The Book of the Crowman (28 page)

Megan wakes to the pain of her own pulse.

She feels it in her thigh and her calf and wishes she could lose consciousness again. The pain won’t allow it and so she opens her eyes. As she had hoped, she is in the roundhouse. She is lying on furs and wrapped in blankets, her legs poking towards the stove. All around her are laid bundles of herbs and dried wildflowers. Mr Keeper kneels nearby. One hand clutches the bandage around his waist, the other holds his pipe. Though she can feel his eyes watching her, she sees his face only as a black oval, silhouetted in the light from the wind-eye.

In that moment, she sees a furtive face peek in from outside. It is there for only a few moments. It puts a shocked palm over its mouth and it is gone. Megan once peered in through the wind-eye just as timidly and she now remembers her journey through the weave with Carissa as her guide; seeing her own body, pale and apparently dead on the roundhouse floor, while Mr Keeper knelt beside her.

Something releases within Megan, the beginning of the loosening of a knot. In spite of the pain, which burns like coals under her skin, she is happy to be here. This place is safe and Mr Keeper is her guardian in a way even her own family can never be. He is her spirit father.

“What a pair we make,” he says.

She grins until she remembers the pursuit and attack. The sensation of the dogs tearing at her living flesh remains close, the certainty that she might die still lingers. The knot within her releases completely then. Her body begins to shake and she cries. She doesn’t recognise the sound she makes.

Ohooo, ohoohoo, ohooo.

It’s a wail of mourning for the life she almost lost. Not yet can she rejoice at being alive. The meat of her is still in the jaws of the dogs.

Mr Keeper’s voice is soft and assured.

“It will pass soon enough.”

She nods, fast, through her strange tears and even stranger weeping, managing to smile despite her body’s unstoppable catharsis.

Mr Keeper moves towards the stove with some difficulty but she can tell he is much improved. The bandage at his waist has been changed and the stain of blood over the wound is tiny now. From the boiling kettle he pours water into a pot to brew. The scent of unfamiliar herbs fills the roundhouse. He waits for the mixture to infuse and then pours a small bowl for Megan. By now her sobs have petered out. Mr Keeper props her into a half-sitting position and she is able to hold the bowl without spilling it when he hands it to her. He pours a similar bowl for himself and retreats to his cushions near the wind-eye.

Megan drinks from the steaming bowl. The liquid is bittersweet but not unpleasant. It leaves her mouth and tongue swollen and insensitive. Within minutes the pain and throbbing in her legs has eased. A thankfulness to be alive rises from the deeps of her and her tears now are tears of gratitude. She does not regret walking this path. She knows her place in the world and she occupies it with a sense of honour and thankful pride. She drinks more of the numbing tea.

“Your parents were here.”

Megan is too surprised to respond. Amu and Apa aren’t meant to interfere.

“Almost the whole village was here at some time today. They all heard the commotion this morning. Riders went out after the miller and his two accomplices. Your father was among them. I told them to make it a lesson not a lynching.”

“Were my parents… angry?”

“No. They were concerned. I didn’t tell them exactly what happened but they understand you were out of the village on Keeper’s business and that these men chased you back. They know you were tired and hurt – I didn’t tell them the details but I assured them you’d be fine. Like you, I expected them to be angry and upset but they surprised me. They thanked me for everything I’d done for you, said you were becoming a fine young woman and that they were very proud of you. Your mother came back later with a pot of roasted lamb and potatoes. It was delicious.”

Megan is ravenous and her dismay must blaze like a beacon. Mr Keeper laughs.

“It’s alright, Megan. I haven’t touched it yet. I thought it would be nice to eat together. Then we can tend our wounds and rest.”

She shakes her head, half annoyed, half amused.

“Can we eat it now? I’m starving.”

“Of course we can.”

Mr Keeper doles meat and potatoes out of the large pot Megan knows so well from her mother’s kitchen. He passes her a bowl and sits back with one for himself. They eat with their fingers, silently but for the smacking of lips and murmurs of appreciation.

When her bowl is empty, Megan holds it out for more. As he fills it for her, Mr Keeper says:

“As soon as you’re able to walk, I think you should go home for a few days. Take some time off.”

Megan is aghast.

“I’m alright. I can carry on.”

“I know you can but that’s not the point. Whether you feel it yet or not, you’re exhausted. You can’t learn anything in that state. And you can’t open your eyes to the Crowman when you’re not at your fittest either. The best you can hope for is to see him in the night country from your own bed – that part of you, at least, should still have a bit of energy left.”

“But I want to stay here. With you. I want to keep going.”

“I understand. I really do. You’re coming close to the completion of the book. I was eager just like you at this stage. The trouble is, Megan, I’m exhausted too. I need some time to rest and recover. I can’t guide you like this and I certainly can’t give you the protection you need when you journey for vision. Trust me. It’s best for both of us if you go home for a while.”

Megan is embarrassed to have pushed this revelation of weakness from Mr Keeper. She can’t help but see him as indestructible, as a man with endless energy who will always be there to encourage her onward and guide her in her searching. But he is, in reality, a man. A special man with incredible insights and powers but still just a man. And he is wounded and tired.

“I’m sorry. I was too busy thinking about myself.”

“Don’t worry. I’d have done the same thing. It’s just for a few days, Megan. Then we can continue.”

She can tell he is smiling, that his face is kind, even though the light hides all this.

“Alright?”

“Yes,” she says. “Of course it’s alright.”

They both eat second and third helpings and their hunger is such that their agreement represents the last words that pass between them. Megan’s final memory of the day is placing the empty bowl beside her as Mr Keeper approaches to check her wounds. She is unconscious before he reaches her.

Gordon walked among the resting fighters, stopping when he saw people who looked likely to hold similar hopes to his own. Many of the people he talked to, not just men of fighting age but women and young boys too, wore black feathers like his. They stood out like some sort of tribe within a tribe and, once more, he felt the surge of optimism from deep in his chest. These people were believers. They had made their choice and were willing to lay everything down in pursuing it.

He asked them if they’d heard about the Crowman. He asked them if they’d seen him. Time was short so he asked them not to tell him stories from a month or year before. He wanted know: had they seen him among their number today? Had they seen him walking these fields? And all day, though many of the people he spoke to said they had seen the Crowman only weeks or even days before, he found no one who had seen him among the massing ranks of fighters.

The day waned too fast and Gordon began to lose hope. Another day gone and war coming at any moment. Before the battle began, he had to find the Crowman. The people had to see him, all of them at the same time, as they walked across the land to meet the Ward for the final time. Face to face, not in an interview room or the back of a collection van. Hand to hand. As equals for the first time, not outnumbered and unarmed in the middle of the night. Here at last, the rage and passion of the people would be unleashed. And here too, the land would speak through its people with similar rage. This was either their moment of liberation or the end of everything.

It was past midday when Gordon came upon a small group of fighters lying on mats in the long winter grass of a field that still showed signs of life. All of them wore black feathers in their hair and at their knees and elbows. Black feathers hung and fluttered from their longbows and spears. At his approach they all rose to their feet to greet him.

He frowned.

“You’re Gordon Black, aren’t you?” said one, stepping forward.

There was no reason to deny it here so he nodded.

“Heard a lot about you. What you’ve done and that.” The man seemed almost shy. “Glad to see you here, like.”

All of them smiled and he felt not merely their resolution but their love; a thing so rare it was like a gift – especially on a day such as this.

“I’m looking for the Crowman,” he said. His approach had become simplified by the lack of time. “The Rag Man says he walks among us. Have any of you seen him?”

There was a boy in the group. He couldn’t have been more than nine or ten, thin as a sapling and sallow as belly-flesh. His hair was raven dark and his eyes deep, earthy brown. He walked right up to Gordon and in a voice no stronger than a whisper he said:

“I’ve seen a dark man. A tall man. Walking alone across the fields. He stopped and put his arms out east and west, like this.” He made the shape of a scarecrow and the hairs all over Gordon’s body lifted as he shivered. “Then he raised his arms up to the sky.”

Gordon dropped to one knee to meet the child’s eyes.

“When was this?”

“Today,” said the boy in his hushed voice.

Gordon blinked. It had to be a mistake, didn’t it? He dared not hope. He dared not.

“Tell me more about what he looked like.”

“He was a big man. Not broad but taller than any of us here. His coat flapped behind him all tattered like. His face was pale but his eyes were black. He walked the way a crow walks, head bobbing, sort of.”

“What else did he do?”

“He seemed to be talking to himself. Waving his arms around like he was mad. Or like he was talking to the earth and the sky. I couldn’t hear him, though. He was too far away.”

Gordon snorted a joyful laugh.

“This is unbelievable. How long ago was it?”

The boy shrugged.

“Maybe an hour or so. I’d been asleep and when I woke up, he was the first thing I saw.”

“Did you watch him for long?”

“Maybe ten minutes.”

“Did anyone else see him?”

The boy glanced back to the rest of his group before meeting Gordon’s gaze.

“I don’t think so. Everyone was tired from the march. I was the only one who’d woken up.”

Gordon almost couldn’t bring himself to ask his next question in case the boy ran out of answers.

“Did you see where he went?”

But the boy held no disappointments for him. He nodded, eyes wide, and pointed away over the fields.

“When he was done with his talking he ran to that wood over there.” The boy’s index finger picked out a small stand of ancient-looking oaks about half a mile east. “He ran so fast it looked like he was flying. I weren’t frightened, though. He’s for the good, the Crowman. For the good of us all.”

The boy looked again to his band of elders and they all nodded their accord. Gordon put his hands on the boy’s shoulders.

“You’re a good lad,” he said. “Strong and true and I’ll never be able to thank you enough for what you’ve told me today. Not in a thousand generations. But here...” Gordon reached into his pocket and brought out his father’s knife and the river rock he sharpened it upon. “I don’t know how much longer this blade will last. It has done nothing but take life from those who don’t deserve the comfort of this land and give life to those who do. In your hands it will do many good things in the name of the earth. Use it well.”

The boy took the knife in confusion and wonder. To him and his group Gordon said, “I’ll see you on the field of battle. Fight for the land that loves you. Never give up. And keep the Crowman in your heart.”

He turned from them and ran for the small stand of oaks, ran with the wind under the panels of his coat, ran, dancing and leaping and crying out in joy and long before he made it to the dark gathering of trees, he saw the crows circling above it in slow, leisurely wheels and knew that his search was at an end.

The herbs and broths accelerate Megan’s recovery. After a few days’ rest, she is able to go home.

She embraces Mr Keeper at the doorway of the roundhouse and is taken aback by the condition of his body. He has never been a bulky man but he feels emaciated in her arms, drained of his essence. He stoops a little as though he no longer has the strength to carry himself upright.

“Go carefully,” he says, standing away from her as though she’s already gleaned too much knowledge from their contact. He keeps hold of her shoulders. “Don’t wander far from home or do too much. Allow yourself to heal. That mother of yours is a wonderful cook and she’ll want to coddle you and build you up. Be sure you let her.”

“I wish I could be here to do that for you.”

“You know the Keeper’s way well enough by now, Megan. We can look after ourselves better than most.”

Megan nods, a little embarrassed.

“When should I come back?” she asks.

“When the time seems right. You’ll know. Meanwhile, rest. And dream, Megan. The Crowman still has more to show you. Perhaps a great deal more.”

“You said you thought the book was almost complete. How much more can there be?”

“It isn’t just the book he reveals, Megan. So keep an open mind. If he wants to show you more, go along with it as best you can.”

“I will.”

Mr Keeper ducks down into the roundhouse and doesn’t come out again. This, she assumes, is goodbye for the moment. The opening and closing of his connection always jolts her. She is delighted when he lets his barriers down, affronted each time he slams them closed.

The first few steps out of the clearing are the easiest. She has been practising walking around the roundhouse and was confident of her returning strength and stamina. But before she is halfway along the tightly wooded path, both leg wounds begin to ache and pound. By the time she reaches the edge of the village, her face is creased with the pain of walking and she is sweating despite the cold.

She doesn’t notice the two figures approaching along the main track until she looks up between stifled grunts and muttered oaths. Their smiling faces bring back a world she has left behind; it’s like seeing the first day of spring all over again instead of being trapped here in the bony claws of winter. Tom Frewin and Sally Balston are two of her fondest friends from the days before she first saw the Crowman. Seeing she is in difficulty, their smiles are replaced by frowns of concern. They run to her.

“Meg!” pants Tom on arrival. He’s always carried a decent layer of blubber over his already strong frame. There seems to be more of it now. “What’s the matter?”

“My legs. They’re… really sore.”

“So, it’s true then?” asks Sally. “About the wolfhounds?”

“Yes. It’s true.”

For a moment the three of them stand there in the grey gloom, tiny particles of frozen mist swirling around them. Megan looks at their faces and sees something still alive there, something that has died in her.

She begins to cry.

“It’s really good to see you,” she says.

“It seems like years since we saw you, Meg,” says Tom. “I thought you weren’t allowed to talk to us anymore.”

“Oh, no, Tom. It’s nothing like that. I do have to spend a lot of time… away… but I can still see you. I’ve just been busy.”

“We’ve been very busy too,” says Sally, apparently not wanting to be trumped. “With school,” she adds.

A pulse of pain shoots up through Megan’s legs as she shifts position. She can’t hide it. She puts out a hand to steady herself and finds Tom’s chunk of a shoulder.

“I don’t suppose you could help me home, could you?”

Neither Tom nor Sally say a word. They are friends still, after all. Each of them drapes one of Megan’s arms around the backs of their necks and, thus united, they begin to walk.

“Slowly,” says Megan. “That way we can talk a bit more.”

“So, what’s it like, Meg?” asks Tom. “This thing you’re doing. Everyone says you’re going to be like Mr Keeper one day. I’ve always thought he was a bit, you know… paddlewhacked.”

Megan giggles despite her pain. What else can you expect from a boatman’s son?

“I know he seems odd. But he’s lovely really. Something like a teacher and a funny uncle all mixed up together. And the things he’s taught me. Well, it’s opened my eyes, Tom. Opened my eyes to a whole new world.”

Sally makes a face.

“One world’s enough for me.”

Megan nods.

“Sometimes I feel exactly the same way.”

By now they’re almost home and Tom seems eager to ask her something else.

“Are you allowed to come to the Festival of Light? Everyone’ll be there.”

Megan can’t believe she’s been so totally absorbed as to forget the festival. They’re approaching the front door of her parents’ cottage now.

“I think so,” she says.

Sally stops walking and turns to Megan. Any doubt about their relationship seems to have dissolved.

“It would be great if you can come, Megan. I’ve really missed you. We all have.”

The three of them hug – something they never did when they were chasing through the meadows or swimming in the river but things are different now and they all know it – and then say goodbye. Megan lets herself into the cottage and collapses onto a stool by the stove to rest and warm herself. The cottage is empty but she is happy to sit in alone, listening to the wood spit and crack inside the stove. A little quiet before her parents return is exactly what she needs.

That very night, after she has eaten with Apa and Amu and fallen with great thankfulness into her bed, the Crowman comes to Megan.

Returning to her parents has been bittersweet. She has done her best to hide her pain and the shock of her attack from them. They have done their best to hide their worry and celebrate her safe homecoming – no matter how brief it may be. In this way they all have been less than honest with each other. There is an underlying sadness too. They know Megan’s stay in the family home will be temporary and short-lived, for Megan’s training must continue. They know also that once the training is complete Megan will leave them. Though their cottage will always be her home, she will find a new place to live; a place from where she can begin her life as a Keeper. That neither she nor her parents feel able to bring these matters into the open causes Megan a good deal of melancholy. As parents, they are meant to be stronger than this. As one who walks the Black Feathered Path, so is she.

It is with a full stomach and a weighted heart that she falls into bed and into sleep and it seems she has been in the night country only moments when the dark figure of the Crowman takes shape in her consciousness.

They are not in her bedroom. She sits up to find herself sitting high in a leafless tree where a strong limb meets the trunk. She hugs the trunk to keep from falling. Beside her, squatting on the same branch, is her guide through these realms. The way he sits makes him look like a bird. His knees are drawn up to his chest and his coat flows down behind him like trailing tail feathers.

For a long time he doesn’t speak. Dawn is coming and they are facing east but the light in this land is grey, always grey. Here, cloud and dust and smoke obscure the sun every day, it seems, and so it rises behind a dirty veil, illuminating the land without ever really warming it. Megan shivers.

The landscape around them is dead in many places; the trees, shrubs and weeds rotting in the earth or crumbling to particles to be blown into the sky. There are good-sized swathes of healthy land too, where the grass is long and lush and the trees, though deep in skeletal slumber, still pulse with life. Megan senses that a crucial moment is approaching; the future could go either way. In all her wanderings here, she has never once felt that the outcome was certain. Even though she comes from a time in which the land has flourished, she knows she can be sure of nothing. Mr Keeper warned of that long ago – nothing is as it seems. She can afford to make no judgements.

When the struggling dawn has made what difference it can to the land, the silent Crowman holds out his hand to her. She takes it, grateful for his touch in this forsaken world, no matter how impenetrable he may be. Something in this dark man is benevolent beyond words. That this quality is cloaked in trickery and secrecy is something she has ceased to fear. His cold fingers, hiding a warmth deep within, close carefully and deliberately over hers.

“Come, Megan. There is still much to see.”

They glide from the high branches but they land far too soon. Megan opens her senses to whatever is coming, ready to record it all.