The Book of the Crowman (12 page)

The mood amongst travellers on the M1 was completely different as Gordon and Denise continued north the following morning. For a while it was enough to distract him from the sense that someone, somewhere, was watching him. On the opposite carriageway, they noticed people smiling and throngs on both sides of the central reservation buzzed with excited whispers.

He put his hand out to Denise and slowed their pace a little as he tried to catch the gist of what people were saying. Voices were muted, though, and hearing what was said was close to impossible.

“What is it?” asked Denise.

“I don’t know exactly. Can you tell what everyone’s talking about?”

She shook her head. Before Gordon could say a word to stop her she was talking to a member of a group of skinny teenage boys walking just ahead of them. Gordon hadn’t considered it too carefully – it was one of the things that sometimes made him feel like he was a visitor from another planet – but Denise was very pleasant to look at. The lads in front of him welcomed her into their group and she soon had them laughing.

Gordon hung back. If they realised Denise wasn’t travelling alone, they might not be so cooperative. Their chatter became raucous and lewd and Gordon felt his cheeks scalded with sudden anger. It shocked him.

Hell, I’m jealous of them.

He shook his head and laughed at himself but the anger didn’t leave. Even when Denise’s fact-finding operation was complete and she fell back to walk with him again, even when the lads up ahead had looked back and realised she was already accompanied the sensation didn’t pass.

Gordon couldn’t listen to what she was telling him at first. He was too busy staring down any of the boys – probably his age or a little younger – who looked back. Everyone was an opportunist now. Everyone was desperate. Under the Ward, the country was more lawless than it had ever been. Ahead the boys gestured and joked amongst themselves. Gordon set his face against their derision and kept walking.

Beside him Denise had gone quiet.

“What?” he asked.

“Have you heard anything I’ve just said to you?”

“Sorry. No. I was… miles away.”

She gave him a look he’d seen many times in the days since they’d met. Some mix of disapproval and mistrust. It passed quickly but it left him wondering if they’d ever get past the experiences they’d shared or find any comfort in travelling together. He came to the conclusion he always came to, the one that had made a hermit of him: he was better off alone.

“There’s talk of war,” said Denise in the end.

“There’s always talk of war. It gives people something to cling to.”

“No. This is different. Not so much a war as a battle. People are saying the Green Men are going to march on one of the Ward’s strongholds.”

“If the people on this road know that, you can be certain the Ward know it too. It’s not the first time this has happened.”

“I know it isn’t. But there’s a real energy to this. Can’t you feel it?”

He shrugged.

“I suppose so. But does that really mean anything? I’d rather keep my mind clear of maybes than have hope and lose it. I’ve been through that too many times.”

“Do you think I haven’t? I’m telling you, Gordon. There’s something different about this.”

“Alright.”

They walked in silence for a while. Maybe what Denise was saying was true. Maybe there would be some kind of decisive blow against the Ward. As much as people seemed to be divided over the Crowman, they hated the Ward more; the Ward were a real danger to everyone, every day. You could see them and their brutality with your own eyes. There was no need for rumours. Gordon guessed most of the people walking on this road had been hurt by the Ward in some way or another. And even though the Ward were the sworn enemies of the Crowman and even though they promised to stop the world from ending, it wasn’t enough to make anyone love or trust them.

Thank the Great Spirit for that, thought Gordon.

My eyes only,

Travelling north now with Denise. Someone’s “with” us, I’m sure, but I haven’t seen them yet. Almost worse than that, though, is all this talk of war. This is not the way to rid our world of the Ward. The Green Men, even though they form the beating heart of our nation – its true heart – are a limited force. They must work in secret and are constantly infiltrated by Ward agents posing as dissidents. Sending out counterpart spies into Ward Substations is far harder and comes with much greater risk to the movement. The Green Men are poorly equipped, starving, badly organised and often divided in their ideologies. the Ward are well fed, have the best weapons and even a few vehicles. They are also organised into a hierarchy and share one simple belief – that they must find and destroy the Crowman. Do that and they’ve destroyed the hope of the people. They may say they’re saving the world by killing the Crowman but I don’t think they really believe that for a moment. He’s nothing more than a threat to their plans of total control. If anything, they seem to understand the Crowman better than the Green Men who, like me, still can’t decide if he is a real person or some kind of “force” that exists in nature.

And to cap all this, every wild-eyed man – young or old – who suddenly has something to believe in because war is the only thing that makes sense to them, all of them ask me:

“Will you fight?”

As though I haven’t fought the Ward since the very first time they hurt me and my family with their twisted, power-hungry intentions. As though I haven't parted their spirits from their bodies more times than I can count. When I find them bumbling so loudly and stupidly through the woods, thinking they’re using the land as cover. Or when I see one in a town somewhere, walking alone; as though I haven’t dragged him into some broken alley or smashed building and cut his throat so that his blood can leak down through the shattered concrete to feed the ground. As though I haven’t breached a dozen Substations in the dead of night, just to claim a couple more and do my bit. As though I haven’t faced them down, four or six at a time when they’ve caught up with me or come across me by accident. These ragged starveling boys and husks of men, suddenly joyful and wet-eyed at the idea of battle, they ask me this as though I ran away whenever I was outnumbered.

But there’s no explaining such things to people in times like these. Perhaps such things can never be explained. Saying “I’ve killed more Wardsmen than you’ve got fleas” won’t go down too well. No one would believe me anyway.

So I say:

“Yes. I’ll fight.”

And they clap me on the shoulder, believing another man has come to swell their now unbeatable, unstoppable ranks. It’s easier to say yes than it is to fight the people who you hope will inherit the earth. It’s easier and smarter to say yes and not be branded a coward by the ignorant.

Denise smiles when they ask and each time I say I’ll fight. I say it the same way everyone else does even though half of them don’t really mean it. What they mean is they’ll be there in spirit even though this isn’t really their fight. They’ll support it. They’ll cheer from the sidelines. People, even the most well-meaning, are all about subtext. You’ll never know what they really mean until you learn to read their eyes. Walking the highways of this land has given me that much skill if not much else.

But I want Denise to be happy. Especially now and for as long as it’s possible to hold such a feeling in her heart. The truth is, I’ll never stop owing her. Her daughter brought me as close to the Crowman as I’ve ever been and I let her die. The debt is not one I’m able to repay – whether I’m telling the truth about fighting alongside the Green Men or not.

When he could stand the questions no longer from almost every stranger on the motorway, and the very moment there was true countryside on both sides of the road instead of disused logistics terminals and decaying, abandoned suburbs, Gordon took Denise’s hand and led her to the hard shoulder.

“What is it?” she asked.

“We’re going bush.”

“What?”

“We need to get off this road, get some food and find some shelter.”

Denise looked across the landscape, frowning.

“There’s nothing to eat out there. And there’s nowhere to sleep.”

Gordon placed his hands gently on her shoulders and looked into her eyes.

“Yes,” he said. “There is. And it’ll be easier to shake whoever’s following us.”

Denise glanced down the embankment, back the way they’d come.

“I haven’t noticed anyone,” she said.

“Neither have I. If we head into the countryside now, we may not have to worry about it any more. the Ward don’t do so well off the beaten track.”

He hauled her up to the edge of the grass verge where the shrubs and open latrines began.

“I’m not walking through
that
.”

“Fine.”

He picked her up and she shrieked in surprise.

“Put me down.”

But Gordon was amid the shit already, picking his way between turds historic and modern.

“Don’t you dare drop me.”

He broke a rare smile. It felt good.

They reached a low fence and Gordon placed her down gently on the other side before climbing over. The land was not as green as it once was and there were patches where it appeared utterly grey and dead. But Gordon knew better. He knew the soil underneath was waiting. Biding its time. The trees were leafless; mourning it seemed to him, and the expanse before them was silent and still.

“There’s nothing out here,” said Denise.

And he found himself wondering how many people believed that, even before everything started to go downhill. Maybe that was the real reason it had happened.

Gordon didn’t bother to answer her this time. He just started walking and pretty soon he knew she was following him; like a kid who doesn’t want to walk but doesn’t want to be left behind alone.

He thought again about the “war”. It wouldn’t be a war. It would be a battle. Perhaps there’d be a few. And when the Ward had slaughtered a couple of hundred thousand more weak, ill-disciplined Green Men, they’d finally have the nation in a total stranglehold. Because one more defeat was all it would take to completely destroy the will of the people.

And the people were walking right into it.

Mr Keeper isn’t in the clearing nor is he in his roundhouse so, having knocked a few times, Megan sits down on a log outside the door to wait for him. Whilst this has become more of a home than her parents’ cottage, she is wary of entering without her teacher present.

After a few moments of shivering in the frosty morning air, she rises and checks the wind-eye. It’s open, as always, and she peeps into the darkness. She can see where Mr Keeper usually sits, and the space is unoccupied but it’s impossible to see much of anything else. She supposes he might be sleeping or deep in one of his trances. He probably wouldn’t want her to disturb him in either case. Still, she wants – needs – to talk to him.

She calls through the wind-eye in a soft whisper.

“Mr Keeper? It’s Megan.”

There’s no reply.

“Are you in there?

Still nothing.

Sighing, her breath lingering in the cold air, she walks away from the roundhouse and inspects the perimeter of the clearing. No movement. Looking back she notices a thin updraft of almost colourless smoke rising from his chimney. Mr Keeper always seems to know when she’s returning; as though he’s watched her through the weave the whole time. She’s sure he can’t be far away.

With nothing better to do, she saunters around the edge of the clearing. There’s nothing to take her attention and no sign of Mr Keeper among the nearest pine trees. A few minutes of leisurely walking brings her back to where she started. She sits on the log again and a few moments later tuts a few times, rises and lets herself into the roundhouse.

The heat is delicious around her and she takes her usual place on the mats, not feeling any real guilt about trespassing; this is a place she can call home as much as her mother and father’s cottage and she knows Mr Keeper won’t mind her being here.

She sits, soaking up the warmth and relaxing. The many days of writing have taken more of her energy than she realised and soon her head begins to nod. With nothing to do but wait she lies down, pulling one of Mr Keeper’s woollen rugs over her.

Just for a little while, she tells herself. Just until he gets back.

Megan wakes with a start knowing it isn’t minutes but hours that have past. The cast of the light through the wind-eye is different, the feel of the day much altered. For some reason she can’t understand she feels guilty sleeping like this and her heart is beating too fast.

The temperature in the roundhouse has dropped and she checks the stove. Only a few dim embers remain in its round black belly. Unnerved by the way she has allowed the day get away from her, Megan scuttles out to the wood pile and returns with fuel. Small slivers of wood and bark to catch the flame and larger pieces to re-awaken it to its previous heat.

Within a few minutes she has the fire roaring and she uses the crooked iron bar to close the stove’s little hatch. She adjusts the draw, slowing the rate of burn. It doesn’t take long for the roundhouse to come back to a comfortable temperature.

She looks around. The place is untidy and dirty. It’s unlike Mr Keeper to leave things like this; he tends to clean everything up as he goes along and messes don’t happen in the first place. She moves around in the warm gloom putting things in their proper positions by remembering where he reaches for items. It’s a small space and tidying it takes no time. Next, she takes a straw brush and sweeps the tightly woven mats until she has a pile of dust and other tiny leavings. She brushes them into a pan and hoists them out of the wind-eye towards the tobacco-stained cairn of debris where Mr Keeper spits and where animals, worms and birds forage for discarded nutriment.

She inspects the hanging bundles of drying herbs, taking down those which can now be stored in hessian pouches, and when there is nothing more she can do for the upkeep of the roundhouse she takes a mixture of sage and pine needles and sets fire to them in one of Mr Keeper’s small ceremonial bowls. The smoke rises in thick clots. With a large black feather, she wafts their scent around the inside of the roundhouse muttering blessings and asking for purification. She passes the bowl around her own body too, incanting and inhaling, cleansing herself and the space. When the bowl is spent and its ash cold, she adds a pinch of it to a drinking bowl and throws the rest out of the wind-eye. She pours water over the grains of ash in the bowl and drinks the resultant grey tea.

Finally, she slips out of the roundhouse to gather mushrooms for their supper.

Some of the fields were so dead-looking the earth was grey.

Gordon knelt from time to time to hold the dust of it in his hand. He let it fall from his fingers, sometimes like ash, sometimes like sand. Either way, nothing would grow in that earth. Not every part of every field was dead, though. Some strips and corners remained green and had long since turned to meadow. There the grass was long and interspersed with all manner of wild plants and weeds. There too, Gordon knew, small animals had made their homes or taken shelter. Seeds waited there for a spring that had taken too long to come. Whether the people survived or not, those seeds would still be waiting in a generation, ready for the seasons to return. Each time Gordon touched the long grasses that grew in those islands of life, a thrill of anticipation ran up into his chest, quickening his heartbeat, quickening his pace.

Denise, who had dragged her heels from the moment they left the motorway, fell further behind at those moments. These were the times she would call out to him.

“Where’s the bloody fire?”

“What?”

“Why are we
running
, Gordon?”

“We’re not running, we’re just…”

And he’d be off again before he could put it into words.

After a while, though, it became clear that Denise really couldn’t take the pace. The land had been flat when they first left the motorway. Now it was beginning to roll a little. She would catch up on the gentle downhill slopes but the inclines were wearing her down. Gordon scanned the landscape for what he wanted and saw it about a mile away.

He turned back and shouted to Denise.

“We’re nearly there.”

She struggled for enough breath to respond.

“Nearly where?”

“Somewhere we can stop.”

“I don’t need a special place. I can stop right here.”

“I mean a place where we can camp.”

“Camp? I hate camping.”

Gordon watched Denise puff her way up a hill he’d barely noticed was there.

“Well, what else would you call sleeping and eating outdoors?”

She caught up to him.

“I don’t know,” she said. “When you mentioned food and shelter I just assumed there might be… I don’t know, an old farmhouse or something.”

“Buildings attract attention. Everyone’s looking for buildings. They’re not safe.”

“Are you saying we’re just going to lie down and sleep on the ground?”

“No. But we’re not staying a in a bloody hotel either.” Gordon turned and set off again. She didn’t follow. “Come on, Denise, there’s a lot to do before we can eat.”

“I’m knackered. I can’t walk any more.”

He looked at her face. She believed what she was telling him. The truth was, she
could
walk farther. A lot farther. If their lives depended on it, she could probably run another five or ten miles before collapsing. This didn’t strike him as the time to be proving a point, however.

“I’ll carry you,” he said.

“No way.”

“It’s not far.”

“That’s all you ever say, ‘it’s not far’.”

He pointed.

“It really isn’t. See that bit of woodland down there?”

“Yeah.”

“That’s where we’re going. Can you walk that far? If you can’t, I’ll carry you.”

“Ha. You might be able to pick me up, but you couldn’t carry me fifty yards.”

Gordon’s smile was sly.

“What will you bet me, then – that I can carry you the whole way?”

“I’ve got nothing to bet with.”

“Fine,” said Gordon. “Make it a sportsman’s bet.”

He held out his hand. Denise shook it.

She was in his arms and off the ground before she could resist.

“Hey! I’m not ready.”

Gordon didn’t answer. He ran. And Denise screamed.

The world fell silent. All he knew was the joy of the power in his muscles and Denise’s fists battering against him in mock terror. He felt the wind rush past his ears and the thumping strength in his heart. A mile away, the distance shortening to the flying of his feet, the trees called out their quiet beckoning. No sound came in through his ears; their voices were already inside him.

Return, brother, to sit among us once more.

He grinned.

It could have been the wind in his face forcing tears from his eyes.

How he’d missed the land. How he’d missed the trees.

Denise stopped struggling and clung to his neck, watching the brightness behind Gordon’s eyes grow stronger. She’d been certain he would drop her – worse, fall on top of her – but she could feel the raw power in his arms and legs. He was thin and tall but his ragged clothes hid a strength unlike any she’d known. She’d never touched a man with this much life in him. He was elemental.

His delight at running free through the open land spread into her. By the time they reached the trees, with Gordon barely out of breath, she was smiling as broadly as he.

He dodged through the trunks and over fallen logs and branches, feeling the coolness of wooded shadow darkening his blood, enlivening it with the life of the land. The Earth was not dead, she merely slept; reserving herself for those that were true, those who would love her.

At the far edge of the trees, he found what he knew would be there; a small river. There on the bank he let Denise down, let her feet engage the living land. He inhaled the clean breath of trees and the clarity of the air above the water. His feet seemed to grow roots.

Denise’s kiss – warm, soft lips pressed like a boon to his cheek – came as a surprise.

“I underestimated you,” she said.

Gordon managed to smile but the kiss had made a boy of him once more. He didn’t know what to say.

“How did you get so fit?” she asked.

“I don’t know. Three years on the road… you know, it’s… kill or cure.”

“It certainly cured you. It’s like you’ve been training for something.”

He looked across the river.

“Perhaps I have been.”

Out here, he could enjoy being next to Denise. It felt alright. Within the gaze of the trees, it felt honest. In this moment of simplicity, he knew he enjoyed being next to Denise. When he felt her fingers reaching for his hand, though, he moved away.

“I’m going to build us a camp,” he said. “And I’m going to get some food. You can sit and rest if you want. Drink some water. If you get nervous, call out to me. I won’t be far away.”

Their eyes met and he smiled, but he walked away before she could do or say anything else. There was a lot to do, after all.