The Book of the Crowman (15 page)

Dear Gordon,

I’ve got a whole sheet of lovely white paper this time! Bossy got it because I kept him company a little longer and a little better than usual. No one else knows except you, Gordon. It’s our secret and I know that when I finally see you, you won’t ever talk about it. Anyway, it doesn’t matter because Bossy’s so good to me. There’s no other way I could get these messages to you. He said there’d been a number of unavoidable issues with the postal delivery service recently. That was how he said it. And then he laughed. I think it he was joking with me. When I asked what he meant he said there are some weak links in the chain and that not every communication is successful. I really hope you’re getting these letters. I know quite a lot about how you are from Bossy. About how you’re trying to get to the Crowman before the Ward do. How you’re always fighting them. But you don’t know anything about me, Gordon. I thought I’d tell you about a day in the life of Jude! They wake us up really early every morning. You have to get up or they come in with their whipsticks and… well, you know. It’s best to do what they tell you. Always. Anyway, then they give us barley gruel. It’s like a watery soup with a few grains at the bottom of the plastic cup. Sometimes it has a lump or two of meat in it or a few greens but mostly it’s plain. At least it’s easy to eat. After what they did to my teeth, consommé is about all I can manage! You wouldn’t believe how thin I am. I can see all my bones. But I feel OK. After “breakfast” nothing happens until exercise time. I usually think about things until then. Good memories and things that used to make me laugh. I think about you a lot but I try not to think about what will happen in the future. I don’t think any of us do because it can make you feel really low. Some of the others have got so low they’ve hung themselves with their trousers or used a smuggled-in blade to cut the arteries in their wrists. So you know I always think about the past. A lot of people sleep during the day. I can hear them snoring. But I try not to otherwise I can’t sleep at night and that’s much worse. Exercise is the only time I see the others apart from the guards and Bossy of course. It’s also the only time I get any fresh air. I can’t tell you how much I miss our garden and the walks we used to go on. Up the bridleway or out to the Faraway Tree. Even just across the fields. That’s what I dream about most. Being outside. Feeling the wind in my hair and the sun or the rain on my face. Every time I dream about being outside I always cry when I wake up. But anyway we walk around this concrete quadrangle for twenty minutes and I get as much air into my lungs as I can. We’re not allowed to talk to each other but even just seeing someone else’s face, someone who isn’t a guard, makes it easier to keep going until sleep time. In the afternoon they make us work in our cells. Mostly sewing grey uniforms or knitting grey gloves. Sometimes they get us to sort through piles of clothes looking for valuables or things that can be used again. It’s tempting to keep the things you find. Wallets, photographs, pairs of glasses, nail files, coins. Even food or lipstick or matches. But you can’t keep anything. There’s nowhere to hide it and even if there was if the guards found it they’d come in with their whipsticks. It would be worse than the punishment for not getting up in the morning. Much worse. At night they give us a kind of dried bread. It’s so thin it’s like a cracker. It’s hard to eat with my mouth like it is. I have to get a lot of saliva going for each bite and wait until it softens before I can swallow it. I really try to make mine last and I pretend I’m eating sausages or roast chicken. You know, a big cooked meal like mum used to make us. After that there’s an hour or two to wait before they blow out the oil lamps. If you’re lucky you get to sleep quick and go right through without waking. If you have a hundred worries on your mind or have a dream that wakes you, the night can feel like it goes on forever. Oh! I forgot to tell you my cell is en suite. I have my own bucket and bowl right in the corner. OK. Not funny. But you have to find a little reason to smile every day. I’ve found that helps a lot. Otherwise… well, you know. Did I say I love you in the last one? I can’t remember. I’m sorry if I didn’t. I love you, Gordon. Be safe. I know you must be having a tough time out there but please, please write me a letter when you have a chance. Jude.

In the morning, Denise was different with Gordon, her gaze all over him like oil. Each time she tried to meet his eyes, he had to look away. He hoped she’d interpret it as shyness.

Eager to be moving on he said:

“How are you feeling?”

“I haven’t felt this good in a long time.”

Gordon cleared his throat.

“Uh, I meant do you think you’re ready to travel?”

She frowned a little but it passed.

“No. I like it here.” Her eyes flicked to the shelter. “It’s comfortable. It’s warm and,” she grinned, “the food is great.”

Gordon clenched his teeth and looked away again when her gaze sought his. As he stared out across the quiet, almost comatose land, he thought of the night before. What they’d done. The things she’d shown him. Already he wanted her again but what about afterwards? Would it always feel this forced, this
untrue
?

“We can’t stay here. We’ll lose what little advantage we have.”

“I know. But don’t spoil it, Gordon. One more night won’t hurt.” She reached out and took his hand. Gordon flinched but managed not to snatch his hand away. “It’ll do us good,” she said.

He swallowed down his frustration and stood up. He wasn’t sure he could delay another twenty-four hours to be on the move again; the Crowman wasn’t going to wait for him. Yet neither was he sure he could wait until nightfall to touch Denise again.

“One more night, then. But we leave at daybreak.”

“What’s the matter, Gordon? You seem really… tense. I haven’t upset you, have I?”

“No. No, of course not. I’m just… I can’t help thinking about this ‘war’ everyone’s on about.” It wasn’t a lie. Not exactly. But the thought had also crossed his mind that he could grab his pack and leave Denise here; a thought followed swiftly by the shame that he could think such a thing after everything that had happened. He tried to concentrate on his wider concerns. “I can’t help feeling like everything’s coming to a head. That this will be the final clash between the Green Men and the Ward. I don’t think it’s going to go well.”

“How can you say that? Look at the numbers of people ready to fight.”

“It’ll never be enough, Denise. They’re not an army. They’re a rabble. They’re lit up by passion and desperation. When they meet the Ward in battle, those lights will go out like that.” He clicked his fingers. “They’ll falter.”

“They will not. How can you say that? These people would die to end the Ward’s choke on them.”

“And die they will, Denise. I promise you that. They will die by the tens of thousands. There has to be a better way.”

“What way?”

“I don’t know.”

“Then you shouldn’t criticise.”

“I don’t know
yet
, Denise. But I will. They need a figurehead. They need the Crowman. If he could lead them into battle, I think they’ll have a chance. But most of them don’t even think he’s real. Some people even believe he was invented by the Ward as an ideological enemy; that if they could get everyone to believe the Crowman will bring the end of the world, they’d be as good as allies to the Ward. I’ve got to find him. I’ve got to prove he’s real and powerful, that he’s not just an idea.” He looked at Denise and managed to smile for the first time that morning. Everything had been so different in the darkness, so magical and correct. Physically, their union had been perfect but out here in daylight, the two of them just didn’t fit together. “Sorry if I’ve been a bit distant,” he said. “It’s really worrying me.”

“It’s OK,” she said. “It really is. You’ll find him before this war begins. I know you will.”

“Thanks.”

He leaned down to grab his pack. In his haste to be away he knocked it over. From the top spilled out his carefully wrapped sheaf of feathers. He scrambled to replace them but Denise was too quick.

“What are these?”

“Nothing. Just some old crow feathers.”

“Like the ones in your hair.”

“Yes. Like those.”

“Why have you got so many of them?”

“Listen, Denise, give them back. I really need to go and check the traps so we can eat.”

Her voice hardened off.

“No. You’re not going yet. Tell me about this.”

Now, finally, he could hold her gaze. No one challenged him like this. Who did she think she was? What right did she have to know so much about him? Without any warning his bubble of defiance burst and all his indignation went with it. He felt weak. Of course, this woman whose child he’d allowed to die, the woman he now led across the dying land, of course she had a right to know about the man she was travelling with.

He slumped back down to the ground.

“Open it up,” he said.

“No. It’s OK, Gordon. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t pry.”

“Open it.”

Denise unrolled the cloth wrapping and the breeze agitated its contents.

“Don’t let them blow away.”

She laid a stick over them.

“How many are there?”

“I don’t know. Hundreds.”

“Why do you keep them?”

“I’ve been collecting them most of my life. When I see a black feather, I always pick it up. It’s like a sign that I’m on the right track. It makes me feel… God, I don’t know… supported somehow. Does that just sound totally crazy?”

Denise stared at the feathers in silence for long moments. She touched them with her fingertips as though they were sacred objects. When she didn’t speak, he began to regret giving in to her demands. Then he saw Denise was crying.

“What’s wrong?”

She looked up, liquid crystal spilling over her cheeks.

“Flora had these.” She tried to wipe her tears away but they kept coming. “Not as many as you, but she had plenty. I never understood where they came from because she never went outside. She said the Crowman left them for her and I didn’t argue. It didn’t seem fair to take away what little joy she had. But I always thought she’d discovered an old nest up in the attic and pretended the feathers were gifts.”

“What do you think now?”

“I think he gave them to her.” She overrode her tears and wiped her face again. “I’ll tell you what else I think, Gordon Black. It was no mistake that you came to us. I think you’re destined to find him. I think that’s what you’re here to do.”

Gordon found his own cheeks wet with tears.

“You have no idea how good it feels to hear that. I used to think finding these was a curse, you know. Because never in my life have I found a single white feather. But the longer all this has gone on, the more I came to realise that I was walking the right path.” He laughed without much humour. “A black-feathered path.”

“It’s no curse. It’s a blessing. It gives your life meaning and purpose. I don’t know anyone else who has that. You should be thankful.”

Gordon sighed, shamed by her words.

“Yes. I think you’re right.”

Silence gathered between them. Gordon didn’t know how to prevent it; hadn’t he already shared more with Denise than was safe or wise? The sudden sense of exposure, knowing something below his surface had been revealed, caused a ripple of vulnerability and dread through his solar plexus. He squatted by the feathers, laid the stick aside and gathered them back into their bundle. Denise’s voice breaking the wall of hush between them did little to resolve his misgivings.

“I’ll look after them,” she said, placing her hand over his.

Gordon froze, unable to look at her.

“Don’t you trust me?”

No
.

But Denise had trusted him first, hadn’t she? With her attic hideout and her daughter’s life? Even with her own. If he couldn’t show a little faith now, in another human being in the harshest times, perhaps he had no faith left.

“Of course I do,” he heard himself say.

Denise smiled and he was able to look at her then, to let her see his eyes.

“Good,” she said, taking the wrapped feathers and giving him a soft, lingering kiss.

When he stood up, she stayed where she was, wrapped her arms around herself and shivered.

“Cold?”

“I’m fine,” she said.

“I could get the fire going again.”

“I’m OK. Really, Gordon. Anyway, I wouldn’t want anyone to see the smoke when I’m here on my own.”

She was right, of course.

He shrugged off his coat and gave it to her before pulling on his pack. She hugged the material but didn’t put it on.

“Thanks. Now, go on,” she said, grinning. “Off you go. And don’t come back without a sackful of meat. I’m already starving.”

Gordon spent the day out of camp.

Checking the traps and snares only took minutes. He spent the rest of the time wandering the landscape and staying clear of Denise. Here and there the land had been torn open by tremors and quakes but there were no rifts as great as the one he’d first seen on leaving the sandstone cave. The earthquakes that had torn England open had quietened over the last few months.

At the crest of a small hill a couple of miles from their camp he surveyed the terrain around them, planning the first part of their continued route north. They were far enough from major roads to remain unnoticed but it was always a good idea to stay away from the smaller towns and villages. People still trying to survive in those places had fallen very far from civilisation and Gordon didn’t want any extra conflict. What was coming would be bad enough.

He’d told the truth to Denise. If they’d had a head start over the Ward, it would have been eroded by now. They needed to move soon. The Ward would know he was travelling across country too – they knew his modus operandi well enough by now. With this alleged war coming, avoiding the Green Men would be impossible too; not without being hunted down as a coward. The simplest thing would be to go to one of the Green Men’s strongholds and act like he was part of the uprising until he could get back to London.

From the top of the hill he could see a few miles in every direction. The grey swatches of dust where nothing grew and no animal had any reason to forage were like streaks of leprous tissue, spreading across the body of the world. He could see the long black rends left by earthquakes. They passed through land both living and dead, resembling claw marks, as though some vast bird had swooped and dragged its talons across the earth, trying to tear pieces of it away. The wires carried by pylons no longer crackled and hummed with power. In the villages and hamlets visible from his vantage, houses and cars still burned; whether from a Ward attack or because of looters, he couldn’t tell. It seemed as though destruction begat destruction, no matter what the cause. People – the kind of people he wanted to avoid – burned things because they could now, just to see another piece of the world laid waste. When there was no law, when nothing beyond survival seemed to matter any more, there was a savage logic in violence and ruination. He half understood their feelings:

If this is the end, then bring it on…

But what if, as Gordon still believed, it wasn’t the end? Wasn’t it worth trying to keep the world alive, to maintain the simple trust that one person would neither harm another nor take from them just because there was no one to punish their actions. Surely, such trust was a
natural
law, part of the order of the universe.

He couldn’t even be sure of that. Perhaps a handful of the folk he’d met on the road had remembered that trust in spite of everything, put kindness and care before hunger and rage. Most had not. It was as though the entire population had been waiting for a time when lawlessness would give them freedom from morality. If such a motive existed in just one person, it existed in all of them. It existed in him. But if that was true, and he was sure it was, then the capacity for honour and trust existed in equal measure. Humans were demons and angels, and everything in between. They were free to decide how they behaved. The trouble was that Gordon had learned one indisputable thing in all his searching, trusting people was the riskiest thing anyone could do. Sometimes he wondered if he even trusted himself.