Black Feathers

31

Gordon woke to wetness on his arms and chest.

The girl, Brooke, was washing him with a warm, damp cloth. The abrasive but comfortable pressure was followed by the chill of the outdoors, and his skin prickled after every pass of her gentle hand. Where his skin cooled, the ache of fever sprang up and he knew he was not yet recovered. He kept his eyes closed, embarrassed that he was naked before her. She might stop if she knew he was awake and, though it wasn’t entirely pleasant – the cold and the ache and roughness of the cloth were quite harsh – the attention was soothing.

The direction of his thoughts and the continued stimulation of his skin wasn’t without its effects.

“You’re not quite as sick as I thought,” said the girl. Even with his eyes still closed he could hear the smile in her voice. He felt his face flush and burn.

“It’s all right, Gordon. It’s only natural.”

She continued her work. His upper body complete, she rinsed the cloth in her bowl of water, lathered more soap into it and moved onto his legs.

“Probably best not to let Dad see, though.”

Gordon couldn’t help but open his eyes to see the mischief he thought he’d caught in her tone. She was smiling to herself as she worked, and when she saw him watching her smile broadened and softened. She moved the cloth from his undamaged thigh down to his knee and then cleaned his shin, calf and foot, lifting his leg to suit her work.

“I thought you were going to pass over. I saw my grandma’s dead body in the funeral parlour when I was ten, but I’ve never actually seen anyone die. I was… scared.” She stopped washing him and took his hand for a moment. “I’ve got this feeling about you, Gordon. I think you’re someone extra-special. Someone who can help us.”

“I will if I can,” he said, his voice stronger than before.

She shook her head, her hair falling around her face until she pushed it behind her ears. She let his hand go and went back to her washing, more businesslike now.

“No. That’s not what I mean.”

No one had ever touched him like this and he didn’t want it to stop. The efficiency of her work increased as she moved on to his wounded thigh. He cried out the moment she touched it and her eyes went automatically to the shelter’s opening.

“Dad’s out checking his snares. He doesn’t like me… nursing you. You won’t tell him, will you?”

Gordon shook his head. She moved quickly now, drying him a little with another cloth and zipping him back into his sleeping bag. She discarded the soapy water, made the shelter appear undisturbed and left.

Moments later she put her head through the opening.

“I’m sorry I hurt you, Gordon. I’ll do it better next time, I promise.”

Before he could respond she was gone again. It wasn’t long before he heard the sound of running footsteps through fallen leaves and the sound of her father’s voice, breathless and strained.

“Brooke? Brooke! I’m here. Are you all right?”

From some distance away he heard her reply.

“I’m fine.”

The footsteps came to a halt, still out of Gordon’s line of sight but not far away from where he lay, the throbbing pain in his thigh receding along with the pressure in his crotch.

“What happened? I heard a shout.”

“More nightmares, I suppose. I looked in but he was sleeping. He’ll be all right, Dad.”

“I’m not worried about him, Brooke. I’m worried about you. It’s not safe here.”

“It’s safer than home.”

“We should move on soon. Find somewhere quieter, more remote.”

“We can’t go anywhere yet. Gordon can’t even sit up, let alone hike.”

There was a silence, and Gordon could only guess at what passed between Brooke and her father then.

“We can’t take the boy with us, Brooke. You know that.”

“But you said yourself it’s not safe. He’s got to come.”

“He can’t.”

“Then why did you bother to bring him here at all? Why didn’t you just let him die in the tunnel?”

Her father didn’t reply.

“We’re still good people, Dad. It was the only thing we could have done.” Brooke’s voice was passionate. “We’re going to get him well and then we’ll move on. And when we do, he’s coming with us.”

Her father’s voice dropped to a whisper.

“No, Brooke. He’s a liability. He’ll slow us down and he’ll attract attention.”

“You don’t understand, Dad. If he doesn’t come with us, I’m not leaving.”

Father and daughter didn’t speak for the rest of that day. When next he saw Brooke, she brought him a steaming bowl of broth and fed it to him, a spoonful at a time. He tried to whisper to her but she shook her head and held a finger to her lips. When the soup was gone, Gordon felt strength flowing into his muscles for the first time. Before she left the shelter Brooke leaned over him and kissed his forehead. Her lips lingered there, soft and silent, for a long time.

They drink tea in the roundhouse, sitting close to the iron stove. The smell of the place has become a comfort to Megan: the aroma of drying herbs, the tang of pipe smoke, the ever-present perfume of fennel and mint – that smell seems to be tattooed into Mr Keeper’s very skin – and the earthier undertones of body odour and reed matting. Returning this morning is a little like coming home.

Mr Keeper is silent. He has given her no more than a nod in acknowledgment before spitting a chunk of phlegm through the wind-eye into the chilly early-morning gloom. Now he sits in characteristic absence, sipping tea from time to time. His mind dallies elsewhere, at some great, unreachable distance.

Is he in the Weave right now? she wonders.

In the smoky glow of the roundhouse, she feels the fragility of the membrane between this reality and that of her visions. Her pulse quickens in the knowledge that magic, the unseen and truest of realities, bides close at her shoulder.

As though he hears her accelerating heartbeat, Mr Keeper finally speaks.

“Have you brought the book?”

She reaches into her pack and draws out the cloth-wrapped box. She places it on the matting beside him. This is a moment she has been quietly in fear of ever since the raven quill first marked the paper. She watches him unwrap the box and lift its lid. She watches him draw out the black leather volume, his fingers touching it with love. His face is serene as he opens the book and looks into it, not reading it – his eyes don’t move – but somehow absorbing what he sees there. He closes the book and leaves his palm resting on the cover for long moments.

He replaces everything with care and rewraps the box.

“When you’re not writing the book, it must be kept in the earth. Then the land will know you are keeping the story alive. And the story will keep the land alive.”

He pulls up a section of matting between them, brushes away a thin layer of soil and lifts a small wooden hatch. Beneath it is a hole, the walls of which are lined with wood. But the base of the hole is bare earth and into it Mr Keeper places the wrapped box to lie on the exposed soil. He replaces the wooden hatch, brushes the dirt over it and drops the matting back into position. He presses his hands to his face and breathes in deeply, his eyes closing as he inhales the scent of the earth. Then he brushes the crumbs of soil from his fingers.

“When the book is in your home, it will be enough that you place it in a box of earth under your bed.”

For a few moments Mr Keeper wanders again, and she expects him not to return. Quite suddenly, though, his head snaps in her direction. When he catches Megan’s eye he is smiling.

This always makes her nervous.

“We must make a journey.”

“To where?”

“To the valleys.”

She knows better than to ask why.

“Your parents will be concerned for you, so I’m going to go and tell them myself where we’re going. I’ll return with some extra clothes for you.”

He stands up, easing the stiffness from his joints, and crouches to get out of the tiny doorway. Seconds after he’s gone, he pokes his head back in and looks around.

“This place is a mess. Give it a sweep out before I get back. And hang up those new bundles over the stove before they moulder.”

His head disappears.

It reappears.

“And make us a good breakfast. It’s going to be a long walk.”

When his footsteps retreat and fade, she stands and begins to attend to his tasks. It makes her smile, this affected strictness of his. She knows the chores are meant to be a kind of discipline for her but they are the easiest part of treading the path. Long before he returns, she’s done everything he’s asked of her and is relaxing with tea and keeping the porridge warm near the stove.

She hears Mr Keeper tramping across the clearing. He makes no attempt to disguise his approach – even though he’s demonstrated he’s more than capable of doing so if he chooses – and when he reaches the door of the roundhouse she hears him setting items on the ground before entering. She fully expects him to say that her parents have forbidden her to travel with him. They’ve already seen the draining effect a mere bit of writing has had on her. But if they’ve made any protest, he doesn’t mention it. Instead he brings in items of her clothes and even some food in which she recognises her mother’s trademarks – her wheaten loaf baked into a slab, some salted rabbit and chicken, a couple of balls of goat’s cheese and some hard-boiled eggs.

Once everything is inside, Mr Keeper brings out his large and many-pocketed backpack followed by a second pack, slightly smaller but equally well furnished with extra hidey holes and straps for hanging items from. He divides items of food and equipment into two piles. When he begins to place items from his pile into his backpack, Megan does the same with her own. So much of what she’s already learned from him is based on watching and copying. Only occasionally does he give her verbal instruction or talk to her about what he’s doing. He saves that sort of input for later, when they’re resting or eating or drinking tea.

Before midday, the two packs are stuffed with everything Mr Keeper thinks they might need for their “long walk”. Twice he fetches his longbow and a quiver of arrows and changes his mind, packing instead what appears to be more food. The last things he takes from behind the dividing curtain are two floppy-brimmed felt hats with straps beneath them.

“One thing I’ve learned, Megan,” he says, placing one on his head and walking towards the path, “is that it pays to have good headgear when travelling. Never underestimate the usefulness of a decent hat.”

She is still waiting for an explanation of this when she realises he isn’t coming back. She hurries after him, her pack already heavy and awkward, while she tries to adjust the hat strap under her chin.