Black Feathers

45

After three days of walking with barely a break, Gordon’s newfound strength had waned and his hike became a trudge. He watched for signs of followers and other travellers but saw none. Exhaustion settled on him and when he found a decent spot, he decided to stop a while and build himself up again. He pitched his tent in the shelter of an outcropping of smooth stone. The rock formed a barrier against the wind, which was strong everywhere else on the hillside, and the overhang kept the rain off.

The view east from his camp was expansive.

Standing on the far side of his fire, approaching a ledge which gave onto a steep drop, the space between him and the horizon was abundant with England’s varied splendour, and yet the land was somehow drab and spent-looking. Immediately below the ledge were the leafless tops of trees on a steep hillside. Their canopy angled swiftly away from him – to fall from the ledge would be to break every bone long before he hit the ground. Beyond the deciduous forest there was a thicker band of pine, richly green despite the approach of winter. Beyond that, only visible in a few places, was a dark snake of river, this side wild, the other flatter and more habitable. There was a small town beyond the flood plains of the river. Gordon could see the steeple of a church and plenty of houses.

On the roads around the village no cars were moving. All seemed still. Beyond the town and its environs, the land rolled out in a patchwork of sick-looking fields. There was a dullness over the Earth and he couldn’t put it down to the cloud-filtered light. In the distance to the left and right were other villages and hamlets, and far away, almost straight ahead, there was a larger city skyline, little of which could he make out. The closer to the horizon his gaze travelled, the more low vapour was in the air and the less distinct were the features of the land. At the edge of his visible semi-circle of world, the land and sky merged in a haze.

Far to his left, which was north, and on this side of the river, a thin genie of smoke rose above the pine forest. From here it was impossible to tell if there was a house hidden by the trees or a bonfire or someone’s camp. He had the feeling it was the latter, however – the middle of a wood was a better place to hide than it was to build a home. Going to the town was too risky and unpredictable. It could be crawling with the Ward. Taking a peek at the wooded encampment seemed a far safer option.

When he’d regained his strength, he planned to investigate.

Smoke rose from the pine trees all day.

Gordon spent time climbing the smooth-skinned rocks overhanging his camp and wandering from place to place on the hillside. He found thickets laden with sloe berries and filled his pockets with the ones he didn’t eat straight away. Every now and again he would stop and scan the land around him for movement. All he ever noticed was the same thin wraith of smoke above the pines, sometimes pushed over by the wind, others rising vertically before thinning into nothingness against the ash-grey sky.

That evening he ate well on berries and dried meat, treating himself to a few strips of rook breast. He heated water over his fire and made a tea of sorrel leaves. It warmed him and cleared his head. For the first time in three nights, he slept deeply and dreamlessly, but he slept with his knife open and ready within easy reach, thinking always of the Ward.

Dawn came, and with it apprehension. In the daytime he could be seen. He crawled from the warmth and relative comfort of his sleeping bag out into a cold, clear morning. Mist covered the land on either side of the river like a thin layer of dry ice. In the evergreen forest the fire was still alive, though the ghost it threw up was pencil-fine and pure white.

He packed everything up and shouldered it easily, having scattered the remains of his fire as best he could. He knew his strength had returned as he walked away, feeling light despite the rucksack, his legs springy and renewed. He breakfasted on strips of dried meat and looked for a safe way down into the leafless hillside forest.

From there he planned to make his way into the pines.

He smelled the camp long before he saw it.

The mingled scent of grilling meat, burning fat and wood smoke led the way. Gordon’s belly responded to the smells with loud squirts and gurgles as the walls of his stomach moved against each other in anticipation. The savoury aroma reminded him of barbecues but smelling it on the cold morning air gave an edge to his hunger, making him realise he would fight for food if it ever came to that. He hoped it would not.

As he approached the smell, he slowed and then stopped. There’d been plenty of time to think of a way of announcing himself to strangers, but he hadn’t come up with something he was confident about. Now that he was nearing the camp, he felt a genuine sense of his own trespass and the danger that brought with it. His instinct was to leave other people to themselves, to respect their boundaries. Yet here he was, crossing the outer boundaries of someone else’s territory.

There was a moment in which he calmly and coolly decided it was time to turn back. He stopped and listened. He thought he could hear the crackle and spit of grease on hot ash. He imagined what it would be like to put a piece of charred meat to his lips, to bite through its heat-dried crust and into the tender, dripping flesh beneath. To chew hard and swallow a thick lump of hot nourishment. But he mastered himself and turned back, feeling a flood of relief and a release of tension in every muscle. Self-preservation was more important.

The way he’d come was blocked by two men.