Black Feathers

74

Megan has nothing left but her will to protect herself and the crystal. She draws it out now from her pocket, holds it tight and prays for help in the name of the land and every sacred thing that lives upon it. There is no doubt that strength comes to her in response, rising up from the earth and filling her legs with the resilience and agility of a deer. She speeds towards the trees, opening up a little distance between her and the black and green spill of snakes and spiders.

The Crowman has already cleared his tide of familiars. He is fleet of foot in a way Megan will never match. In the open she cannot outrun him. Her only chance is the trees. There’s a small chance she’ll be more nimble through the forest and its obstacles. The world turns several shades darker as she breaks into the woodland. Her feet skip light and quick over fallen branches, and she dodges between closely spaced trees and through small breaks in thickets, knowing he will have to go around.

Another rearward glance.

No sign of the Crowman.

Triumphant but not yet daring to slow the pace, Megan sprints onwards through the forest, covering ground in minutes which took hours to pass through on her way in. She is inspired and powerful. Her legs could carry her like this for miles. The terrain will have slowed the spiders and snakes. Looking behind her, there’s no sign of them. Like their master, they may not even have followed her into the wood. None of this is enough to slow her. She must make all the ground she can.

When she can maintain the sprint no longer she slows to a good run, knowing that if she can maintain it, she’ll be back in Bodbran’s hovel before the day is done.

At first the shadow catches her eye and she assumes it is nothing more than the flashing past of tree trunks. The shadow passes over the ground moving faster than her, sometimes across her path, sometimes in the direction she runs in and sometimes against it. A dark silhouette flits through the already shaded world of the forest. She fears he has sent the ghost of himself to claim her; she knows he must have that kind of power. And then something causes her to look up and she sees vast black wings spread wide overhead. The Crowman tracks her from above, gliding silent and without effort while she pounds her legs and wracks her chest for air.

She falters.

If he can do this, he can take her anytime he wants to. What is the point in trying to flee? He will descend on her the way a falcon takes a dove. He will take her and he will take the crystal too. As she is about to give up, she hears a clear, strong voice. It comes from all around her.

“Come back, Megan. You’re almost home.”

This voice, though it has no owner and may be nothing more than her imagination trying to keep her spirit aflame, is enough to keep her running.

The open ground on the other side of the forest is dangerous and if he is going to fall upon her, that is where he will do it, but at least she will see the sky again before the end comes, and if she can find the strength to sprint again, there are places where she can take cover when he dives. If she is going to die, it will not be with a curse upon her soul: she will die trying to return the crystal to Bodbran and trying to reach Mr Keeper. She will die trying to return home. She races for the edge of the forest.

It is nearer than she remembers.

She runs from heavy cover into sparsely spaced, smaller trees and in swift order she is covering open ground. In the far distance she can see the smoke which rises over Shep Afon. High above she hears the triumphant, jeering call of a crow.

She ignores it.

Ahead is a bank of hawthorn that will give good cover. She looks up to check his position and he is in stoop, falling fast, wings pulled tight and short, neck outstretched, claws drawn back but ready to strike. As she nears the hawthorn and looks for a place to duck into, four black-hooded figures step forwards from between the thorny branches. Each carries a catapult. They aim into the sky and fire.

Megan makes it to the hawthorn and dives behind Bodbran’s girls. She looks back to see the Crowman has veered away, flapping hard to gain altitude.

“Thank you,” she pants. “Thank you. Thank you.”

The figures ignore her, keeping their eyes skyward and taking more projectiles from small sacks which hang at their waists. They release another volley of shots high into the air. Megan, who has landed on her front in the dirt, doesn’t see if the missiles make contact. She crawls deeper into cover, labouring for breath, suddenly drained.

A voice comes from within the hawthorn, not from the figures who protect her:

“Don’t give up yet.”

Rallied, she crawls on through the hawthorn, catching her face and shoulders on its woody barbs. Thorns which have dropped to the ground now penetrate her palms and fingers, but she ignores the pain. She comes to the other side of the trees, stands up and begins to run again. It is a fast trudge now.

She runs like an old man wearing lead shoes, but she runs. From far above she hears the frustrated cry of the Crowman and from behind the thump of booted feet as Bodbran’s hooded assistants run to follow and protect her. She doesn’t look back. Ignoring the ache and weight in her legs, Megan keeps running.

She can’t feel her legs any more.

All around her the colour bleeds from the land. She spares a glance for this and sees the sky has darkened to twilight in a matter of moments. Darkness falls but not because the night has come; the Crowman has drawn his black wings across the sun. He means to hunt her in darkness so Bodbran’s helpers can help no more.

Down comes the blackness and the stars shine from ill-dignified positions in the sky. But for the faint starlight it is full dark. Megan’s eyes don’t have a chance to adjust. She runs blind now and soon she begins to stumble, unable to see where she is putting her feet. One boot half slips into a small rut, something that by day she would have stepped into or around without any trouble, and Megan falls.

She waits for the impact, expecting the ground to thrust what little wind she has left from her lungs and knock her half senseless in the process. She never makes contact. The fall lengthens into a dive, into a plummet. Through the Crowman’s woeful night she plunges into an abyss and, she expects, into the embrace of his black wings.

The fall slows; the liquid rush of darkness all around solidifies and she floats. She has a sense of looking upwards from a supine posture. The floating sensation quickly leaves her, to be replaced by the ponderous drag of incorporation. She sinks into her exhausted body, not wanting to return to it but having no way to resist the process. She feels the pressure and discomfort of uneven ground pressing up into her back, smells burning tallow and smoky spice. A wheezing, phlegm-speckled voice breathes:

“Do you have it, girl? Did you bring me the Crowspar?”

Megan tries to speak but her throat is dry and closed.

The Crowspar.

She pats her pocket with her hand and feels the carved crystal disk safely within. Unable to utter a word, she nods instead. Bony hands are upon her immediately, invading her pocket and removing the crystal before she can resist or even raise a word of protest.

There’s an admiring sigh followed by a long spasm of coughing, and Megan knows without opening her eyes that Bodbran has what she wants. Finally, she is able to part her leaden eyelids. Her body won’t respond to her commands. Through the crack she has created, she sees Bodbran turning over the Crowspar in her ancient hands, admiring it by the light of the candles. Black auras and sparks of black light jump from the crystal wherever the old woman’s fingers touch it. She chuckles, presses the carved disk between her fingers and kisses it. When she takes her hands away from each other, the Crowspar is gone.

Megan tries to sit up but she’s paralysed. A grunt escapes her lips and her eyes widen. Other than that she is utterly immobile. The thing she has risked everything to find has vanished. Bodbran chuckles again, patting Megan’s thigh.

“Not to worry, Megan Maurice. Not to worry. You’ve done a fine job. You’ve done as we asked and no one could ask for more.” Bodbran stands up – this shocks Megan, who has supposed the old woman was crippled because she never moved her legs. The blanket falls away and she is naked. Her pierced breasts swing like empty sacks, her folds of belly-flesh hang over her crotch, hiding her womanhood from Megan’s sight. Her dirty legs are like sticks wrapped in loose brown leather. From her lips hangs a half-smoked cone. Her face sags like that of a bloodhound but she is smiling. “You’ve done all right, girl. Time to go home now, eh?”

Bodbran begins to unwrap the reeds from her hovel, exposing Megan to the sky. It is not night time. Instead the sky is bright with mid-morning sun. Bodbran peels away the coverings of her home and sounds rush in – the swoosh of the river, the clank and creak of the waterwheels, the chatter of buyers and traders in the market. When she has finished unwrapping the reeds, Bodbran squats beside Megan and places a gentle palm on her chest.

Megan opens her eyes wider and sees not Bodbran but Mr Keeper kneeling beside her on the sandy bank of the river. He is smiling. On her other side sits Carrick Rowntree, smoking a pipe and nodding to her.

“Well done, Megan,” he says between puffs. “Well done indeed.”

The immobility of her body seeps away and she regains control of her limbs. Blinking and swallowing, she pushes herself up onto her elbows and then sits up. The effort makes her queasy and she sways a little. Mr Keeper steadies her and holds up a water skin. She drinks a few sips and the water is like medicine; her mind reawakens and her body revitalises. She rubs her face with her hands and sits up straight to look around.

They are sitting in the makeshift camp they made after their meal in the hub.

“How long have I been…”

“Just for the afternoon, Megan,” says Mr Keeper.

“But I was away for two days and nights.”

“That’s how the Weave works,” says the old man.

She considers this but it only creates more questions.

“You said ‘well done’. How do you even know what I did?”

“Because we journeyed with you,” says Mr Keeper. “Don’t you remember?”

Megan thinks back to the times she looked behind her in the forest, certain someone was following her. She remembers the wrens.

“That was you?”

Both Mr Keeper and the old man nod. Their grins are touched with mischievous embarrassment.

“Why did you do this?” asks Megan. “What did you do?”

“We took a sacrament, Megan. We ate it together in the market and then we returned here so you could make your journey.”

“What was the sacrament?”

“It’s a kind of fungus,” says Mr Keeper. “You and I have collected and dried it on many occasions. It belongs to the sacred family of teacher plants, left on earth by the Great Spirit to help us pursue wisdom. Even if we lost all our knowledge, the teacher plants would be there to help us rediscover it.”

Megan stands up and stretches. Her body aches exactly as though she has been on the journey she remembers. She takes a few steps towards the river and then turns back, every question that arises in her mind giving birth to two more.

“Is Bodbran real?”

“Everything is real,” says the old man.

Suddenly, Megan remembers the spiders and snakes and the tearing open of the vast tree in the clearing. She falls to her knees on the damp sand, crying.

“Why?” she asks. “Why is the Crowman so cruel?”

Mr Keeper rushes to her side and squats next to her in the sand.

“Everything has two sides. You’ve seen the side of the Crowman that is Black Jack. But he didn’t harm you – other than to give you a scare. He introduced you to your fears and caused you to confront them. He made you discover more strength within yourself, Megan.” Mr Keeper puts an arm around her shoulder and holds her to him. It’s an unusual display of closeness, but she welcomes it. Mr Keeper is all the family she’s got now. “And, what’s more, he led you to the source of the Black Light. Even among the Keepers there are very few who ever set eyes upon the Crowspar, let alone hold it in their hands. You must understand how blessed you are.”

Megan’s weeping worsens. She is disorientated by the concertinaing of time and the contradictions of her journey. She is exhausted and sore. Softly, Mr Keeper leads her back to the shelter on the sand and lays her down. He covers her and soothes her as though she is an infant, and like an infant she is soon asleep, tears drying on her hot red cheeks.

After a time, Carrick Rowntree speaks.

“She could be the one.”

And, after a time, Mr Keeper nods.

“She is,” he says. “She is the one.”