimulation of his skin wasn’t without its effects.

  “You’re not quite as sick as I thought,” said the girl. Even with his eyes still closed he could hear the smile in her voice. He felt his face flush and burn.

  “It’s all right, Gordon. It’s only natural.”

  She continued her work. His upper body complete, she rinsed the cloth in her bowl of water, lathered more soap into it and moved onto his legs.

  “Probably best not to let Dad see, though.”

  Gordon couldn’t help but open his eyes to see the mischief he thought he’d caught in her tone. She was smiling to herself as she worked, and when she saw him watching her smile broadened and softened. She moved the cloth from his undamaged thigh down to his knee and then cleaned his shin, calf and foot, lifting his leg to suit her work.

  “I thought you were going to pass over. I saw my grandma’s dead body in the funeral parlour when I was ten, but I’ve never actually seen anyone die. I was… scared.” She stopped washing him and took his hand for a moment. “I’ve got this feeling about you, Gordon. I think you’re someone extra-special. Someone who can help us.”

  “I will if I can,” he said, his voice stronger than before.

  She shook her head, her hair falling around her face until she pushed it behind her ears. She let his hand go and went back to her washing, more businesslike now.

  “No. That’s not what I mean.”

  No one had ever touched him like this and he didn’t want it to stop. The efficiency of her work increased as she moved on to his wounded thigh. He cried out the moment she touched it and her eyes went automatically to the shelter’s opening.

  “Dad’s out checking his snares. He doesn’t like me… nursing you. You won’t tell him, will you?”

  Gordon shook his head. She moved quickly now, drying him a little with another cloth and zipping him back into his sleeping bag. She discarded the soapy water, made the shelter appear undisturbed and left.

  Moments later she put her head through the opening.

  “I’m sorry I hurt you, Gordon. I’ll do it better next time, I promise.”

  Before he could respond she was gone again. It wasn’t long before he heard the sound of running footsteps through fallen leaves and the sound of her father’s voice, breathless and strained.

  “Brooke? Brooke! I’m here. Are you all right?”

  From some distance away he heard her reply.

  “I’m fine.”

  The footsteps came to a halt, still out of Gordon’s line of sight but not far away from where he lay, the throbbing pain in his thigh receding along with the pressure in his crotch.

  “What happened? I heard a shout.”

  “More nightmares, I suppose. I looked in but he was sleeping. He’ll be all right, Dad.”

  “I’m not worried about him, Brooke. I’m worried about you. It’s not safe here.”

  “It’s safer than home.”

  “We should move on soon. Find somewhere quieter, more remote.”

  “We can’t go anywhere yet. Gordon can’t even sit up, let alone hike.”

  There was a silence, and Gordon could only guess at what passed between Brooke and her father then.

  “We can’t take the boy with us, Brooke. You know that.”

  “But you said yourself it’s not safe. He’s got
to come.”

  “He can’t.”

  “Then why did you bother to bring him here at all? Why didn’t you just let him die in the tunnel?”

  Her father didn’t reply.

  “We’re still good people, Dad. It was the only thing we could have done.” Brooke’s voice was passionate. “We’re going to get him well and then we’ll move on. And when we do, he’s coming with us.”

  Her father’s voice dropped to a whisper.

  “No, Brooke. He’s a liability. He’ll slow us down and he’ll attract attention.”

  “You don’t understand, Dad. If he doesn’t come with us, I’m not leaving.”

  Father and daughter didn’t speak for the rest of that day. When next he saw Brooke, she brought him a steaming bowl of broth and fed it to him, a spoonful at a time. He tried to whisper to her but she shook her head and held a finger to her lips. When the soup was gone, Gordon felt strength flowing into his muscles for the first time. Before she left the shelter Brooke leaned over him and kissed his forehead. Her lips lingered there, soft and silent, for a long time.

  They drink tea in the roundhouse, sitting close to the iron stove. The smell of the place has become a comfort to Megan: the aroma of drying herbs, the tang of pipe smoke, the ever-present perfume of fennel and mint – that smell seems to be tattooed into Mr Keeper’s very skin – and the earthier undertones of body odour and reed matting. Returning this morning is a little like coming home.

  Mr Keeper is silent. He has given her no more than a nod in acknowledgment before spitting a chunk of phlegm through the wind-eye into the chilly early-morning gloom. Now he sits in characteristic absence, sipping tea from time to time. His mind dallies elsewhere, at some great, unreachable distance.

  Is he in the Weave right now? she wonders.

  In the smoky glow of the roundhouse, she feels the fragility of the membrane between this reality and that of her visions. Her pulse quickens in the knowledge that magic, the unseen and truest of realities, bides close at her shoulder.