Black Feathers

6

Down at the river the October sun lets the water break its smile into a million pieces of gold, each so brilliant they leave a mote of light inside the eye, each one unique and momentary.

Megan allows the motion of the water and the fragmenting of the sun to lull her. They’re all sitting on the grassy bank and Mr Keeper is smoking his pipe again. She’s only half listening to the adults talking about her. Some part of her is waiting for them to understand before she gives them her attention.

“You’re certain she’s all right?” asks her mother.

“She’s taken a fright is all,” says Mr Keeper. “And you should understand also that what frightened her meant her no harm.”

“We can forget it, then,” says her father.

Mr Keeper shakes his head mid-suck on his pipe, inhales deeply and then blows smoke.

“There’s no forgetting such a thing, Mr Maurice. This incident is the start of something, not its conclusion.”

Mrs Maurice is confused.

“What does that mean?”

Megan can hear the tension in her mother’s voice. Poor Amu. She’s more frightened than I was.

Mr Keeper smiles and puffs on his pipe but it has burnt out. He palms the ash and deposits it in his pocket.

“I need you both to listen very carefully to what I’m going to say, and you need to let me finish before you ask any more questions. Do I have your accord?”

Her parents are already silent. They only nod in reply.

“Very good then.”

He refills the pipe’s bowl with deliberation before lighting it with a match. Only when it is well lit does he begin to speak and now, instinctively, Megan turns away from the river, its sparkles still glowing inside her eyes, and listens.

“I’m an old man. Older than you think. But I wasn’t even thought of on the eve of the Bright Day. The first of the Keepers was there, though, and he showed those who followed him the way of remembering those times forever. We call it the eve of the Bright Day, but really those times went on for many years. Everyone thought the world would end and that people would be wiped out. It was a bad thing to dwell on. Belief can make things happen, you know. Perhaps that’s why we came so close to making it true.”

Smoke obscures Mr Keeper’s face for a moment. He waves it away.

“Ha! Listen to me, rambling already. Never let an old man tell a story unless you’ve got all day, remember that.

“The point is, even though I wasn’t there, I saw it all. Every Keeper returns to those times. There’s a way back through the Weave but it only opens for a few. I wasn’t born until generations later but I was there in the time of the Crowman and the Black Dawn. By moving between the strands of the Weave and retrieving the events of those times, I proved myself a Keeper. The Crowman said he’d live on in all of us, that he’d keep the land strong if we kept his story alive. And we do still tell Crowman tales at festival time, don’t we? And we tell his stories at the fireside when winter comes.

“Children are still frightened of the Crowman and I think the grown-ups are too. If he knocked on your door after dark, you’d take a fright, wouldn’t you? Anyone would. But that’s not because the Crowman is bad, it’s because he’s powerful. All good and all evil exist within him. He was powerful before the Black Dawn and the mightiest of people were frightened of him even then. Scarecrow, they called him. Or Black Jack. They made him out to be a monster.”

Megan sees a wild fire in Mr Keeper’s eyes. She glances at her parents but they don’t notice it. The old man points his pipe at his audience, then at his chest.

“He was just like you and me. A person. With a good heart. Good as ripe corn and pale ale. But he carried a burden – the burden of power. And that darkened him over the years. The more power you have, the more dangerous you become. Takes a strong back and a strong will to carry it. He had both, though I think sometimes he doubted it.

“He charged the Keepers with keeping his story alive, even though he’s long gone. Before my own time comes I must find a new Keeper, a child with a strong back and courage enough to carry the story. They don’t come along very often, I can tell you, but when one does the Crowman will show himself to them, he’ll mark them out. That child must rediscover the story of the Crowman and keep it alive until they find the next Keeper. And that Keeper in their turn, the next. And so on. That way, the Crowman will always be with us.”

Mr Keeper glances up as a cloud dulls the sparkles in the river. When it passes, he continues.

“You don’t want to go back to a world without the Crowman. That really would be the end of everything.

“There’s a little bit of him in all of us, you know. But he’s stronger in some than in others. It’s my belief that the Crowman came to Megan in Covey Wood today. This is nothing short of a miracle, because I was beginning to think a new Keeper for these parts would never come along.”

“Are you saying that our M–”

Mr Keeper’s glance at Megan’s father is enough to silence him.

“She’s been chosen. All I can do is find out if she’s worthy. That will take time and it will mean no more schooling for her other than what she learns from me. I won’t be able to feed or house her – you’ll continue to do all of that. But she must spend six out of every seven days with me from before dawn until after sunset. If she’s worthy, one day she will return to you, not as Megan any more but as Keeper. And if she fails then you’ll have Megan back – as she always was but full of knowledge.”

Mr Keeper didn’t give them time to speak.

“You must talk it through. It’s not a decision to take lightly, believe me. Megan needs to understand how difficult the role of Keeper’s Prentice will be. The Crowman’s story makes adults of children and she may not be ready. However, if she does complete the training, her contribution, not only to Beckby village but to everyone hereabouts, will be immeasurable. She will be a bringer of real joy and the land in these parts will love us all the more deeply.”

Megan is sitting up straight, eyes wide, and something in her very blood is telling her that this is what she wants more than anything else in the world. There’s something magical about Mr Keeper but she’s not sure her parents can even see it. Yes, she is still frightened by the Crowman – terrified, if the truth be known. But the boy from the night country isn’t terrifying. He is gentle. Just remembering him awakens a dormant recess in her, locked tight until now. Deep within herself, stronger than any desire she’s ever known, the urge to follow the boy arises with crystal surety. This is her chance to find out who Megan Maurice really is.

“I want to do it,” she says.

Her mother, as though slapped, is speechless. Her father’s face reddens.

“Now wait a moment, young Megan, it’s not your place to be deciding such things. You shall do as you are tol–”

Mr Keeper holds up his hand.

“In the end, Mr Maurice, the decision is entirely Megan’s, and not yours or your wife’s to make. You certainly cannot refuse her the right to proceed, should she be certain that is what she wishes to do. However, as I said, I think you should all discuss it very carefully before a… consensus… is reached. I will call on you in seven days’ time, at which point I shall want an answer. If Megan is to undertake the training, she will come to me the following morning before dawn and we will begin. If she is not, then I shall trouble you no more about it. Please understand that there will be no second opportunities in either case. A yes is a yes. A no is a no.”

Mr Keeper scans each face. Megan knows he can see the smile inside her eyes even though, for the sake of her parents, she keeps her face blank. He stands, collects his ash again and shoulders his pack. By now the sun is casting shimmering shadows of willow trees onto the bank and afternoon is giving way to evening.

Before he sets off, Mr Keeper says:

“Do you all understand?”

No one speaks, but Megan and her parents nod. Amu and Apa have calmed down enough to each place a protective, forgiving arm around Megan, and together they walk slowly home from the river bank where so much love has been made, so much that it became the most beautiful thing in her parents’ lives and the thing, Megan knows, they believe they are about to lose.

That night, her small but swelling breasts ache, her belly knots and tightens. She bleeds for the first time. Amu brings her a bundle of moon cloths, quietly explaining their use. As to the blood and its significance, Megan has been expecting it. Pain is not the only sensation in the depths of her belly, there is a flutter there – excitement and expectation.

May 2004

The door to Judith’s bedroom opened a fraction and a face, lily-pale in a thin bar of moonlight, appeared there. Lying on her right side facing the doorway, she watched through a tiny crack in her eyelids as Gordon pushed silently into the room. She felt a warm flush of anticipation and pride knowing she was his secret protector.

The door hinge creaked and Gordon froze. Judith saw the look of terror there. If Mum and Dad discovered him here, his nocturnal visits would end. Then what would he do when the nightmares came?

She’d loved him with a fierce loyalty the moment she’d seen his wrinkled, newborn skin and gentle grey eyes. So different to the feelings she had for Angela. Judith tested the love in her mind, especially on nights like this when Gordon came to her for comfort. She tried to quantify it, define it. If Angela was ever hurt or killed, Judith knew she would be sad. She would weep over her injury or loss. Without Angela, she was unguarded against the ways of the world. She would weep also because when they weren’t arguing and when Angela wasn’t being cruel or dismissive, they had a lot of fun. These things were enough to qualify as love.

With Gordon, her love was different. She couldn’t have the same kind of fun with Gordon. With six years between them, playing with him was always a step backwards; the games themselves quiet, dramatic fantasies. She played with him because she knew he wasn’t always happy playing alone, and his happiness was essential for her own. If anything bad ever happened to Gordon, Judith wasn’t sure what she would do. She knew if someone hurt him she would calmly inflict upon them the greatest pain she knew how to give. Merely imagining that someone might seek to injure him made her fists clench beneath the bedclothes. And if he died, if she lost him, she knew all she would want would be to die too, to follow him to wherever it was that death took you.

She watched him, petrified halfway through the door. When no one responded to the creaking of the hinge, Gordon regained his courage and crept into her room.

He left it ajar so he could slip away through the same gap before anyone else stirred. So stealthy had he become that Judith often woke to find him in her bed, clutching her but already asleep. He came whenever he had nightmares, at least once a week, often more. She would take hold of his hand and squeeze it tight to let him know he was safe before returning to sleep. When she woke in the mornings he was always gone.

He approached now making no sound at all. If she hadn’t been awake already, observing him through slit lids, she wouldn’t have known he was there until his small, wiry arms had encircled her and his tight fingers had clutched her nightdress in a grip that would not relent until he left. She watched his eyes, wide and frightened, his pupils so dilated their blackness almost eclipsed the grey of his irises, watched his forehead crease with concentration as he used every muscle to move silently.

She lifted up the covers to let him see she was awake. His frown cleared and she saw the relief on his face, his fear gone in an instant. With great care, he climbed in beside her. She drew him close and tight. With an arm wrapped over him, she engulfed him in a warm cocoon. He pushed against her as hard as he could, expelling all the space between them, pressing his cold feet between her ankles.

The first time it had happened was almost two years before, when he’d had his first bad dream. Judith heard him walking down the hallway to their parents’ bedroom, sniffing and sobbing as he went. She knew he must have tried to get in with Mum and Dad but neither of them wanted him in their bed. Mum had taken Gordon back to his room and whispered soothing words to him for five minutes before going back to sleep with Dad. It didn’t do any good. Long after Mum had left him, Judith could hear Gordon weeping, even though he’d tried to stifle it in his pillow. She’d hated her parents for that, especially her mum. Judith had been the one to slip from her warm duvet and collect him that night. His small hand in hers, they had walked back across the hall. She’d climbed into bed and he had followed, hugging her so tight she thought he’d never sleep.

“Any time you’re scared or have a bad dream you can come. But don’t ever, ever tell anyone, Gordon,” she’d whispered. “OK?”

“OK.”

Now, here he was again, holding tight but already asleep and Judith, happy to be a shield against the dark of his own little mind, slept too.

In the morning he was gone.