Black Feathers

2



The girl erupts from the cover of the woods, scattering leaves, her face whipped by vines and tendrils. She feels no pain, only the imperative of flight and the animal will to survive.

Was it real? she wonders. Was he even there?

There are no answers.

To look back will waste vital moments. Focussing ahead she sprints for home through the cornfield, the stalks high and green around her, hearing nothing now but the rustle and snap of leaves as she passes, the tramp of her feet on the moist earth, the pounding circuits of her breath. She dare not even cry in case it saps her strength.

Her foot catches a fallen cornstalk. She takes long ungainly steps in an attempt to right herself and slides face first into the dirt. She’s running again before she feels the pain of the soil-hidden flints which have pierced her palms and knees. Moments later the cuts make their presence known. The pain tightens her skin, slows her down.

She spits earth from her mouth and wills more speed to her legs.

The girl bursts from the cornfield, taking a few stalks with her into the meadow. The uprooted greenery falls away. Horses, cattle and sheep look up as she passes, before continuing to graze unconcerned. She’s running uphill now, her thighs beginning to burn. At the top of the meadow there’s a gate. She’s already certain there won’t be enough time to stop and open it. Not knowing exactly how, she vaults the gate, ecstatic to leave a barrier between her and it. Him.

She’s in the village now, scattering chickens as she pounds down the main street. Faces look up and watch her pass. Someone shouts:

“Hey, Megan! You alright?”

But she’s already left them behind.

And then she’s at her parents’ front door and through it and bolting it and leaning back against it. Panting, sagging to the floor. Crying.

Her mother wipes her floury hands on her apron and rushes to her daughter.

“Megan? Whatever’s the matter?”

Sobs and gulps for breath have muted her. Megan’s mother eases the girl to her feet and guides her to a chair. She ladles water from a stone ewer and hands it to the girl in an earthenware cup.

“Calm yourself down, Megan. I’m going to fetch your father.”

Megan gasps and shakes her head.

“No, Amu… don’t leave me.”

“I’m not going anywhere, Meg. I’ll ring the bell for him.”

Megan’s mother pushes open the kitchen window and uses a poker from the fireplace to whack a rusted metal tube hanging just outside. It releases a resonant, melodious clang. Three short peals, the sign to come home quick. And soon enough, Megan’s father is entering through the back, also panting, his face creased with concern.

“What’s happened?”

“I don’t know yet. She’s barely got her wind back. Came in here like Black Jack himself was after her.”

At that, the girl looks up and weeps anew.

Her father, a bear of a man with kind eyes and a gentle smile that even a chest-length beard can’t hide, comes to sit with his daughter at the table.

“It’s all right now, petal. You’re safe.” He puts his huge hand over hers and squeezes gently. “Tell me all about it.”

“I saw something… someone… in the woods.”

“Who did you see?”

“I don’t know.”

“What did they look like?” he asks.

She looks at her mother again and puts her hand over her mouth.

“Come on, Megan. If it’s someone dangerous we need to send people after them as soon as we can.”

“Black.”

That’s all she says at first.

“What?”

“Black. All in black from head to toe.”

Her mother and father exchange a brief glance.

“What else?”

“He…”

“It was a man?”

Megan nods and her blond hair shakes with the vigorousness of the movement. Her father’s frown deepens.

“He had a hat. A tall hat. It was flat on top – like a chimney. And his clothes were all black. A long black coat that poked out at the back. And black trousers and big, fluffy black boots.”

“Fluffy?”

She nods again.

“Like… feathers or something. Black feathers. They came out of his sleeves and his collar too.”

“And what about his face, Megan,” asks her mother now. “Did you see his face?”

The girl nods. More slowly this time.

“It was like a bird’s face. Pointy. And his eyes were grey. Like storm clouds.”

Again, her mother and father look at each other. The father nods.

“You mustn’t be frightened, petal. I’m going to fetch Mr Keeper.”

“Mr Keeper? Why? I’m not sick, Apa.”

“Mr Keeper has other responsibilities than tending the poorly. He knows things most folk don’t.”

“I thought he was a healer.”

“He’s that and more,” says Apa.

“He can see into the weave of things,” says her mother. “He’ll know what’s best.”

Mr Keeper looks very odd.

Megan’s never been this close to the man before but he’s always been an object of fascination. He wears what Amu and Apa call a “boilasuit”. For the winter there’s a fur lining that buttons inside the boilasuit but in the October sunshine there’s no need for it. The boilasuit is faded green and either it’s too small for him or he’s cut a few inches off the cuffs and legs. He wears no shoes and his hands and feet are always dirty. Mr Keeper wears a dun-coloured sack strapped over his shoulders which gives him a big humped back. The sack has many pockets sewn onto it and there are always interesting things poking out – strange plants that don’t grow near Beckby village, small woven pouches with unknown contents, the bones of animals and the occasional brightly coloured feather. Megan always thought his bag was full of medicines but, now that he’s been summoned to their cottage and knowing there’s nothing wrong with her, she wonders what other purpose they might have.

Apa ushers him in, closes the door with a loud crash and then follows. A few folk have gathered outside the cottage, attracted by Megan’s odd behaviour and the coming of Mr Keeper. Amu opens the door and makes eye contact with the bystanders. They all retreat.

Mr Keeper has had to duck to enter and now he shrugs his cumbersome pack to the floor. When he stands straight he’s even taller than Apa and his hair is longer but much dirtier, matted and clumped together in what Megan thinks are called deadlots. As soon as he is inside their home she can smell him too. He doesn’t wash, that much is clear, and yet he doesn’t smell bad like the diseased, unwashed lunatics who wander from village to village begging scraps before moving on. He smells of work-sweat and of the very earth itself. He smells of dried wildflowers and wet sap. The whites of his eyes flash like lightning when he glances around and the wrinkles at their corners are deep and kind when he smiles – which he does as his gaze falls upon her.

“Megan,” he says.

Is it a greeting, an accusation, a question? In her panic she doesn’t know.

His tones are deep and soft, rumbling like the purr of a wildcat, soughing like wind through the trees. And she has a strong sense that Mr Keeper has not come alone. Even though there’s nothing to see, she feels the lives of many things, or perhaps their spirits, moving around him as though he were their hub. She wants to trust him because she can see that trust is what Mr Keeper is all about. She wants to but–

“It’s all right, little thing,” he says. “I only want to talk with you. And after that… we’ll see.”

So saying, Mr Keeper approaches the heavy wooden table and sits on a small stool in front of Megan. His face is now about level with hers and she can smell his breath, all mint and wild fennel and smoke. The smell makes her pleasantly dizzy and a smile comes to visit the corners of Mr Keeper’s mouth.

He turns to her parents.

“Do you wish to stay or would you rather be… elsewhere?”

Apa says, “I think she’ll talk more easily if we’re not here to distract her.” He smiles at Amu and holds out his hand. “Come on, hen. Let’s go for a walk.”

When they reach the door, Amu turns back to Megan.

“Don’t you be afraid now, Meg. Mr Keeper’s here to help. You can tell him anything. Anything at all. Understand?”

Megan nods, but her stomach flutters.