enough to hold that idea, not as a belief but as knowledge, housed in your very flesh. In your bones, in your blood and in your heart. If you can do that, not only will you have walked the Black Feathered Path to its endpoint – and therefore to its beginning – you will also have lived a beautiful, magical and full life. You will have been worthy of the gift of it.”
Megan is silenced by the enormity of it all, by its great simplicity and the responsibility it places upon her shoulders. Without a word, she helps Mr Keeper pack up their camp and clean away their breakfast. She waits for fear to rise in the aftermath of Mr Keeper’s words but it does not. Instead she finds the hard granite of resolve that anchors her through every uncertainty and danger, a foundation rock that grows more firm and stable with every day she walks the Black Feathered Path.
Her tears dry quickly. By the time they strike out for home across the brittle, white landscape she is calm again. Empty but calm.
12
Gunshots.
Gordon opened his eyes to darkness. Blinked. The darkness remained.
Where am I?
More gunshots.
No. Wait.
The noise seemed to come from somewhere below. Not gunshots but rapping. Stone on glass. Beneath his body was a soft surface, so comfortable his sleep had been dreamless and profound. A mattress.
I’m indoors?
Then it all came back: the girl with the shotgun, the Ward’s mounted patrol, the sick child who talked to the Crowman. He swung his legs off the bed, rubbing his face as he tried to remember the way back downstairs. Whoever was out there was hitting the glass with panicked urgency. He heard the glass smash, shards falling inward and hitting the basement’s stone floor. His knife slipped into his palm like an old friend. He opened out the blade and ran down the stairs, his left hand interpreting the shape of the house in the darkness, leading him to the basement.
Before he reached the last flight of stairs the noise began again; this time a stone knocking on the wood of the window frame. Gordon edged down into the cellar. The din continued, whoever was making it unaware he’d arrived.
“Who’s out there?” He called.
The knocking ceased.
“Is that you, Gordon?”
He recognised Denise’s voice.
“Yes.”
“Oh, thank God. Thank God you’re in here. Flora’s… she’s really sick. Can you come?”
He was already climbing out of the window. He set off in the direction of the green door in the back wall but Denise yanked him back.
“This way’s quicker.”
Using an old sofa as a step, she climbed over the property’s side wall and dropped into the next-door back garden. Gordon followed. Denise’s footsteps led him across a rubble-strewn expanse to the opposite wall, much of which had collapsed. They stepped over the bricks and she ran to the back gate in the next garden. The door had long before been torn off for shelter or firewood. She stepped through into the alley, able to run faster now. The alley opened out onto a street and a hundred yards further on Denise ducked through the blast hole in the wall that led to her own refuge.
As they climbed the stairs she said:
“I went to the old swimming pool first but I should have known you’d go to 257 after what you said about the countryside. All the greenery in London’s in that back garden.”
“What’s the matter with Flora?”
“I don’t know. I’ve never seen her this bad before.”
She let Gordon ascend to the attic first, pulling up the ladder and closing the hatch after her. A candle burned on a saucer near Flora’s untidy rumple of bedding. Denise lit several more and placed them near the girl’s head so Gordon could see her better.
“I’m not a doctor, Denise.”
“There are no doctors. None that I know anyway.”
“What about your… friends?”
“You were closer.”
Gordon knelt beside Flora and pulled back the blankets so that he could see her better. Her hair was dark with sweat, her teeth chattered and
Megan is silenced by the enormity of it all, by its great simplicity and the responsibility it places upon her shoulders. Without a word, she helps Mr Keeper pack up their camp and clean away their breakfast. She waits for fear to rise in the aftermath of Mr Keeper’s words but it does not. Instead she finds the hard granite of resolve that anchors her through every uncertainty and danger, a foundation rock that grows more firm and stable with every day she walks the Black Feathered Path.
Her tears dry quickly. By the time they strike out for home across the brittle, white landscape she is calm again. Empty but calm.
12
Gunshots.
Gordon opened his eyes to darkness. Blinked. The darkness remained.
Where am I?
More gunshots.
No. Wait.
The noise seemed to come from somewhere below. Not gunshots but rapping. Stone on glass. Beneath his body was a soft surface, so comfortable his sleep had been dreamless and profound. A mattress.
I’m indoors?
Then it all came back: the girl with the shotgun, the Ward’s mounted patrol, the sick child who talked to the Crowman. He swung his legs off the bed, rubbing his face as he tried to remember the way back downstairs. Whoever was out there was hitting the glass with panicked urgency. He heard the glass smash, shards falling inward and hitting the basement’s stone floor. His knife slipped into his palm like an old friend. He opened out the blade and ran down the stairs, his left hand interpreting the shape of the house in the darkness, leading him to the basement.
Before he reached the last flight of stairs the noise began again; this time a stone knocking on the wood of the window frame. Gordon edged down into the cellar. The din continued, whoever was making it unaware he’d arrived.
“Who’s out there?” He called.
The knocking ceased.
“Is that you, Gordon?”
He recognised Denise’s voice.
“Yes.”
“Oh, thank God. Thank God you’re in here. Flora’s… she’s really sick. Can you come?”
He was already climbing out of the window. He set off in the direction of the green door in the back wall but Denise yanked him back.
“This way’s quicker.”
Using an old sofa as a step, she climbed over the property’s side wall and dropped into the next-door back garden. Gordon followed. Denise’s footsteps led him across a rubble-strewn expanse to the opposite wall, much of which had collapsed. They stepped over the bricks and she ran to the back gate in the next garden. The door had long before been torn off for shelter or firewood. She stepped through into the alley, able to run faster now. The alley opened out onto a street and a hundred yards further on Denise ducked through the blast hole in the wall that led to her own refuge.
As they climbed the stairs she said:
“I went to the old swimming pool first but I should have known you’d go to 257 after what you said about the countryside. All the greenery in London’s in that back garden.”
“What’s the matter with Flora?”
“I don’t know. I’ve never seen her this bad before.”
She let Gordon ascend to the attic first, pulling up the ladder and closing the hatch after her. A candle burned on a saucer near Flora’s untidy rumple of bedding. Denise lit several more and placed them near the girl’s head so Gordon could see her better.
“I’m not a doctor, Denise.”
“There are no doctors. None that I know anyway.”
“What about your… friends?”
“You were closer.”
Gordon knelt beside Flora and pulled back the blankets so that he could see her better. Her hair was dark with sweat, her teeth chattered and
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