Black Feathers

38



Megan collapses to her knees but her weight carries her forwards.

She puts out her hands but still lands on her face in the long grass. Once there, she can’t push herself back up. She only has the strength to roll onto her side, stranded. Soon Mr Keeper is kneeling beside her. She feels him loosening her pack straps and freeing her arms. He helps her to sit up, and as she looks into his benevolent, slightly amused face, she is hit by a wave of dizziness and nausea.

Mr Keeper grips her shoulders.

“Breathe, Megan. Long, deep, slow. It will pass.”

She does what he tells her. A few moments later her head has cleared and she feels a little better. But her weakness persists.

“I can barely hold myself up,” she says.

“It was a long absence. You’re not used to it. You haven’t eaten since he came for you.”

“When was that?”

“Last night. You could probably do with some breakfast.”

He hands her a water skin, cuts her bread and cheese. Megan is suddenly ravenous, and even though the bread tastes a bit dry, she relishes the effort and reward of chewing it. She washes each mouthful down with water.

“Steady, you’ll make yourself sick.”

With some effort she slows her rate of attack. She glances in the direction they’ve come from, not recognising the landscape.

“Did I disappear?”

“No.”

“But didn’t you see me leave the shelter? He took my hand and we…”

She smiles to remember it.

“You didn’t go anywhere. At least, your body didn’t. You sat there staring for a while. When it was time to sleep, I made you lie down. In the morning, I woke you up and got you out of the shelter. You stood there while I made some tea and ate some food. Then I packed everything up, helped you put your pack on and we left. We’ve been walking ever since.”

“I can’t remember any of that.”

“That’s because you weren’t there, Megan. You were with the Crowman. Do you remember where he took you?”

“Oh, yes! I remember everything. Everything he showed me. How it looked. How it felt. Every detail. He said I’d always remember it. For the book. He said that was my gift.”

“And what did he show you, Megan?”

“He showed me more about the life of the boy, Gordon Black. Much more. I feel like I’ve been away for days. Weeks even.”

“Time spent in his story seems much longer than time in our own world.” Mr Keeper squats and brings out his smoking gear. With practised fingers and in no hurry at all, he loads the pipe bowl with tobacco and lights it with a match. After a few puffs, he settles into a cross-legged position. “Tell me, Megan, if you can, what is it like to be shown these things?”

Megan doesn’t hesitate in giving her description.

“They come to me like living visions, and are full of things I’ve never seen before and do not understand. And yet, now that I have the feather, I have words for everything I see. But there’s a feeling that comes with all of this, a feeling I don’t understand. It’s as though someone else has seen the story before me. Many, many times. Is that possible?”

“It’s more than possible. It’s true. Many have seen before you and many more will see after you. The Crowman will make certain of that.”

“There’s something else. The boy – Gordon – he’s so… alone. And such terrible things have happened to him. Is it because of me somehow, Mr Keeper? Am I doing these things to him? I don’t want to hurt him. I don’t think I can bear to see him hurt again. And the visions, well, sometimes it’s like I am Gordon Black. Like I’m right there with him, inside him. I feel his pain and his loneliness. I feel his powerlessness. I don’t know if I have the strength to keep doing that. He’s afraid and I’m afraid for him. I have this feeling something terrible is going to happen to him. I don’t want it to be because of me. And I don’t want to be there when it happens.”

Mr Keeper reaches across and takes her hand.

“It’s not you creating this, Megan. It comes through you. Your function is to allow it to pass, commit it to memory and record it. Do not involve yourself in it or you may distort it. That alone would be grounds for me to end your training. You must do nothing other than be as open to what comes as the river banks are to the river.”

Mr Keeper smokes, journeying far away himself for the briefest moment.

“All you need to realise is that Gordon Black’s story has already happened. You must merely rediscover it. That is what it means to walk the Black Feathered Path. You have the strength to be with him as he makes his journey. If you didn’t, you couldn’t have come this far. The Crowman knows you, Megan. He knows what you’re capable of.” Mr Keeper squeezes her hand while he puffs on his pipe. “I know too. You’re going to be a Keeper one day, Megan. One of the best we’ve ever seen. In the meantime, I will help you and protect you in every way I can. If we each do what we were born to do, if we keep to our truths, all will be well. You have the strength to do this. I know it in my heart.”

Megan sits quietly. She doesn’t feel strong or powerful, but the boy’s presence lingers now, like a familiar scent in an empty room. She cannot help but love him a little, having felt his pain and known the depth of his sorrow and loss. He seems far too young to have lived so much tribulation. Megan’s life has been slow and comfortable. It has been safe and happy. At least until she met the Crowman. Gordon’s life has been overshadowed by the dark form of his destiny. His agonies can only increase, the responsibilities he carries become greater and heavier.

As if reading her thoughts, Mr Keeper says:

“Your part in all this is just as important as his, Megan. Without you to tell his story, the boy suffers for nothing. He labours in vain. What you do keeps Gordon Black alive.”

She nods without conviction.

Exhausted as she is by the return to her body, it’s hard to give too much thought to any of this. She watches Mr Keeper smoking his pipe and that becomes a simple, pleasurable focus. As the old man’s eyes begin to stare somewhere in the far distance, something occurs to her.

“Is that where you go?”

It takes a moment for him to return, even though his own absence has only just begun. This is the first time she’s ever interrupted him intentionally, and she is frightened now that she has angered him. But when he is once more within the boundaries of his own body, Mr Keeper is smiling.

“Sometimes.”

He inspects his pipe bowl and sees that it is spent. He knocks the ash into his hand and it disappears into a pocket. He puts the pipe away.

“At first, Megan, your journey was the one I made. The only one. But once that journey was complete, I began to make journeys to other places and times. For other reasons. Occasionally, I travel just because I can. We mustn’t be working all the time, you know…”

“And when you go, you’re not here anymore?”

“Part of me is rooted. The rest of me flies.”

“Will I ever get used to it? I feel so heavy now. So tired.”

“You’ll recover more quickly each time you return. This was a long absence, Megan. It’s no wonder you’re worn out. Here, eat some more bread and cheese. Take a little more water too, if you can.”

Mr Keeper holds out these things to her, but Megan has gone away for a moment:

She sees a broken road. She sees a barren hill. At its crest is a blackened, twisted tree. Three crows sit in the tree. The sun is setting, angry and bloody over the scarred, sickened land. This is…

There is bread and cheese in her hands. A water skin, beside her.

“What do you see, Megan?”

She shakes her head.

“Tell me.”

She draws breath deeply.

“I know this from somewhere. Or maybe he’s seen it… or will.” She puts down the food and drinks a few sips from the skin, gasping because her throat is so dry and the water opens it like a torrent through a rut. “Wait. I’ve seen this. It’s from his night country.” She looks at Mr Keeper and her eyes fill with tears. “He has nightmares. The most terrible nightmares.”

Mr Keeper nods but not without compassion.

“Your world and his world are woven now. You may walk in his night country and he, perhaps, may walk in yours. Do not let it deter you from your discovery, Megan. See his story. Bring it back. Write it down. That is all you are for now, a conduit for the boy’s life. Transmitting it is all you must do – all you can do until the story is told.”

Megan, suddenly grim-faced, feels a tiny surge of pride. She has her place in the world. She has her purpose. How many can say that? She will do as she has promised to do. She will bring back the boy’s story for the good of the world.