Black Feathers

51

Gordon woke often, reaching for the reassurance of his knife in the darkness on every occasion. When morning came, he stayed in his tent. Its isolation and safety were flimsy, though, and soon produced a new weakness, a new fear. They couldn’t see him, true. But he couldn’t see them either. If they were plotting to evict him, or worse, it would be impossible to get a sense of it from inside the tent. Though he hated the exposure, his youth denuding him in front of these men, he made himself unzip the flap and step out. Dave, Beck and Grimwold were pulling on backpacks and checking their guns – rifles this time. They looked like the real thing too, not air-powered toys for hunting pigeons or rabbits. When Grimwold caught him looking at his firearm, his lips peeled again from his dull-surfaced, dirty teeth. Gordon looked away immediately, unable to hold the man’s greasy, penetrating gaze.

Cooky sat in the mouth of his own tent, a well-used but sturdy canvas construction which looked like it had survived from the early days of the Boy Scout movement. He was reading a book, or so it seemed at first glance, but he had a pen in his hand too. Dave led Beck and Grimwold to the perimeter of the camp, where he looked back and called to Cooky.

“See you in a few hours.”

Cooky didn’t look up from his book. He merely raised a finger in acknowledgment.

“I’ll have some grub and coffee ready,” he said.

Only Grimwold looked back as he left the camp, fixing Gordon in his reptilian stare, blank features betraying contempt and want. Gordon’s fingers touched the open knife in his pocket, drew strength from it.

When the sound of their footsteps receded, swallowed by the pine forest, Gordon still stared after them, thinking that now would be a good time to leave. Now, while he was well fed and Grimwold was out of sight.

Cooky was absorbed by his book, occasionally underlining sections with his pen. Gordon watched him for a while, but if the old man knew he was observed, he never once looked up.

“Where are they going?” asked Gordon in the end.

At first he thought Cooky hadn’t heard him. He was about to ask again when Cooky looked up and clicked his pen shut.

“Hunting,” the old man said.

“Deer?”

“Maybe.”

Gordon wondered what that meant. He was silent for a while, this time under the scrutiny of the older, less dangerous-seeming man.

“You’re young to be travelling,” Cooky said. “Especially on your own.”

Gordon didn’t respond.

“These are dark times,” continued Cooky. “No telling what people will do to each other now.”

Gordon almost nodded.

“Seen that for yourself, have you? I thought as much. Why else would you be on the road?” Cooky closed his book, distracted enough now for a conversation, it appeared. “Where’s your family?”

Gordon didn’t answer. Cooky pressed his lips together and closed his eyes in understanding.

“Got some relatives where you’re going, have you?”

Don’t. Don’t ask me these questions.

“Friends then?”

Gordon felt the weight settle back into his limbs again, but it was different this time. This was the weight of realisation. He had no one to help him. He did not know where he was going. He was a boy abroad in a world of men. Men like Skelton and Pike, like the raiders at the Palmers’ camp. Men like Grimwold. He could trust no one.

He had no awareness of running back to his tent or diving inside. All he knew was some moments later his head was half buried under his pack and he was weeping into his hands while his body writhed. It occurred to him, quite a cold observation, that his fit of tears was so severe it resembled hysterical laughter. Indeed, from time to time a laugh escaped between the sobs and the thought that he, too, might be insane made his tears flow more freely than ever.

Some time later, Cooky’s voice came, soft and calm outside his tent.

“You all right in there, Louis?”

Gordon barked out another short giggle-sob at the idea that he had taken his father’s name without having the strength or worth to carry it. But he was able to reply.

“Yeah. I’m OK.”

“Come out and have a hot drink. You don’t have to say a word if you don’t want to. I’m nosey. I ask too many questions. Always been my problem. I won’t do it again, I promise.”

Gordon cleared the remaining tears from his face and the snot from his nose, wiping his hand on his trousers. He backed out of the tent to find Cooky crouching there with a steaming mug in his hand. He held it out and Gordon took it.

“It’s got some whisky in it,” said Cooky. “Don’t mention it to the lads, eh?”

Gordon took the tea and sniffed it. The fragrance of the whisky wasn’t as unpleasant as he’d expected it to be. After a few sips it didn’t taste too bad either.

His sadness became something more subtle, melancholy brought on by the aliveness of the trees all around them and silence of the forest. In the simplicity of the setting there was great moment and presence. Every branch and every hidden creature had something to say to him. The message, though silent and wordless, was clear: everything that had happened was behind him and he was still alive. One day this pain would be a memory too. What mattered now was the search, the keeping of his promise to his parents. And with this message came something else for the very first time. He knew if he listened, he would always hear this silent voice speaking to him. And if he heeded it always, he would fulfil his mission. Everything that seemed so wrong and so cruel in his life now seemed like a piece of something bigger and more significant. This journey wasn’t about him. It was about the world. This message shouted itself from every tree trunk and every pine needle and every patch of winter sky. Far above him he heard the mellow cry of a single rook, aloft on chilled winds, confirming out loud what every other living thing was saying to him silently: this, all this, was meant to be. All this was right. When Gordon moved, the world would move with him. He knew it now. In his marrow. In his blood.

The knowledge made him get to his feet. If Cooky hadn’t placed a gentle but restraining hand on his arm, he might have walked out of the camp and continued his journey right then. The bony but insistent grip of the old man brought him back. Gordon looked at Cooky, knowing his eyes must have been wild. Then he smiled and sat down. There was time. There would be time for all of it.

He drained the rest of his tea, relishing the heat and elation that now ran in his blood. He looked Cooky in the eye and said:

“Have you ever heard of the Crowman?”

After a moment in which Cooky didn’t respond, a moment in which the whole experience almost collapsed, Cooky began to speak. He spoke for a long time and Gordon took it all in.