Black Feathers

46

Gordon tried to gauge the threat the men posed to him.

The most obvious danger came from the shotguns. Each of them carried a double-barrelled twelve-bore. However, the guns were broken and carried over the crooks of their arms. Their faces were heavily bearded, making them appear ancient, yet their eyes were bright and young, and Gordon guessed the men to be in their twenties or thirties. Unlike the raiders who’d attacked the Palmer camp, they were well dressed and equipped for the outdoor life. They both wore the same brand of sturdy calf-length lace-up black boots. They looked like army issue. Their bodies were covered by fur-lined waterproof boiler suits of olive drab, suggesting a military origin. At their necks he could see thick woollen roll-neck pullovers and their jackets were skiwear – padded, hooded, many-pocketed and colourful – out of place in the pine forest. Their hats were similarly garish, with ear flaps and bright Scandinavian designs. Both men wore fingerless gloves, keeping their hands warm but allowing them to manipulate either their guns or their traps; Gordon was fairly sure they were hunting game, not him.

Fairly.

He assessed their eyes. Mostly what he saw there was surprise and even a little curiosity. One of them, a man with a beard almost black, seemed to display a slight mistrust but not enough to mean trouble. Gordon thought it better to take the initiative.

“I saw smoke,” he said. “Thought I’d come and see who was down here.” He gestured in the direction he’d been going. “Is that your camp through there?”

The man with the black beard said:

“Why did you turn back?”

What could he do but be honest?

“I changed my mind,” he said. “Felt like I was trespassing.”

“Trespassing?” The way black beard repeated it made Gordon think of the Lord’s Prayer. That hadn’t been what he meant. But black beard didn’t mean it that way either. “You can’t trespass. The land is for sharing. For everyone.”

“I just… it felt wrong.”

The second man, whose beard was straw in the centre, ginger at the sides, said:

“That’s respectful.”

Black beard nodded.

“So what do you want?” he asked.

And Gordon was suddenly stumped. What did he want? Some company? The next part of his life? Directions to the Crowman? Or just a bellyful of flame-seared meat.

“Nothing,” he said in the end. “I’m only passing through.”

“What’s your name?” asked black beard. Any mistrust the man had felt towards Gordon had been replaced by amusement. Perhaps the thought of a fourteen year-old boy just “passing through” struck him as funny.

And his name. What was his name? Could he tell them?

He put out his hand.

“I’m Louis Palmer,” he said. The name sounded good. Even Gordon felt convinced by it. Something about the sound of it must have impressed black beard too, who now responded with his own hand.

“David Croft,” he said, unable to hide his surprise at the strength in Gordon’s grip. “And this is Beckett Adler. Dave and Beck.”

Gordon found himself grinning at the sudden breakthrough of camaraderie. They seemed like good men, men who loved and respected the land, and they were friendly – far more friendly than John Palmer had ever been. They weren’t his family but they seemed decent and honourable.

“You hungry?” asked Dave. “We’ve got some deer cooking in camp. There’s plenty.”

Gordon couldn’t hold back his tears. The strength left his legs and he reached out to a tree to hold himself up.

“Come on, Louis. Let’s get some food into you.”

He saw the look that passed between them, a look that said “he’s just a kid”. They tried to take an arm each and help him along, but Gordon shrugged them off. He stumbled into their camp red-eyed, all too aware how weak he must have looked. Two other men watched him arrive: a thin one with grey streaking his beard – though he was probably no older than Dave or Beck – a man who rarely spoke to begin with, other than with his eyes. His mandible was arrow-shaped, his sparse facial hair barely concealing its barbed angles. Even his cheek bones looked sharp enough to puncture his face from within. His name was Grimwold. To Gordon it sounded like a nickname, not a surname.

The fourth member of their group was an old man, old enough to be any of these men’s grandfather, it looked like. He had trouble getting around but his eyes were full of smiles, with deep, cheery wrinkles at their corners. They called him Cooky.

When he arrived, snivelling and trudging into their camp that day, Grimwold’s head snapped up from the branch he was whittling to a point. His eyes caught Gordon’s, but Gordon was too drained to try to decipher what he saw in them. Grimwold’s eyes flicked around Gordon’s body, as though measuring him somehow. Cooky turned from the fire where he was turning deer steaks and racks of ribs. The smoke was making his eyes water, but when he saw Gordon, it seemed those tears were of recognition and welcome.

Gordon forgot all of this when Cooky handed him an enamelled plate laden with a steaming lump of meat and a chunk of aromatic bread, freshly baked under a pile of coals. They made space for him to set up his tent, and Dave, who seemed to be the alpha in the group, told him he could stay as long as he wanted.