Black Feathers (16 page)

With all my deepest love always, Mum.

Gordon hated himself for sobbing.

It echoed far away into the tunnel, far in both directions. He didn’t have the strength to hold the tears back, though. Nor did he have the will to stand up. It was so good to read his mother’s words and feel the love that came with them. He hadn’t realised how much he craved that love in only this short time of separation, and now he missed her like a piece of himself. The rest of her letter worried him very much. Perhaps her capture and treatment by the Ward had weakened her mind so much that she had nothing left to cling to but fantasy.

Please let her be OK, he thought. Please let them not have hurt her.

And this was swiftly followed by:

I’ll kill anyone who touches her.

She really believed what she’d written; that was clear. It was a deep conviction, something she was willing to risk her life over by keeping it secret. Wasn’t that the price the Ward would exact if she refused to talk? He prayed not. So confusing, though, all this talk of the Crowman.

Dear Gordon,

I never told you this enough – it’s a failing between all men, I think, but too often of fathers to their sons – I love you. When you came into the world, you brought me a new purpose and a new drive. Suddenly, I was not just a parent, I was a guardian too. It took me a lot longer to accept the truth about you than it did your mother. She knew something was extraordinary about you right from the moment you were conceived. I hope you can forgive me for being so slow to recognise you, Gordon. I hope you can forgive me for not telling you I love you more often. One thing about parenthood, it’s filled with guilt and regrets. You have to be very strong to be a good parent and I doubt many people manage it. But I promise you this, Gordon, we’ve done the best we can and it was never your fault we struggled as parents, it was our own.

What a dreadful start to a letter!

Listen to me carefully, son. What I’m going to tell you is incredibly important. Over the years, things have happened, odd little things that would have been easy to overlook if they hadn’t occurred so often. Those things point to the fact that there was something a little different about you. Not only that, from time to time we had letters and visits, even phone calls sometimes from complete strangers, and these communications were always about a dark-haired boy who’d been born in an October snowstorm. These strangers knew things about you no one outside the family could have known. Many of them said they’d seen you in dreams. Others said they’d met you when they were out walking in quiet natural places – impossible, I know. I had to accept that there was something unique, something precious about our own little Gordon. And, about the time you were born, the world we’d known for thirty-odd years, a world with its share of problems and tragedies, became suddenly very bleak indeed. You know what it’s been like with the shortages and unemployment. The people freezing to death in their own homes in the winter, being flooded out or drowned after rainstorms, the people dying of heatstroke in the summer. And then the diseases and viruses came and everything we’d taken for granted began to fall apart. To you it will seem quite normal that people starve to death homeless on the street and that the hospitals can’t cope with the sick or that the police can’t control the violence of a country that has lost its wealth and its rudder, a country whose land and weather are slowly killing its inhabitants.

And it’s not just here, Gordon, it’s everywhere. The world is descending into chaos and there’s a simple reason for it. We’ve abused it. We’ve drained it. We’ve mined it. We’ve cut down its forests. We’ve over-farmed its land and turned it into a desert. There’s no part of the world untainted by the touch of humanity. And the sad thing is, it wasn’t always like that. It’s only in the past couple of hundred years that our behaviour towards the world really got out of hand. Before that, most people lived in harmony with it and gave back to it rather than just taking from it all the time. And there are too many of us now for the world to sustain. She can’t keep up. So there’s only one solution and that is to rid herself of a giant swathe of humanity, like a dog shaking off fleas. And that’s what she’s doing, Gordon, she’s purifying herself. Only those people who respect and look after her, who give back something for everything they take, only those people will have the smallest chance of surviving these times.

We’ve tried, Gordon. We’ve tried hard to live that way these last few years, but I’m not sure it wasn’t too little too late. The main thing is that you are still out there, out of the hands of the Ward. If there is one agency that wishes to continue the pursuit of power at the expense of the Earth, it is the Ward. It has branches now in every country. They believe in subjugation. They believe in profit no matter what the cost. And they believe that when they die, none of their actions will matter. They’re wrong, Gordon. They could not be more wrong. You have an opportunity to keep the world alive and you must take it. It’s your duty and your destiny to do so. But the Ward know about you and they’re coming for you. Listen to me now, Gordon. You must never, NEVER let them catch you. I can barely allow myself to think about what it will mean if they do.

I’ve seen your mum’s letter and I must reiterate what she says. You go out and you find the Crowman. Find him at all costs. Become the man you were born to be, Gordon, and it will mean there’s some kind of future. If you don’t or if you can’t, it’ll be the end for everyone. But you can do it. I know you can and I’ve always known it. I love you, Gordon! Did I say that already? Here it is again: I love you! Take that with you, take strength from it if you’re able, and go out into the country. Stay away from the cities if it’s possible. And keep your head down. What your mum says is true: there will be spies and treachery everywhere. Our thoughts are with you, Gordon.

Fly, my boy! Fly to the Crowman!

Your ever-loving and very proud father.

This was too hard. He wanted to do the loyal thing, the brave thing. To turn himself in at the Monmouth substation. To run away was easy. Surely there was no power in that.

He folded up the letters and this time stowed them in the inside pocket of his jacket, safe and close. There would be time to read the letters again when he reached the daylight at the other end of the tunnel. It was as though the earth had swallowed him. Still weary but partially renewed by the wishes and blessing of his parents, Gordon gathered his few possessions, loaded up and stood. Putting weight on his right leg was more painful now than it had been when he’d first cut himself. The wound seemed to radiate heat into the cool of the tunnel. But there was no choice: if he wanted to move, he had to walk.

Every now and again, when he could stand the tension of walking in darkness no longer and feared there might be some obstacle – or even some foe – waiting for him, he flicked on the torch for a few seconds. The tunnel had begun to make gentle turns first to the right and then to the left and it had developed a slight downward gradient. Down into the guts of the Earth. Into hell. Each time he turned the torch off, the darkness rushed back in and closed like a black sea over his head. It felt as though the stagnated, tarry air was drowning him and, as he trudged, the thumping ache in his right leg became an agonised tattoo. Thoughts of hell and of its denizens became more frequent and lurid. The Ward were in league with the legions of the underworld and they waited around every long, slow bend in the tunnel. Red-skinned demons with teeth like broken needles wore long grey raincoats and grey brimmed hats. Their twisted horns poked through the felt of their fedoras and their bony, spike-tipped tails protruded from beneath the backs of their macs. Slung over their shoulders were sets of chains and manacles or weighted nets, the mesh fashioned from barbed wire. A flick of the torch would send them scurrying farther into the darkness just beyond sight in the curvature of the tunnel, black hooves and snatches of grey fabric disappearing each time he used his light.

Gordon became thirsty and his face hot. He stopped and took several swallows of water. The heat in the tunnel surprised him. He had the beginnings of a sweat at his hairline but the rest of his face was dry and flushed. He took a few more sips and put the water bottle away.

Every step now sent a jolt of pain into the right of his groin, no matter how carefully he trod. Sometimes the jolt extended into every joint, sending a shiver along the skin of his back. Swirling images began to form in the blackness in front of his face, and blinking did nothing to dispel them. His fatigue settled heavier and heavier upon him. His pack might as well have been full of wet sand and his shoes soled with lead. His pace slowed to a shuffle.

Gone were the demons of the Ward now. In their place came sepia-coloured scenes played out against the screen of the tunnel’s darkness. He flew over lakes and mountains, slow when he was soaring high, fast as he passed close to the land and the water. From a great distance he saw a volcano erupt, the earth roaring through the cone of a mountain and burning red phlegm spewing forth. The black vapours of the world’s diseased lungs belched upwards, miles into the sky.

Every part of him was hot now. Images formed again from cream-coloured smoke so real he could almost touch its fibrous currents. He flew over the ruins of cities and the places where cities had once stood, now swallowed by the land – nothing but a scar upon the Earth’s surface to show where a metropolis had been. But down below that scar, Gordon knew, millions of people lay, buried alive.

He flew over flooded fields and drowned forests. He flew over broken roads beside which the bodies of refugees rotted where they’d dropped, too sick or starved to keep walking. He saw armies of people fighting in the streets: a rabble of ill-equipped citizens on the one side, armed men in uniform on the other. Even without colours he recognised the force he was seeing, beating and shooting down civilians without mercy. The Ward. Men who believed the world and its people were there to be exploited, that power existed to make slaves of everyone who did not possess it. Not a government but a corporate army.

The visions kept him from thinking about the pain in his leg and the ache in his joints. He became aware that his hand had fallen to his side and he no longer touched the wall of the tunnel. How long had he walked this way? He had no idea. He was adrift on the night. And even then he did not put out his hand for the comfort of the wall. He merely stumbled onwards.

He kicked something hard and almost fell over. He took another few steps and kicked another object, heavier than the first. This time he switched on the torch and played its beam over what was in front of him. A hill of rubble rose from the ground to the roof of the tunnel, filling it from wall to wall. Thin bars of rusted steel fixing rose like dead stems from the debris. Keeping the torch on, he negotiated his way up the slope, careful not to stand on anything loose or trip over the larger obstacles.

As he neared the roof, he was obliged to crouch and then to crawl on his hands and knees. It would have been painful enough under the best of circumstances, but with his right leg so sore and every joint complaining, his greatest desire was to just roll over right there on the broken stone and sleep.

When his pack began to scrape the roof, he removed it and placed it and the tent beside him. Shining his light ahead, he could see the gap between roof and rubble extended into blackness on the other side.

There was a way through.

After Megan eats a heavily spiced stew, she falls into a hard, dreamless sleep. When she wakes, it feels as though she has slept for a month. She sits up, alert and energised, all her fear and weakness gone. Mr Keeper sits cross-legged on the reed matting, smoking, watching over her.

“Hello, Megan.”

“Hello, Mr Keeper.”

“How are you feeling now?”

“I feel like I could run from here to the ocean and back again. How long have I been asleep?”

Mr Keeper shrugs.

“An hour, perhaps.”

“An hour? It felt like weeks.”

“That’s how it’s meant to feel.”

“What was in the stew?”

“It’s Ricky Pot.”

“What’s Ricky Pot?”

Mr Keeper taps his pipe on his knuckles and drops the ash into his hand, pocketing it.

“Rook. Ale. Quick-bine. Salt and pepper.”

“I ate a rook?”

“Three rooks, actually.”

Megan grimaces, aghast.

“But the rook is hallowed,” she says.

“Yes, it is. But it is not forbidden to the likes of you and me, Megan. When we have need, they come to us. They make us strong. I caught three this morning. They knew you needed strength and so they gave themselves. It’s for the good of all. For the land.”

Megan takes this in with as much poise as she can. She tries hard to understand the nature of the sacrifice, what the rooks have given just so that she might be renewed. Before she knows why or what she will do, she is rising from her sleep mat.

“I need to go outside.”

Mr Keeper nods.

She opens the door, crouching to exit, and walks to the pile of debris where Mr Keeper composts his waste and leavings. There on top are the feathers, heads, entrails and feet of the three rooks. She gathers them up from the slowly rotting pile and takes them, slippery threads of gut beside horny grey beaks, greasy eyes beside pristine feathers and leathery claws. She carries them some way into the pines and digs a small hole in the soft earth with her bare hands. In it she places everything but one broad, unblemished feather. With the knife Mr Keeper gave her when they began their “gathering” trips, she cuts into the pad of her thumb and lets the blood from the incision drip onto the rook feather. Much of it dribbles away onto the recently parted ground but some of it soaks into the fibres of the feather, darkening it further and giving it unnatural weight. Not satisfied, she uses her cut thumb pad to smear the blood all along its grey shaft. Only then does she place it on top of the remains of the three rooks and cover everything with earth and pine needles. She kneels in front of the burial site and places her hands over her heart.

“Thank you,” she whispers.

In the roundhouse, Mr Keeper is waiting with boiled water and a cloth. He cleans her cut and wraps it in a strip of muslin before handing her a steaming bowl of tea. As is often the way in the roundhouse, all is quiet for a long time.

Unusually, it’s Mr Keeper who breaks the silence and her recollections.

“I’ve something for you, Megan. After I give it to you, you can go home for the rest of the day.”

Megan brightens. Some time at home with Amu and Apa before bed will be an unusual treat. It’s easy to forget she has any life beyond the Black-Feathered Path. The celebrations of the harvest have come and gone with her and Mr Keeper almost uninvolved but for his appearance to bless this year’s reaping – the most bounteous crop in memory. The harvest is a season of rejoicing. The villagers spend time together in the streets and around the hub at the centre of the village. Bands play music all day and night and everyone dances and drinks ale and elderberry wine and Usky Lick, the local spirit. All the food is cooked outdoors and shared and eaten together. This year Megan has seen none of it. She misses Sally and Tom, too, misses playing and being idle.

Mr Keeper reaches behind the blanket that divides the roundhouse and keeps his sleeping place private. Now he brings out something large and heavy-looking. It is wrapped in black cloth which shimmers a little when the light catches it at certain angles. He places it on the matting between them and sits back. This is the correct way of giving. After a pause to let the gift settle, Megan leans forwards and takes it, drawing it close in front of her.

She unwraps the black cloth one fold at a time. Inside it is a box. The box is made of gleaming black wood. Scorched into the lid is the sign of the Crowman, the same crow’s footprint she now bears on her chest. She lifts the lid, and inside are several items. The largest of these is a book, also branded with the Crowman’s sign. It is bound in thick hide and tanned to black. Beside it are two black stones and a small black bowl set into carved depressions in the base of the box. Next to those are three long black feathers. She lifts the book; this single item is responsible for most of the weight in the box. The hide is smooth and cool beneath her fingers. She opens the book and stares at the pale, silky pages within for a long time. She closes and opens the book in several places and what she sees is always the same.

She looks up at Mr Keeper.

“What is this?”

“It’s the
Book of the Crowman
.”

“But it’s empty,” she says.

“No. The
B
ook
is full. The story is already there. Its words, however, have not yet been rediscovered and rewritten.”

For once, Megan knows exactly what Mr Keeper is going to say next:

“That’s your job.”

For a while she runs her fingers over the items in the box, even the sleek wood of the box itself. She smoothes her palm across the surface of the blackened cowhide, and it seems to leave a trace of dust on her hand which she tests between her fingers.

“The feathers are from Anglesey ravens. I’m going to show you how to cut them into quills. You have a block of pigment, a grinder and a bowl. Before you leave, I’ll instruct you in the making of ink. Tonight you must write the opening pages exactly as you have seen them.”

He stretches for the kettle.

“More tea, Megan?”

“No,” she says, adding: “Thank you.”

“Tell me, then. The boy from the night country. Did he give you anything?”

“In the vision he gave me a feather. A crow feather.”

“It was no vision, Megan. You must understand that. You journeyed to him and he gave you a feather. What did he say about it?”

“He said it would give me words for things I have not seen and do not understand.”

Mr Keeper seems satisfied with her answer.

“Very good. May I see it, please?”

Megan doesn’t know what to say. Protesting further will only make him angry and she doesn’t want that today. So far, it has been overwhelming, special and exciting. She doesn’t want to spoil it.

“I… I don’t…”

“Where did you put it?”

She tries to remember what happened. As the world had unwound, she’d thrust it into the pocket of her coat so as not to lose it. The coat is beside her on the matting.

“You remember, yes?”

She nods.

“Then fetch it out. Show it to me.”

Feeling stupid and embarrassed, worse than she ever has before, Megan pulls the coat to her and reaches into the outside right pocket. Her hand emerges with a single crow feather and a single magpie feather, the one Mr Keeper had given her before she entered the mist. Frowning, she hands them both to Mr Keeper.

He turns them in his hand, smiling as though he remembers something joyful. He returns them to her now-trembling fingers.

“The Crowman is with you, Megan. He has given you this feather so that you may write his story in the pages of his book, so that you may bring him to life once more. From now on, nothing will ever be simply what it appears to be. It is a burden but it is an ecstasy too. Magic is alive in the world, Megan, and it always has been. You must ensure that it stays that way.”

When Mr Keeper has shown her the way to make ink and cut quills, she wraps up her bundle in its black, shimmering cloth and walks alone through the pines and along the paths towards home.

His final words to her are:

“Do not return to me here until you have written everything you’ve seen.”

Her parents are delighted to see her and sit down to hear about her training – what little she is allowed to tell of it. Her mother feeds her well and her father regards her with both pride and sadness. As much as she wants to enjoy the extra time with Amu and Apa, all she can really think about is how she will make that first mark, a mark whose blackness will be both beauty and destruction, when she writes the first letter of the first word of the
Book of the Crowman
.