The Book of the Crowman (35 page)

It is midmorning when they reach the village and Megan can see the black Crow Pole the villagers have erected in the centre of the circular hub.

At the top of this tall wooden mast sits a carving of a huge white crow. Below it hang streamers of black and white. Tonight the children of the village will dance in and out of each other, weaving the black and the white together, and Megan now knows where this ritual originates, even though most of the villagers no longer remember. The white crow is the light that is always above us. The black pole is the blackness of the human heart. The black and white streamers are our potential for evil and for good. By dancing, by binding them together, we can keep the blackness of our hearts in check forever. The Crow Pole also represents the tree where the Crowman died, the darkness and the light that streamed down upon him from above.

Seeing all this and making such simple sense of it gives Megan a deep aspect of peace. She rides behind Mr Keeper through the outskirts of the village and back into New Wood, happier and more content than she has been since her journey along the Black Feathered Path began.

At the roundhouse, Mr Keeper busies himself with unpacking the saddlebags. For a long time he disappears inside and she thinks that, as is often the way, this is his version of goodbye. But before she walks away from the clearing he emerges again, this time with a heavy pack and wearing his thickest winter furs.

“Haven’t you gone yet?” he asks and then grins before she has time to be upset.

“I was waiting for you.”

“Ah. Well, I’m not coming.”

“You can’t miss the Festival of Light!”

“I haven’t attended for years. It’s not really the thing for Keepers to be part of the community in that way.”

When she thinks about it, Megan realises he must be telling the truth. She doesn’t remember seeing his face at any of the festivals.

“Now, I want you to return these fine animals to Mr Lilley at Hay Cottage and tell him how well-trained they are.”

“Where are you going?”

“I’ve got some travelling ahead of me.”

Megan’s glad heart is falling into shadow.

“When will you be back?” she asks, not sure she wants to hear the answer.

“Well, I’m not sure
exactly
when. It could be a while.”

There is silence between them. The silence fills with portent. Mr Keeper clears his throat.

“So, I’ve been meaning to ask you if you’d look after the place for a while.” He nods towards the roundhouse and looks quickly away. “Just until I get back.”

“Of course. I can come over every couple of days and–”

“No, Megan.” His look is a glare for a moment. It softens immediately. “You have to stay here. You’re a Keeper now. You can’t go home. People will need you and this is where they will come to find you. Do you… understand?”

She is very afraid that she does.

“Where will you go?”

“Oh, north, I suppose. To begin with. And then east.” He nods to himself. “Yes, definitely east after that.”

“Mr Keeper?”

“Let’s not make this more complicated than it already is, Megan.” He sets off for the forest path. “Come, I’ll walk with you to the edge of the wood. Bring those horses. After you drop them off you can join the celebrations.” He looks back. “But this will be the last time you attend, alright?”

She is unable to speak. It is not alright. Not at all.

But she has made her vows and she will honour them. She has taken an oath and she is marked with the sign of the Crowman. She can alter none of this and, in her heart, she knows doesn’t want to. The Black Feathered Path is a long, long road. Megan realises now that, for her, it is only just beginning.

At last she uproots her feet and follows Mr Keeper, leading the first horse by the reins, the second following dutifully. She doesn’t so much walk with Mr Keeper as stare at his bulky back pack as he hobbles along. Time and his injury have worn him down. He is not the powerful man she remembers, the man who came to their door and enchanted her, what now seems like years ago. And yet he is still adept and strong in ways less obvious. Power walks with him, if not within him.

They reach the edge of New Wood far too quickly and Mr Keeper pauses before turning. She waits for the moment, afraid of what she will see on his face: dismissal; the putting of her behind him. A faraway look already in place so that she is able to say goodbye only to the ghost of him. Perhaps just the simple sadness of a man who has already lived most of his life and has little to look forward to in what remains of it.

When he turns to face her, he is grinning. As full of mischief and trickery as he ever was. And he is kindly too, just like he was one the day they first talked in Amu’s kitchen.

“Stay on the Path, Megan Maurice. Watch for the Crowman in everything you do and wherever you go. Look for him in the folk you meet, whether hereabouts or distant. And never doubt for an instant that he’s as real as you or I. That’s your duty, Megan. Do you hear me?”

“I do, Aaron Alwin.”

“Ha! Well, you’ve earned the right to call me whatever you like, I suppose.”

In the village hub, fire-crackers explode in rapid-fire. They both jump a little.

“You’d better go and join the party.” His eyes meet hers. “I’ll see you soon, Megan.”

“See you soon, Mr Keeper.”

He turns and walks to the outskirts of the village. From there he heads north. His journey will take him past the meadow, the fallow field and Covey Wood. Megan gives him a head start before following with the horses.

Mr Lilley is not at home so Megan lets the docile horses into the stable beside Hay Cottage and shuts them in.

She walks slowly to the village hub, uncertain what she will do when she arrives. She pulls her hood up, not for the sake of the cold but because she feels safer not being noticed. The villagers not already at the hub are making their way there now, noisily and merrily. The wine and ale will have been flowing for most of the day. When she reaches the edge of the hub, she sees her parents standing nearby and she goes to them. They move apart and she squeezes between, letting their arms hold her tight.

In the centre of the hub the children are already dancing, wrapping black into white and white into black. They laugh and sing as they skip between each other to the music from a fiddle and drum. Someone lets off more firecrackers and everyone cheers. She can see Amu and Apa are ruddy cheeked with wine and for a few moments she loses herself in the celebration, remembering how only the previous year, she had danced around the Crow Pole with her friends. Tom and Sally stand on the far side of the hub, laughing and clapping with the music. They haven’t noticed her and for that she’s glad.

She spends a little longer between her parents and even manages to dance with them a few times, though much of her joy is reserved. When dusk comes, the celebrations begin in earnest.

Barrels of ale and wine are ceremoniously broken open and more musicians join the band. Many people are dancing now and she is sure that somewhere in the crowd, not far from the pole at the centre of the hub, a tall man in a long black coat and a black top hat dances with them.

She kisses her mother and father. Over the noise of fireworks and shouted merriment, she says:

“I’ll see you soon.”

And then she slips away.

Black Feathers
and
The Book of the Crowman
were originally written as a single, epic tale. Owing to the length of the work, however, the story was eventually split and published in two parts. For this reason, these acknowledgements remain largely unchanged from book one. However, there were omissions and, since then, more individuals have joined the force who’ve worked so hard to bring the Crowman to life.

The perception that writers birth their creations in lone, agonised acts of heroism is mostly false. Ideas are often triggered by those we meet, later to be fed and watered by others, long before the writing even begins. Once work commences, though we may sit alone to do it, there are many people who make that sitting possible, who encourage it and give it their blessing. When the writing is done and the idea has entered the world, raw and crudely formed, there are many more – the midwives, obstetricians and nannies of the publishing world – whose input is crucial to the process. This tide of energy adds something immeasurable to a work of fiction. Without it, books would be incomplete in ways that would make them hardly worth reading. Many wouldn’t reach a first draft.

Black Feathers
and
The Book of The Crowman
contain a great deal of shared effort and history. Without such positive influence from so many sources, this tale would never have made it from brain-spark to manifestation. If I haven’t thanked you – yes, you, the one I always forget – it’s because I’m an airhead; it’s not because I don’t care.

When I was thirteen, I made a batik in art class. The subject was three crows, perching in a dead tree at sunset. It was the first time I’d really
studied
the corvid form and I’ve loved crows ever since. So, dear art teacher whose name I don’t remember, thanks for being there at the beginning.

Tracy Walters, you first spoke the Crowman’s name. In that instant, you personified a mythical creature who gestated in my subconscious for more than fifteen years before finally being born into these pages. For that and other inspirations, I’m very grateful.

My heartfelt thanks to vision quest guide, David Wendl-Berry, a man more connected to the land than anyone else I know and whose wisdom and kindness has brought many individuals much closer to it. I hope this tale will reawaken a desire for that same intimacy in many more.

Sun Bear, all I can do is hurl my gratitude into the spirit world as I never met you. Your book
Black Dawn, Bright Day
did much to shape my apocalypse and its aftermath.

Michael Meade, of the Mosaic Multicultural Foundation, your work on myth, the hero’s journey and the initiation of the soul has been a great inspiration. Thanks for enriching me and so many others.

To Vanessa Blackburn of Corvid Aid, whose charity cares for injured corvids, thanks for patiently answering all my questions about crows while I wrote the first draft. The limping crow who foraged outside my office window throughout that year still visits me now.

I’m especially grateful to John Jarrold for helping me knock the first draft into something readable – no small task considering the size of the original manuscript, also to Fraser Lee for very specific and useful notes, which I used throughout the editing process.

On the subject of re-working written material, 2012 became the year of a very steep learning curve for me. Without the input of Steve Haynes, my editor on Blood Fugue, I doubt I’d have been prepared for the magnitude of re-write that was essential for
Black Feathers
. My attitude, a direct result of working so closely with Steve, meant that I was ready – and willing – to step up and swallow some big cuts and changes. I owe you about a zillion pints and my soul on a plate, Steve!

This “critical maturity” has been a long time coming and was a turning point. Without it, I would also not have been ready for Brie Burkeman, an old-school literary representative who wanted my serious commitment to change before she would take me on. There’s a very special place in all this for her, hyper-agent and no-bullshit driving force that she is. Thank you, Brie. You’re a guiding light.

In these days of social media and instant online communication, it’s possible to forge connections and alliances with people you may never actually meet. For me, one such is Helen Maus – a friend of a friend and someone I’ve yet to speak to in the real world. Helen, you gave me help and advice at a time when things were looking grim. Without that input, I doubt things would not have turned out this well. Whenever the moment arises, lunch is still on me.

Several authors have given me a great deal of their time and support while this book developed. Their combined contribution is monumental. To Will Hill, Alison Littlewood, Graham Joyce, Tom Fletcher, Tim Lebbon, Mark Charan Newton, Carole Johnstone, Conrad Williams, Paul Meloy, Matt Cardin, Cliff McNish, Jasper Bark, Don Roff, Sam Enthoven, Adam Nevill and John Costello my sincere and humble thanks.

Big hugs to the bloggers and reporters who read and react to my work most frequently. This is just a few of you: Jim Mcleod, Geoff Nelder, Paul & Nadine Holmes, Colin Leslie, Nat Robinson, Lisa Campbell of
The Bookseller
, Mark Goddard, Adele Wearing, Dave de Burgh, Ben Bussey and Clare Allington.

Two gentlemen warrant particular mention for their backing: Michael Wilson of
This Is Horror
and Adam Bradley of
Morpheus Tales
, both of whose support has been constant and unflinching. Thanks, guys. I appreciate everything you’ve done.

Others who’ve had a hand in the evolution of this novel include Kim Harris, Mary Ann von Radowitz, Rob Goforth, Kim Hoyland, Philip Harker and Anna Kennett. A black feather for each of you.

Of course, the manuscript would never have become a book without the fine team at Angry Robot taking it on, guiding it to readiness, clothing it, displaying it and inviting the reading world to witness its birth. Thank you, Lee Harris, Marc Gascoigne, Darren Turpin, Caroline Lambe and Roland Briscoe.

Most important of all, my family. Each of you have always done everything you can to help me write, never giving up on my efforts, even when the way forward seemed impossibly blocked. I know I’m hell to live with when things don’t go to plan, so my love and thanks to all of you for keeping the faith.

And to the limping crow who visited daily through the many months spent quietly in the office, you know best of all that I did not write this book alone.