Black Feathers

by Joseph D'lacey

  As though he hears her accelerating heartbeat, Mr Keeper finally speaks.

  “Have you brought the book?”

  She reaches into her pack and draws out the cloth-wrapped box. She places it on the matting beside him. This is a moment she has been quietly in fear of ever since the raven quill first marked the paper. She watches him unwrap the box and lift its lid. She watches him draw out the black leather volume, his fingers touching it with love. His face is serene as he opens the book and looks into it, not reading it – his eyes don’t move – but somehow absorbing what he sees there. He closes the book and leaves his palm resting on the cover for long moments.

  He replaces everything with care and rewraps the box.

  “When you’re not writing the book, it must be kept in the earth. Then the land will know you are keeping the story alive. And the story will keep the land alive.”

  He pulls up a section of matting between them, brushes away a thin layer of soil and lifts a small wooden hatch. Beneath it is a hole, the walls of which are lined with wood. But the base of the hole is bare earth and into it Mr Keeper places the wrapped box to lie on the exposed soil. He replaces the wooden hatch, brushes the dirt over it and drops the matting back into position. He presses his hands to his face and breathes in deeply, his eyes closing as he inhales the scent of the earth. Then he brushes the crumbs of soil from his fingers.

  “When the book is in your home, it will be enough that you place it in a box of earth under your bed.”

  For a few moments Mr Keeper wanders again, and she expects him not to return. Quite suddenly, though, his head snaps in her direction. When he catches Megan’s eye he is smiling.

  This always makes her nervous.

  “We must make a journey.”

  “To where?”

  “To the valleys.”

  She knows better than to ask why.

  “Your parents will be concerned for you, so I’m going to go and tell them myself where we’re going. I’ll return with some extra clothes for you.”

  He stands up, easing the stiffness from his joints, and crouches to get out of the tiny doorway. Seconds after he’s gone, he pokes his head back in and looks around.

  “This place is a mess. Give it a sweep out before I get back. And hang up those new bundles over the stove before they moulder.”

  His head disappears.

  It reappears.

  “And make us a good breakfast. It’s going to be a long walk.”

  When his footsteps retreat and fade, she stands and begins to attend to his tasks. It makes her smile, this affected strictness of his. She knows the chores are meant to be a kind of discipline for her but they are the easiest part of treading the path. Long before he returns, she’s done everything he’s asked of her and is relaxing with tea and keeping the porridge warm near the stove.

  She hears Mr Keeper tramping across the clearing. He makes no attempt to disguise his approach – even though he’s demonstrated he’s more than capable of doing so if he chooses – and when he reaches the door of the roundhouse she hears him setting items on the ground before entering. She fully expects him to say that her parents have forbidden her to travel with him. They’ve already seen the draining effect a mere bit of writing has had on her. But if they’ve made any protest, he doesn’t mention it. Instead he brings in items of her clothes and even some food in which she recognises her mother’s trademarks – her wheaten loaf baked into a slab, some salted rabbit and chicken, a couple of balls of goat’s cheese and some hard-boiled eggs.

  Once everything is inside, Mr Keeper brings out his large and many-pocketed backpack followed by a second pack, slightly smaller but equally well furnished with extra hidey holes and straps for hanging items from. He divides items of food and equipment into two piles. When he begins to place items from his pile into his backpack, Megan does the same with her own. So much of what she’s already learned from him is based on watching and copying. Only occasionally does he give her verbal instruction or talk to her about what he’s doing. He saves that sort of input for later, when they’re resting or eating or drinking tea.

  Before midday, the two packs are stuffed with everything Mr Keeper thinks they might need for their “long walk”. Twice he fetches his longbow and a quiver of arrows and changes his mind, packing instead what appears to be more food. The last things he takes from behind the dividing curtain are two floppy-brimmed felt hats with straps beneath them.

  “One thing I’ve learned, Megan,” he says, placing one on his head and walking towards the path, “is that it pays to have good headgear when travelling. Never underestimate the usefulness of a decent hat.”

  She is still waiting for an explanation of this when she realises he isn’t coming back. She hurries after him, her pack already heavy and awkward, while she tries to adjust the hat strap under her chin.

  32

  It takes only a couple of hours for Megan to find herself farther from Beckby than she’s ever been before. Mr Keeper has already broken these boundaries many times by taking her to the other side of the Usky River, beyond Covey Wood, to the far borders of New Wood and well beyond the village into meadows and copses rarely visited by anyone. Places where the grass and wildflowers are waist high in the summer and the undergrowth is alive with tiny movements, rustlings and snufflings. She thought her childhood wanderings gave her a great knowledge of the village and its environs, but Mr Keeper’s understanding of the local landscape is far greater.

  In the skeining of the day world and the night country and the winding of time into time, Megan has travelled in ways no one but Mr Keeper will ever understand. Yet to leave the borders of the physical land where she has spent all of her life so far frightens her more. He leads at a stiff pace and she is swiftly tired by the relentlessness of his steps. Even though he moves calmly and without any apparent hurry, his ability to devour the land with his footsteps is supernatural. In trying to keep up she tires fast.

  They walk now up a long, shallow incline for what feels like ten miles but is probably less than one. Her legs burn and she stumbles regularly. Her face heats up with anger despite the chill of the wind. There is no end to this hill and there is no clear pathway. The ground is hard and uneven.

  The gap between Megan and Mr Keeper widens. She is hungry. She is thirsty. She is tired. She hates Mr Keeper and she wants to go home, to bed, for a month. The hill, though not particularly steep, goes on forever. Megan stops. Her legs buckle and she sits down hard on the ground, her pack pulling her backwards and anchoring her to the earth. She flounders there, unable even to sit up.

  From very far ahead, Mr Keeper turns back and sees her. But it can’t be that far away because in seconds he is kneeling beside her and helping her out of the pack straps.

  “I can’t do this. I can’t go on.”

  She expects a scolding but his hands are gentle. He places a rough mat over the cold ground and helps her to sit on it, placing her pack behind her as a bolster. Once she’s comfortable, he does the same for himself and sits beside her. They face down the long, shallow hill. And only then does she see how far they’ve come. She’s astonished.

  “Is that the village?”

  Mr Keeper says nothing.

  Between them and the tiny-seeming collection of dwellings there are great expanses of meadow, ridges of rampant hawthorn and blackthorn, areas of woodland and small hills and valleys. Home is a world away already.

  Mr Keeper sets about cutting some chunks of wheaten loaf and removes two hard-boiled eggs from their shells. He places their brittle, smashed casings in the pocket where he often drops his ash and hands Megan’s share of food to her. He uncorks one of the water bags and offers her a drink.

  “Not too much, Megan. A little at a time. Chew the water and don’t fill your stomach.”

  She is surprised when three or four “chewed” sips are enough to slake her thirst. The hillside is exposed and the breeze that cuts across it cools her off, stealing the fire from her face.
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  “Eat your food as slowly as you can. It should be reduced to liquid before you swallow. Not so important when we’re in the village, but out here on the open land you must conserve your strength and take every possible nourishment you can from what you have. Travel is an unpredictable thing.”

  “How far must we go?”

  He smiles.

  “A lot farther than we’ve just come.”

  “I don’t think I can carry on. My legs hurt. My feet are sore and my back aches.”

  Mr Keeper is chewing. He seems to have put a small piece of bread in his mouth about a year previously and is still reducing it with his teeth. She tries to do the same while she waits for him to speak.

  “You have to see things as they really are, Megan. Your apprehension makes everything worse than it is. This creates a struggle when, in reality, there is no struggle.”

  Her anger flashes hot once more.

  “I am not imagining I’m tired. I’m not making all this up.”

  “Once again, the way you see things is causing you pain. Did I say you were inventing your exhaustion?”

  “Yes, you did.”

  “Actually, I did not. I think you ought to shut up and listen to the actual words I’m saying for a moment, Megan. Can you do that?”

  Megan swallows her fury. Only when Mr Keeper is satisfied with her silence does he continue.

  “You’re scared because you don’t know where we’re going. You only know that you’ve never been there before and that it means we must leave behind everything you are familiar with. That’s true, isn’t it?”

  “Yes.”

  “Your fear makes you tired. And your fear triggers your imagination. What is beyond the next rise? How much farther must we walk? Am I strong enough to make it? Can I prove myself worthy? Why can’t I do what Mr Keeper does?”

  In spite of everything, Megan giggles. It’s either that or cry, but she still hates herself for allowing the emotion to escape.

  “Any of this sound familiar?”

  “I suppose so.”

  “Good.”

  Mr Keeper takes a bite of egg and a bite of bread and Megan is almost convinced that the conversation is over, so long does it take him to liquidise and swallow his mouthful. In the meantime, though, she’s beginning to feel the cold come through her clothes, she starts to enjoy the feeling of height and distance from the village. It is still there. It isn’t going to disappear. Nor is the snaking body of the Usky River. Nor will the forests and meadows. And from up here, taken together, they are beautiful in a way she hasn’t appreciated before. There’s land beyond them in every direction, land she’s never seen before, could never have imagined until now.

  “What I want you to understand is this…”

  His voice snaps her back from the pull of the landscape.

  “This is not a trial that you must pass by enduring hardships. Of course, the Black Feathered Path has its challenges and some of them will test you to your very soul. But you must save your energy for those occasions. And you must recognise each stretch of the path for what it is. Right now we are taking a walk through the land. It is a physical challenge but not too troublesome a one. We have food. We have water. If need be, we have shelter. Both of us are fit and healthy. There is no hurry. Do you see what I’m saying?”

  “But you walk so fast. And you never stumble. And you know where we’re going. You know everything and I know nothing at all.”

  “I walk at the speed I walk because it is comfortable for me to do so. You should do the same. The fact that you don’t know where we’re going should be a source of excitement to you, not a source of fear. Do you think I would deliberately lead you into harm or danger?”

  She doesn’t answer straight away.

  “I don’t know what you’ll do. I don’t know anything about you.”

  “Aha! And so you imagine things about me instead. You mustn’t. And you mustn’t imagine where this walk will take us either. If you are tired, rest. If you are hungry, eat. If you are thirsty, drink. If you want to stop to appreciate the land or some animal or plant, do so. I assure you, I will do the same. Don’t imagine danger lurks around every corner and don’t waste your power on false imaginings. Enjoy this. Every moment. As much as you can. Will you try?”

  Megan heaves a sigh.

  “Yes. I will.”

  “Good. And as for me leading you into danger, let me make this as clear as I can. If I didn’t think you could walk the Crowman’s road, this Black Feathered Path that I too have walked in much the same way, I would not have allowed you to make the first step of the journey. I have great faith in you and great trust in the way of things. The way of things comes from the land and the sky and the greatness of spirit all around us. I don’t need to believe these things, Megan. I don’t need to believe them because I know them. Not in my head but in my body. In my bones. Yes, there will be difficult and dangerous times ahead for both of us, but I will do everything I can to arm you, to train you and to protect you from harm. The rest will be up to you.

  “In the meantime, you really ought to try and have a nice time.”

  So saying, Mr Keeper draws out his pipe, stuffs the bowl with baccy and lights it with one of the matches he has made especially for their journey. The look of contentment on his face is almost comical and once again Megan finds herself close to laughter. She lets it out. Just a giggle at first. Mr Keeper grins to hear it. Then he chuckles, shaking his head. Megan laughs out loud. Soon the wind is carrying their laughter across the broad, flat hillside, flinging it over the grasslands and away.

  33

  Each day, under her father’s protective gaze, Brooke cleaned the wound in Gordon’s thigh and redressed it. Once he was eating he was soon able to sit up, and the day after that, when the camp sounded quiet, he slipped into his clothes, put his boots on without lacing them up and put his head outside the shelter. The air smelled of winter but the day was bright, dry and almost warm.

  He took a few moments to take in the camp before trying to stand. The fire under the pot was mostly ash, having not been tended for a while. The blackened cookware was stacked neatly at the base of the tree which formed one of the anchors for his shelter. To his left was one large all-conditions tent, pegged out tightly and camouflaged like all the rest of the gear. Nothing was left lying around, and the clearing they were in was small. To find the camp you’d have had to be looking for it. Gordon felt a slight weight lift from him at that.

  He crawled into the daylight and tried to stand. It was only then that he found out how much his body hurt. His lower back ached and was stiff. His right thigh had limited movement, as though the muscle fibres were gummed up. His knees, elbows, hips and shoulder joints complained, and he felt flashes of fever jolting through his spine and neck. Still, he was alive and he knew he was mending. When he reached his full height, the world turned grey for a moment and he had to bend towards his knees to avoid fainting. Once the dizziness had passed he was able to stand upright. If someone had pushed him he’d have collapsed, but for the moment it felt like progress.

  A few yards away was a smooth-barked beech tree, the grey skin of its exposed roots lit up by the sun. Gordon stepped carefully towards it and sat down in the V where two roots joined the trunk. There his back was supported by the wood and the sun illuminated him. The warmth seeped into him and he felt its comfort and charge.

  It was a still day and the trees were silent above him. Nevertheless he felt their presence. They seemed to stand guard. Far away he heard rooks calling to each other across the fields, optimism and energy in their cries. From time to time a leaf fluttered to the already well-littered ground. He thought about his parents and his sisters. He thought about Skelton and Pike, who would surely be looking for him even now. He thought about Brooke and the way she cared for him. He thought about what she and her father might be running from.

  For once, none of these thoughts bothered him too deeply. Right now there was nothing he could do about a
ny of it. If a dozen Wardsmen burst into the clearing now, he hadn’t the strength to fight, or even to run. Right here in this instant he had no power over anything at all, and that was fine. What he had was a moment of peace, a moment which might prove to be very short; he had the sun and the trees and the sound of rooks, he had a place to rest.

  For once, giving in was easy.

  They ate rabbit, pigeon and pheasant. They ate wild mushrooms and sloe berries. They drank tea of mint or lemon balm. Gordon’s strength returned quickly and soon he was helping around the camp: collecting wood, cleaning the pots and bowls after meals, fetching water from the stream.

  He was so grateful to them that he didn’t mind the wary way in which Brooke’s father still watched him. He’d had to ask her to tell him the man’s name in the end. He doubted John Palmer would ever have introduced himself otherwise. Each time he left the camp to check his snares, he lingered before leaving, watching his daughter and watching Gordon. It was uncomfortable not to be trusted and yet not know exactly why.

  Since he’d recovered so quickly after they started feeding him, there’d been no more “bed” baths and the only time Gordon had been close to Brooke was when she changed his dressings. There had been opportunities to talk but Brooke had been evasive ever since the day her father had come running back into camp. The mood between her and her father remained tense, somehow on hold.

  What little talk there was between the three of them was usually reserved for discussing the practicalities of the camp. When she was able to, Brooke shared long, open smiles or happy glances with Gordon, but that was all. He knew that John Palmer was suspicious of him. If that didn’t change, he might have to leave these people before he was made to.

  There was one last thing he could do, though. One morning, as John Palmer collected his hunting gear and began his routine of mistrusting, regretful glances at him and Brooke, Gordon approached him.