Black Feathers

30

“He looks so thin.”

“The fever’s wasted him.”

“To look at him now, peaceful like this, he could be dead.”

“He’s not dead.”

“I know he’s not. I’m not stupid. But he looks like he could be. I’ve never seen anything more beautiful.”

“What nonsense are you talking, girl?”

“You know what I mean. You know exactly.”

A pause.

“Yes. I suppose I do.”

“Think of it, if he’s who we think he is and if what people say is right, he can never die. That’s why he looks so perfect like this. Because even death won’t take him away.”

“I don’t like to hear you talk about it. And anyway, it might not be him. Probably none of the stories are true. Everyone needs hope these days. People will believe anything.”

“You’ve read the stuff he’s got. You believe in him.”

“I can’t say one way or the other.”

“You can, Dad. You do believe. Otherwise you wouldn’t have helped him.”

“I’d help anyone in trouble. You know that.”

“But this is risky. He’s not just anyone. If they catch us…”

“I know. I know.”

Somewhere, there was light. Rusty light. The smell of leaf mulch and wood smoke. Something cooking. Then there was hunger. And then there was thirst, unbearable thirst.

“I’ll tell you what concerns me, Brooke. What if he’s not for the good? You’ve heard the other stories. Some say there’s a dark messiah coming, a destroyer – the son of Satan or Satan himself. Maybe that’s who he is. Maybe we’re tending Black Jack.”

“It’s the Ward who put those stories out. Everyone knows that, Dad. I don’t believe it.”

“Still.”

“Even if there was such thing as Black Jack, this isn’t him. He wouldn’t be beautiful like this. He wouldn’t be just a boy.”

“This boy won’t be a boy for long.”

“That doesn’t make him the devil incarnate, Dad.”

A cool draught caressed Gordon’s face and he heard the source of it, outside somewhere: the wind easing through the leafless trees. This was no dream. His body was more comfortable than it had been for a dark aeon. But it still felt heavy, lead bones without muscles to raise them. The rusty light was daylight coming through his still-closed eyelids.

“No. I suppose it doesn’t.”

There was another pause then. Much longer this time. Gordon felt their eyes on him. Then the girl, Brooke, broke the silence.

“I think he’s awake.”

No point in pretending now.

Gordon allowed his eyes to open. It was brighter than he’d expected and he blinked and squinted, unable to see anything other than what he’d guessed so far. A man and his daughter, perhaps, neither of whose age was apparent in the blur, sat side by side a couple of feet away from him. The light came in from behind them through a triangular opening. This was not a tent but a canvas shelter slung over a cord between two trees. He was in his sleeping bag and he was naked.

He tried to say hello but his voice was a dry rasp and the noise he made was unintelligible. Only in trying to speak did he realise just how parched his mouth and throat were. His next word came out with some urgency and though it was only a harsh whisper, both the father and daughter understood.

“Water.”

It was the girl who moved first.

“Wait,” said her father.

“No. I’ll do it.”

She was beside him swiftly. With one hand she raised his head a little and with the other she let him take water from a cup. The water was warm, not long boiled, but it was nectar to his dried-out palate. He wanted to tell her that she didn’t need to help him but when she let his head back down and he tried to lift it again, he couldn’t.

Naked and helpless.

“More,” he croaked.

“You have to take little sips. And slowly. Too much of anything right now will make you worse.”

She raised his head again, letting him take a few more small swallows.

“That’s enough for the moment.”

The water made him nauseous. His stomach cramped around its tiny cargo of fluid. Nevertheless, it had given his brain a charge, and he felt more awake and aware. These people, whoever they were, had made a camp outdoors and seemed to be there on a long-term basis. Through the triangular opening at the end of the canvassed enclosure he could see a well-established fire and a heavy-looking black pot hanging over it from an improvised tripod. Steam escaped from its lid – the source of the smell of cooking. The cramps in his stomach were hunger pangs. He was so ravenous, the pain of it was making him feel sick.

At his end of the shelter a wall of woven branches had been laid against the opening. Without it, wind would have been racing through the shelter, chilling him. He was lying across the shelter and there was plenty of space for the other two, but he could see no sign of their bedding. Either there were other shelters like this in their camp or they had their own tents. He didn’t recognise the woodland outside. It certainly wasn’t Covey Wood. He tried to gauge how far he’d walked in the tunnel. Hadn’t Knowles said it was miles long? He could easily be in a part of the countryside he’d never visited before.

The man’s face was lined and creased. He carried troubles there, unable to hide them. His hair was fair and thinning. It needed to be cut. The same was true of the sparse beard that grew mainly at his chin and below his ears. They might have been living like this for a while. The man seemed kind enough, though there was a hard edge to his gaze.

Both of them were dressed for outdoor life. Their boots looked sturdy and waterproof. They wore cargo-style trousers in lightweight, breathable material and tough-looking, waterproof jackets with hoods. Each of them wore several layers beneath, judging by the bulky look of their bodies. Curiously, though, their clothes were all drab colours. Greens and browns and charcoals.

Camouflage?

Perhaps he had something in common with these people. Like him, they could be hiding. Maybe that was why they’d helped him. Their kindness made him think of his family. He had to bite the inside of his cheeks to stop himself crying.

He watched the girl slide away from him and exit the shelter. She went to the pot, lifted its lid with a metal hook and stirred whatever was cooking using a whittled branch. The branch had seen plenty of use judging by the stain on its stirring end. More aroma wafted Gordon’s way and his stomach groaned so loud that all three of them heard it. The girl and her father smiled but the man’s smile faded quickly. The girl continued to grin, catching Gordon’s eye for a moment and then looking away. He felt some other movement in his stomach at that moment, something that wasn’t hunger.

His new carers had only spoken to each other when they thought he was asleep or unconscious. Now that he was alert they kept their silence.

They don’t trust me.

He understood their reticence but he didn’t like how it felt. He mustered a little willpower and took a deep breath.

“My name is Gordon,” he said. The words came but without much force. For a moment they looked at him, frozen. While he had their attention he added, “Thank you for helping me.”

Once the words were out he felt a heaviness cover him like a blanket, and though he tried to keep his eyes open – he really wanted to talk to them and he really wanted to eat whatever it was the girl was cooking – he wasn’t able to do so. His mouth closed and his eyes closed and sleep rose up for him, dragged him down. The last thing he remembered was the girl’s voice.

“I’m glad we found him, Dad. I think it’s a sign, you know. A sign things are going to get better for us now.”

If her father replied, Gordon didn’t hear it.