Black Feathers

73

The shade of the building and the covering of Gordon’s tent weren’t enough to keep out the light of day, and sleep, though he was exhausted, would not come.

He took out the letters from his mother and father and the scrapbook given to him by Knowles. He placed the black notebook in his lap and began to reread everything. The times he’d read the words of his parents had not faded the emotions they brought up for him, but he knew he had to look at them in a different way now, as if they were merely another few pages of the scrapbook. He had to find clues. He had to find names or places. He needed a method, a way of searching for the Crowman that was both safe and efficient.

He read the letters to begin with. They made more sense now. In his bleaker moments, Gordon couldn’t help thinking his parents had shared some kind of delusion. Now he’d experienced for himself some of the things they’d mentioned, he knew they were sane: beautifully, naturally in tune with the land and all its creatures, open to the messages of the Earth and the Great Spirit. It had been Gordon who was deluded. Deluded and ignorant. Now he knew the power they’d talked about. It had flowed through him. And sometimes, when he prayed, those prayers were answered as though the Great Spirit and the Earth Mother were standing right in front of him doing as he asked.

But his power was dark too, and he had used it both to protect himself and to punish. In his heart he knew that to fight evil with evil was wrong, that it didn’t work. Yet his rage, his offended soul, demanded retribution and the ending of evil men.

The Ward were the hands of evil on Earth, controlling people, using up every resource in their pursuit of dominion. They said their mission was to destroy the Crowman and thereby save the world, but all they really wanted to preserve was their hold on everything. They had become the right arm of a vast, globally active corporate mind which saw only profit and loss in all things, which understood and lived only for the sake of self-perpetuation and growth at any and all costs. To serve the self at the expense of the lives of others and the life of the world itself, this was the greatest evil Gordon could imagine. From such thinking was all malevolence born.

To oppose that would take a strength, perhaps unimaginable. Gordon knew he did not possess it. No single creature in existence did. But together, perhaps, united in some way by spirit, the creatures of the land and its people and the very land itself might work against the Ward and remove their grey-gloved fingers from around the world’s throat.

The Ward were an outward manifestation of the greed and terror in every heart. For too long people had been encouraged to care only for themselves and to take what they could whenever they could get it. They had become ignorant and blind. Yet the seed of reversal existed in every heart. This seed was an idea that had to spread, a way of thinking that had always existed within every human but one which had been drowned by the lure of technology. The Green Men understood this and were mounting their resistance.

One thing Gordon knew about the Crowman without having ever met him: he was the figurehead of this seed of reversal, this old idea, he was the symbol by which people would remember what an existence on this Earth, what a simple life played out upon the land, was all about.

The scrapbook was less useful in defining these things.

Too often the Crowman was portrayed as evil or, at the very least, terrifying. Yet the fact that he had visited so many people in dreams and visions was a sign that the ideas he represented, the things he stood for were alive and well all over the country. Gordon was sure this scrapbook was only one of many that the Ward had gathered, stolen or collected along with their owners, people who had died revealing what little they knew about the dark phantom who’d haunted their nightmares and daydreams.

Gordon resolved in that moment that even if the Crowman was nothing more than an idea or a spirit, he would still seek him out and reveal him to the world. It was what his parents wanted him to do. More than that, since the gift of the Black Light he knew beyond any doubt that this was his purpose. He would use his life to make up for all those which had been destroyed by the Ward and everything they represented.

Inspired but no wiser, Gordon scanned the leaves of the scrapbook for signs: any evidence, any kind of pointer that might lead physically and directly to the Crowman. There was passion on every page, so much the book almost hummed with emotion. People had written poetry in rage or fear or fervour. They had told allegorical stories, embellishing their handwriting with scrolls and flowers and animals of the hedgerow like devout monks. These flashes of creativity must have come suddenly and unexpectedly to their seers. They had used whatever was nearby to capture the assault of inspiration upon them. With furious strokes they had inked their visions in biro onto lined A4 paper, pencilled their hallucinations in verse on paper napkins and hotel notepaper. Gordon believed that some of the sketches and lines, a rusty brown in the scrapbook, were written in blood. Until now he’d wondered how or why anyone would choose to record their phantasms in that way. Today it made more sense. What the many creators of the scrapbook were really communicating was that their message was more important than their own lives, that their message must survive even though they might not. The place in each person where such intensity arose was the place where love and death acknowledged each other: in the heart. When everything else was taken away only this remained, the dark fire of the heart, here spilled and thrust onto miscellaneous pages and collected in the scrapbook.

Whether he found in it the directions he so dearly sought had less significance now than preserving the scrapbook’s revelation of what lay at people’s core. The spirit of the Crowman was alive in this book, and Gordon meant to keep it that way.

His skimming and scanning of the pages brought him to an enraged representation of the twisted tree he was so familiar with. At the crest of a windswept, barren-looking hill stood this tree and above it circled a vast black bird – something like a giant raven. Crows sat among the dead branches of the tree, and at the base of the hill, great lines of people passed by looking upwards. What interested Gordon was not so much the subject matter; he’d seen it in his dreams and in the scrapbook more times now than he could count, and he knew beyond doubt it was important. But this particular representation was drawn from a different viewpoint. In the far distance there was a skyline not shown in any other drawing. It showed vast, squat buildings, many of them ruined by some unknown cataclysm but still standing. The structures were industrial, not a container port exactly but something similar. Warehouses? Storage units? Whatever the case, Gordon was pretty certain he could memorise the low, broken form of this skyline and the two enormous wind turbines that marked each end of the buildings. This was more solid intelligence than he’d been able to glean in all the time he’d had the scrapbook. If he came across the location, he was sure he’d be able to recognise it. Delighted, he scanned every sketch, story and poem again and again, searching for common themes.

The Crowman, Black Jack, Scarecrow: these were the names people gave him. Some saw him as supremely evil, others as selflessly good. No one seemed certain if he was a man, or part man and part animal. Like the Ward, many seemed to believe his arrival on Earth would trigger the end of the world. Just as many believed he had come with a message of hope for the future. Gordon wondered if there was a way that both these things could be true. Maybe none of the authors of the scrapbook were completely right, yet perhaps all of them were right in certain aspects.

The sun arced over the half-collapsed barn, brightening the tent, and Gordon put aside his studies for a moment. He needed a break and the touch of the open air. Unzipping the tent, he slipped out and stood in the shelter of the ruined brick walls. He crossed to one glassless window and looked out.

Far across the fields he could see the road along which the Ward had arrived at the ruined town in their military convoy. How long would it be before the people he’d helped told them what he’d done and pointed in the direction he’d taken when he left? Wardsmen might already be coming back up that road by car or on foot to look for him. Something about being pursued in this way was tiring to his very soul. He knew they’d never stop searching; no matter what he did, he would always be on the run.

From the very beginning, a small voice within him had whispered that he should give himself up to the Ward or, at the very least, let them catch him. Then it would be over and he could rest. Stronger by far, however, were the voices that pushed him onwards, those of his mother and father and Judith, the voices of the animals and the call of the land. Most profound, most resonant of all was a voice from within, the source of which he could not define. This was a voice that called him onwards and commanded that he never lose faith. He had come to think of it as the voice of the Crowman. He believed that not only was he destined to find the Crowman, but that the Crowman wanted to be found – specifically by Gordon.

As he looked across the fields, smoke rose from the devastated town and Gordon considered, not for the first time and knowing that it would not be the last, that he might simply be mad. Only an insane person would allow themselves to be led across the country by disembodied voices. Maybe the intervention of the Ward in his life had been too much for his rational mind to bear. Unable to deal with the collection of his family, he had simply created a fantasy in which he could exist, not safely perhaps, but without ever having to face the reality that everyone he cared about and everything he loved might be dead, gone forever without hope of retrieval.

His eyes filled and tears overflowed without a hitch in his breathing. There were no sobs or whimpers. If he could think these things, he knew he could not be insane. This mission of his, this destiny his parents had told him was his to fulfil, it was not something that thrived on being thought about or pondered. It was not the conjuration of a sick mind. It was, just like every seemingly mad but incredibly sane piece of art in the scrapbook, the commanding of a true and honest heart that pushed him forwards and kept him moving. This was not some clever idea about the way life should be. It was about the survival of right living, it was about the survival of the spirit in a world where spirit had been superseded by technology and greed.

He collapsed to his knees in the barn and thrust his fingers through the cracks to touch the earth below. Its coolness welcomed his fingertips.

“Give me strength,” he whispered. “Send me every helper you can and all the luck you have. And even if you can’t do that, I swear I’ll give you everything I have. I’ll keep searching. I’ll keep fighting. And I’ll never give up until I find him. If I die trying, I know my life will have been well spent.”

The sky darkened overhead and Gordon smiled, eyes closed, tears coursing down his face and dripping through the barn’s broken floor to touch the cold black earth below. Distant thunder unrolled, approaching across the landscape. The earth shuddered and then all was silent and still.

His very blood alive with energy for the search, he packed everything up. He felt no need for rest. He pulled on his pack and strode from the barn. Outside a gloom had fallen across the land, so deep and sullen it might have been twilight. Gordon thanked the life in everything for these midday shadows, knowing they would conceal him as he continued on his journey.