The Book of the Crowman (24 page)

Once clear of Coventry’s smaller roads, the column loosened and Gordon was able to trot between the ranks. Their pace was little better than a fast shuffle; none of them had learned to march in unison. Without his pack he made swift progress out to the motorway and once there he jogged along within the barrier of the central reservation making good time.

His pace had an edge of panic and desperation to it. Gordon recognised this but couldn’t control it. Somewhere amid these crowds was the one individual who could make the Green Men victorious but Gordon couldn’t stop to search every line of fighters and even if he did, he had no idea what the Crowman
really
looked like. All he’d ever had to go on were sketches, poems and hearsay. Even so, Gordon had a sense that he would know him if he saw him.

He had to keep believing that the moment of revelation was coming. He had to trust Grimwold’s words and the silent language spoken by every tree and bird and rock he’d passed since his journey began. And he had to get ahead of these troops fast. If the head of the column met the Ward before they had a figurehead to follow into battle, Gordon didn’t believe they had a chance. It would be like feeding meat into a grinder.

The motorway bent lazily to the left and crested a rise. On the other side was a long shallow decline and, almost a mile away at its lowest point, he saw the exit for Rugby. At the top of the slip road a bridge spanned the M6 and even from this distance he could see people ranged along the edge of it. With the hill on his side, he picked up the pace.

He saw Denise long before she saw him and, as he’d hoped, she was accompanied by a First Guard. There appeared to be only one but that was far better than her travelling alone. He left the centre of the motorway and moved across to the hard shoulder, slipping lightly between the bodies of the marchers. Many of them already looked weary enough to drop but the combined energy and momentum of the vast column, and perhaps the thought that finally they might be able to make a difference; all this seemed to hold them up and keep them moving. When someone flagged or collapsed, those around them lifted them up. In three years of travelling Gordon had never seen so much cooperation and cohesion between people. He could only wonder why it took the promise of war to make it happen.

When Denise began to jump up and down, waving and calling out to him, Gordon was already running up the slip road.

Megan is halfway up the coppice side of the valley when she begins to hear faint pops and sharper cracks issuing from the opening of the cave and echoing into the night. She turns and looks back.

There’s an orange glow behind the hawthorns, making warped black silhouettes of their gnarled bodies. The light from within the cave is enough to reveal thick, black smoke rising from the cave mouth. She hopes she has done enough to destroy everything inside.

As she watches, her eyes are drawn to a bright flash high above the cave. It comes from inside the windmill. Moments later she hears a thump, the sound following the light across the valley. Something inside the mill has exploded and from within there is a brightening glimmer. Megan’s hand goes to her mouth as she remembers the hole in the roof of the cave where highly-combustible flour was sifting down. The flames would have leapt up the constantly falling grain dust and into the body of the mill where, no doubt, there are tons of tinder dry sacks of–

Another flash, much brighter this time and the bang that follows it is much louder. The air from the valley pushes her back a step. She notices now, by the light of the fire taking hold of the mill, that there are figures outside it, their hands raised in dismay at the destruction. Three figures. It looks like three men.

Megan turns away and sprints up the final stretch of the hill, wasting no more time on backward glances.

The two horses trotted south along the deserted A5. One carried Jerome, the other, Denise. Gordon ran comfortably alongside them on the grass verge. For the moment no one spoke. Gordon didn’t mind. He was glad they were making progress. Now that the daylight was waning, he cursed himself for all the time he’d spent trying to catch up on sleep in the high-rise flat.

Their reunion had been mixed and he replayed it often in the silence:

Seeing Denise running to him from the top of the slip road had made his heart beat faster. Her smile, her eyes, her hair, the way she moved; he was very glad to see all that again. And he ached for her too. Even before they embraced, he was uncomfortably hard. Her hug closed tighter around him when she felt it. He was glad his coat was there to hide his condition from the disapproving young First Guard who looked down on them. Even as he held Denise close and his physical need for her prevented him from swallowing properly, he knew it was wrong between them, just as he always had.

And yet, he couldn’t pull himself away.

“It’s so good to see you, Gordon,” she said, pulling back so that she could kiss him. “I thought you might not come back.”

“I was always going to come back.”

The words sounded trite, almost rehearsed, but he knew they were true. All this was inevitable; it was his calling.

“And the little girl?”

Gordon shook his head. Denise released him and her hands went to her mouth. He took hold of her shoulders.

“Listen… I...” He struggled to find a way to say it. “They didn’t… It wasn’t a bad end for her, Denise. I did everything I could.”

“What about the rest of them?”

Gordon felt the First Guard looking at him but he didn’t look up. Not yet.

He shrugged.

“They’re gone.”

Now he raised his eyes to the First Guard, dressed in his green and brown uniform with a thick leather belt and brass buckle clasped around his waist. The buckle had a simple motif engraved into it – an oak tree. Gordon nodded to himself. It was a good symbol. The horseman was no more than a boy really. Gordon could see from his eyes that he had fought and that he had killed but his innocence seemed not yet to have been entirely rubbed away. There was an ambitiousness to his cheekbones, or was it arrogance? Either way, Gordon decided in that very moment that he didn’t trust this boy, with his soft, tanned skin and clamped lips, his resentful jealous eyes.

He held out his hand nonetheless.

“I’m Gordon Black.”

“I know who you are.”

When nothing further was forthcoming, Gordon let his hand drop. Denise tried to smooth the waters.

“This is Jerome Proctor,” she said. And then, catching the boy’s eye and smiling she added, “Sub-commander Jerome Proctor.”

“It’s good to meet you,” said Gordon. “Thank you for taking such good care of Denise.”

“We should be moving on,” said Jerome. “There’s a lot of ground to cover if we want to get ahead of this rabble.”

Gordon looked down at the passing multitude.

“We’ll never manage on the motorway. Do you know another route?”

Jerome’s lips thinned further at being told his business.

“It’s all planned out. Denise will ride with me. This mount is for you.”

Gordon shook his head.

“Denise can have the horse. I’m happier walking. Or running if need be.”

Jerome’s eyes flashed and he coloured up again.

“Look, we brought this horse especially to make it more comfortable for you.”

Gordon was embarrassed for the boy. It was obvious to all three of them that what he really wanted was for Denise to sit behind him and hold on tight. Gordon tried not to smile but he wasn’t sure he managed it.

“I’m fine,” he said. “Really.”

For a moment, Jerome didn’t seem to know what to do.

I hope you don’t hesitate like this in battle, thought Gordon. You’ll get people killed.

“Come on. Let’s get moving.”

Gordon walked off just to speed things up.

“Not that way,” said Jerome.

The First Guard leaned over and made a meal of helping Denise into her saddle before moving off. She could barely ride, that much was clear, but she could hold on while the horse made headway and that would be good enough.

After a few minutes of silence, Gordon said, “So, which way are you taking us?”

“You’ll see as we go,” said Jerome.

“I’m sure I will,” said Gordon. “But I’d still like to know what our plan is in case anything goes wrong or we get separated. Best be prepared, eh?”

For a while he thought Jerome wouldn’t answer. He rode stiff-backed and staring straight ahead as though he hadn’t heard. Gordon was on the point of getting their personality problems out in the open when a response came back from on high.

“We’re following this road to the A5. It’s only a couple of miles away. From there we head south. It’s a little longer than taking the M6 but it will be clear and a lot quicker. Once we hit the A5 it’s almost dead straight all the way.”

“All the way to where?”

Again the long, reluctant pause. Gordon knew Jerome had no good reason for not telling him their destination other than the satisfaction of knowing more than Gordon did.

“The original plan was to march on Northampton, take it and move south one town at a time. Keeping that information from the Ward proved impossible.” Jerome made a point of relinquishing tunnel vision for a moment and looked directly at Gordon. “Their spies are everywhere,” he said, before turning his attention back to the road ahead. “The Ward began to mass their forces in London ready to come north and reinforce every one of their territories. As soon as the Chieftain heard this, the plan changed. Now we’ll meet them in open combat. All our fighters will be deployed where the M1 meets the M6. When the Ward arrive, that’s where they’ll have to meet us. And by then we’ll occupy all the most advantageous ground.”

“And where are the three of us heading, Jerome?”

“Junction 18 of the M1. The southernmost point. Nearest to the action.”

Gordon was silent then, trying to imagine how a battle such as this would play out. Trying to see a way in which the Green Men could possibly come out on top. He looked up at Denise, who seemed to be waiting for his attention. She smiled at him and, in spite of everything that was wrong about their connection, he found he couldn’t wait to be alone with her. Perhaps tonight there would be an opportunity to slip away for a while. He winked at her and she looked away, satisfied. If Jerome caught the quiet exchange, he made no show of it.

“The whole thing, this ‘plan’ of the Chieftain’s,” said Gordon. “It’s suicide. You’ve seen them in combat, right? They’re superior in every way. They have vehicles and fuel. Many of them have guns. I’ve seen them destroy a village with mortar fire and send the occupying Green Men screaming back into the woods.”

“Whose bloody side are you on, Gordon?” asked Jerome.

“I’m on the side of the land and the people who still know how to love her. I’m on the side of the Crowman.” Gordon glanced up to see if Jerome would meet his gaze. The First Guard rode on, eyes level and fixed on the road. “There must be another way of doing this.”

“I suppose you’ve got a better plan than the Chieftain, is that it?”

“No,” said Gordon. “I don’t think I do. I admire what he’s trying to achieve and I admire the people even more for being ready to lay down their lives. But I can’t help thinking that this isn’t the answer. I think all these lives could be put to better use.”

The First Guard’s gaze had remained on the road when he said:

“I think you should probably shut up.”

The three of them had continued in silence from then on.

Can’t run like this all night. I’ve got to rest. Got to stop.

But Megan can’t stop because she knows with complete certainty that the men from the mill are coming after her. They probably saw her lumbering up the hill and even if they didn’t, her boots will have left a trail in the cold, glinting crystals that seemed to fall directly from the moon. She has to keep moving.

She thanks the Great Spirit for the moonshine above and the clarity of the night all around her. Without these boons she would be unable to travel at all without losing her way or breaking an ankle. It gives her pursuers the same advantage but at least she has a head start on them and at least she knows where she’s going. The men behind her will have to work out her route and constantly re-check her trail.

Some time after her sprint has become a run and her run a fast march, the frozen moon dust stops falling. No more footprints for the men to follow. They’ll have to use other skills. Another blessing. Only then does Megan begin to believe she might actually make it back to New Wood.

She pushes the pace.

Gordon was content to let Jerome lead them. When their horses slowed to a walk, he hung back, strolling beside Denise, making Jerome choose between being in control and travelling alongside the object of his infatuation. The First Guard looked back at them often but his need to show his authority appeared to override everything. Gordon would have smiled if it hadn’t been so sad.

“What happened to all our gear?” he asked after a while.

Denise nodded towards Jerome.

“They told me they couldn’t carry any more stuff.” She mimicked a Birmingham accent. “‘You’re baggage enough, missus,’ one of them said. They made me leave it all behind.”

“Everything?”

“More or less.”

“What did you do with it all?”

“There wasn’t a lot of time, Gordon.”

“It’s OK. I just want to know what happened. I feel like I’ve left parts of myself scattered all across the country.”

“I found a gap in the hedgerow on the towpath,” she said. “A few miles from where we saw the girl. I crawled through and found an upturned water trough. I put everything inside it and turned the trough upside down. If we ever go back, it should all still be there.”

Gordon nodded to himself.

“Thanks, Denise. You did well. I was worried you’d chucked it all in the canal.”

“Believe me, I thought about it.”

As they walked, Denise tried to shrug off her backpack. She couldn’t do it and keep control of her horse. She stopped the horse with a long tug on the reins and slung the backpack down to Gordon.

Jerome looked back and stopped too.

“What’s the hold-up?”

“It’s nothing, Jerome. You keep going. We’ll be right with you.”

“I’m not authorised to leave you unprotected, Denise.”

“So wait there, then.”

“We really need to keep moving. There’s not a lot of daylight left.”

Denise ignored him and slid down from her horse. Retrieving her backpack from Gordon, she said:

“I did manage to save a couple of things.”

She unzipped the pack and brought out a clear plastic bag. Inside was a black notebook and pencil. It was Gordon’s most recent journal, as yet unfinished. There, too, was the bulging scrapbook of scrawled Crowman imagery and fevered poetry. He flipped it open. Inside were the letters from his mother and father. He slipped the books into the deep inside pockets of his coat, one on each side, before embracing Denise, holding her tight.

“Thank you. You have no idea how much this means to me.”

He pulled away and saw Jerome’s young face, twisted and aged by envy.

“Actually,” she said, “I think I do.” She reached into her backpack again. “I’ve got something else for you.”

Carefully, she withdrew the black top hat with its festoon of black feathers and handed it to Gordon. He held the hat up and turned it in his hands. Silky plumes poked up from the band like crooked black teeth. Some of them were long enough to poke up over the rim of the top hat, making it look like some elaborate junk-shop crown. From the rear half of the brim hung feathers dangling from sewing thread, tangling and turning in the wind.

“That is one mental hat, Denise. Where’d you find it?”

“I found the hat on a… fence post in Coventry. The rest I did myself.”

“Yeah?” Gordon looked again. “It’s brilliant. I couldn’t possibly wear it but it’s great. Thanks.”

“But you must wear it.”

“Nah. I’d look weird.”

“Like you don’t look weird already? Come on, Gordon. It’s the perfect Crowman-hunter’s headgear. I’m sure he’ll take it as a great compliment when you find him. Go ahead. Try it on.”

Gordon lifted the hat up and placed it over his head. It slipped down and stopped, the brim a couple of inches above his eyebrows. The trailing feathers mingled with the ones already woven into his hair. To his surprise, the hat was warm.

“What’s in here?”

“I lined it with rabbit fur.”

“From another fencepost, was it?”

Denise shrugged, her smile a little too convincing.

“Something like that.”

What does it matter? he thought. She thought of me. She made an effort.

“How do I look?”

“Distinguished.”

“I think I’ll keep it on,” he said. “It feels great.”

Jerome’s horse stamped its hooves, perhaps passing on its rider’s impatience.

“Mount up, Denise. We need to keep moving.”

She widened her eyes at Gordon.

“Yes, sir!”

This time Gordon helped her on with her backpack and boosted her up into the saddle. Jerome was moving away before she’d even taken the reins.

Gordon hung back a little as they walked, taking in the strangeness of the picture ahead of him. Two riders progressing along the white lines in the centre of a major road. Not a car in sight and none expected any time soon. To either side, the hedges were hawthorn, elder and blackthorn, their winter branches spiky and exposed.

There had once been industrial parks and truck-stops on both sides of the road. Over the years people had dumped rubbish alongside the verges and the black refuse sacks were caught forever in the barbed grip of the hedgerows. Shredded by thorns, the ribbons of black plastic fluttered and shivered in the constant wind. They made a sound like prayer flags, though what the words of the prayer might be, Gordon couldn’t imagine. The bags would still be caught there, dancing to the touch of the wind in a thousand years, whether the people of this land survived or not.

When he looked straight ahead, letting his eyes defocus a little, the torn black plastic might have been the ragged bodies of ravens that hung amid the spikes to either side as the three of them walked south to battle, and to war.

Night has stretched the distance between the cave beneath the mill and Mr Keeper’s roundhouse.

In the daylight, no stretch of land or river bank seemed as long as they seem now. The darkness teases the miles into forever. Megan, whose heart has not yet settled, feels the treacle of fatigue cooling and settling in her leg muscles. She knows she is slowing down – from a walk now to a trudge – but she can do nothing to make herself move faster.

As she lumbers over the frozen ground, Megan notices that she can see a little better. Glancing up she sees a vague lightening of the sky to the east. Without stopping, she removes her pack and pulls out the last of her rations and water. Staggering a little, she replaces the pack leaving her hands free to nibble the crust of the bread and take tiny sips of water.

For a while this dispels the swollen sensation of uselessness in her legs but it doesn’t last long. Her body cries out to her for rest and she wants to take heed. Megan is fit but she has never had to move this far this quickly. Soon her pace has slowed again and with every few steps her boots drag.

She hears noise; hooves distantly hammering the hard ground, hounds baying. The shock makes her stumble. They sounds are so faint they seem little more than echoes from some distant place in the weave. But Megan knows they are nothing so benign. They are of this world; right here, right now. It is the sound of her pursuers, the men from the mill, somewhere in the darkness.

She prays it will be far enough.