Black Feathers (31 page)

Knowles heard footsteps in the corridor and his heart stuttered. His stomach tightened and sweat lathered his palms.

The first thing they would do was extract his teeth. All of them.

It was standard interview practice. Knowles knew the thinking behind it and how effective it was. Other torturers in other eras might have taken one tooth at a time, hoping to maximise the effect of the pain and debilitation, but the Ward had discovered that a full clearance at the outset sent clear messages:

We’re serious.

This is only the beginning.

It also disfigured interviewees in a very personal and obvious way. Teeth were somehow like guardsmen, and taking them all away created instant vulnerability and demoralisation. There was no posturing. There were no threats. No questions were asked to which an answer was expected. Interviewees were restrained and a Wardsman would empty their heads of teeth as quickly and efficiently as possible. Only then would an interviewer enter the room and begin to probe for information. Knowles was perfectly aware that most interviews were successfully completed in that very first meeting.

His problems were twofold:

First, his only contacts within the Green Men were already incarcerated in the Monmouth substation. He’d been part of the team that visited them for collection. There was little or nothing more he could tell his interviewer about them that the Ward didn’t already know. However, the Ward didn’t know that yet.

Second, he was a traitor. No. That was an exaggeration. He had loosely aligned himself with the Green Men. He wasn’t a fanatic. He wasn’t a diehard. He just didn’t go along with his employer’s view of the world. What he should have done was go on the run and join up with the Green Men. That would have been a commitment to a cause. It would have been dangerous but it would have been simple. Why he’d thought he could play both sides, be the double agent, he couldn’t fathom.

One thing he’d learned during the interviews and collections he’d been involved in was that people didn’t always know why they did the things they did. They didn’t always have reasons they could put into words. Not until the end, anyway. By that stage they would have thought everything over a thousand times, with great care and in great detail. They would have asked themselves over and over if what they believed in was worth dying for in agony and humiliation on someone else’s terms. Usually, just before the end they would rally a sense of self far greater than they had displayed at any other time. In that moment they would necessarily be defiant but they would be certain beyond any doubt what had motivated them to risk everything for the sake of a principle. And they would usually state it calmly and plainly in the minutes before they died.

Knowles knew in his gut that he’d made a good decision to pass information to the Green Men and aid them whenever he was able. His contribution to their cause had been great because of his position within the camp they opposed. But he still couldn’t say why he’d done it.

His twofold problems afforded him twofold certainties.

First, the Ward would interview him until they were absolutely certain that he had not a scrap of useful information left inside his mind.

Second, they would kill him as slowly and as painfully as they possibly could.

After that, the Ward would release stories about the way he had died, knowing the information would ripple and circulate. They would use it to spread fear and tighten their control over the fallen nation this once-Great Britain had become.

Knowles considered his part in these machinations and realised he was little more than a speck of grease on the engine of history. With or without him the engine would continue to run. And whether he’d done anything to alter the course of this engine’s progress would always be a mystery.

In fact, he admitted to himself as a set of keys rattled in the lock of the interview room where he now sat on the wrong side of the desk, he doubted his destruction at the hands of the Ward would contribute anything at all to any of it. He would hold what he knew about the boy inside for as long as he was able. There was nothing more he could do.

Three Wardsmen entered. Two approached and belted him tightly into his chair. The third remained with his face to the door. A mandibular depressor was inserted into his mouth to ensure it remained agape. The two who’d restrained him left. The third did not yet turn to face him.

What was that? An attempt at menace? That wasn’t the way they were supposed to work. The figure in the grey uniform was somewhat diminutive in stature. He didn’t recognise the shape of the man. Was this an escape plan being put into action by another mole he wasn’t aware of? How his heart leapt at such a hope until the man turned around to face him.

It was Jones. The boy. It wasn’t an air of threat he’d been trying to create. It was his merely lack of confidence causing him to hesitate and, Knowles now saw, his embarrassment that his first ever dental clearance would be performed on a fellow Wardsman. These thoughts had given him a slumped appearance but now he stood straight, if not equal to his task then resigned to it.

Jones approached Knowles’s chair.

At some point during the procedure, probably after Jones’s inexperienced, sweat-slicked fingers had snapped or crushed rather than cleanly removed the fourth tooth, Knowles had a small realisation. Something that gave him a little satisfaction and elevated him from that speck of grease to, perhaps, a small moving part. He could, if nothing else, buy the boy some time. And if the boy got away from the Ward, it might mean things turned out differently.

It might mean they turned out better.

“You don’t have to go, you know.”

Gordon packed as fast as he could. He didn’t answer. Cooky seemed misty-eyed. Maybe he’d had more of the whisky. He still stood with his enamel mug and drank from it in small sips. No steam rose from it but each sip made him gasp a little.

Gordon’s tent was down and tightly stowed. He made sure the rest of his gear was just as neatly packed and that there was nothing missing.

“We’ve all had trouble with the Ward, Louis. That’s why we’re out here.”

“Not the kind of trouble I’ve had.”

Cooky’s tone dropped to a growl.

“You’d be surprised.”

Gordon stopped what he was doing and looked over at the old man. He was swaying slightly. His face had sagged and he radiated exhaustion. The skin around his eyes looked looser, and gone was the jovial, approachable demeanour. Here was the damage now, thought Gordon, rising to the surface the way it did with everyone he met. Pus ready to leak from wounds that would never heal.

“No,” said Gordon. “I wouldn’t be surprised by anything the Ward do. When Dave and the others find out they’re looking for me, they’ll kick me out anyway. I’m not waiting for that. If you’ve all had trouble with the Ward, you won’t want them sniffing around here.” He gathered up the last of his things and stashed them in his backpack.

“You don’t understand, Louis. We… oppose the Ward. Actively. There are people like us all over the country.”

Gordon was still for a moment. Here was something.

“Like a resistance movement?”

“Yes. Exactly like that. We call ourselves the Green Men.”

The Green Men.

“Could you…”

Cooky sharpened up, stood straighter.

“Could we what?”

“How many of you are there?”

“Not many yet. But the numbers are growing all the time. You should join us. We need bright ones like you. Young men with some determination and strength.”

Such words had never applied to him. Gordon was aware of the power of flattery all of a sudden. It was very hard to disregard what Cooky had suggested about him because “bright, strong and determined” was exactly what Gordon wanted to be. What he wanted more than that, though, was the power to change the past.

“Could you break my family out of the Monmouth substation?”

The question was enough to deflate Cooky.

“We don’t have that kind of influence – or numbers – yet. But one day we might.”

“You’ve got spies, though, right? There was a Wardsman who helped me after they took my family.”

“Yes, we’ve managed to get a few moles inside the Ward,” agreed Cooky, “and turn a few others to our way of thinking. It won’t be enough influence to get your family out, though. I’m sorry, Louis.”

Gordon stood with a leg either side of his backpack. Shouldering it would mean he was leaving. He wanted to know more first.

“Can I have another cup of tea before I go?”

“Course, lad. Course you can.”

Cooky brewed a new pot and poured a mug for Gordon.

“Whisky?”

“No thanks.”

They sat down side by side again not far from the fire.

“Why do you call yourselves the Green Men?”

“After the Green Man. Heard of him?”

Gordon shook his head.

“He’s an old myth. A symbol of every living thing in the plant kingdom and a sign of rebirth. To us he represents the importance of the land. He’s like a bridge between men and the Earth.”

“Is he a spirit like the Crowman?”

“I’d say that was pretty close to the truth. The Ward are grey like concrete and steel. They believe in profit and exploitation. They want one corporation to govern the whole world. They believe in technology and they want nothing but power for the sake of it. They take but they never give anything back. If that was the spirit of the twentieth century, the Ward are its body here on Earth. They’re real and they’re dangerous. They’ll destroy the future just to be in control for today.

“The Green Men stand against that in every sense. We see that without the land, there’ll be nothing for anyone. Care for the land, live with it closely and give back to it in every way. If you can do that, the land will keep on caring for you, keep yielding its fruit and bounties. The Ward are going to destroy the natural bounty of the land, they’re going to kill the very Earth itself with their greed. Someone’s got to stop them, and it’s going to be us.”

Quite obviously drunk now and not bothering to hide the fact he was drinking whisky any more, Cooky had become an evangelist.

Cooky put an arm around his shoulder.

“So, Louis, now that you know all about us, can we count on your support? Are you one of us?”

“I’d like to be. I really would, Cooky. But I have to keep moving. I have to find help for my family.”

“Just because you’re on the road, it doesn’t mean you can’t be a Green Man.”

“All right. What do I have to do?”

“You’ve to swear a simple oath and spill a little of your blood. That’s it. But it’s a promise you can never go back on. The Earth will always know you cheated her, and when they bury you at the end of your days, she’ll never let your bones rest.”

Gordon shrugged. He didn’t require threats to make him loyal to the land.

The cut hurt more than he’d expected, and it worried Gordon that Cooky had used the knife he butchered the deer meat with to do it. He winced each time he thought of the blade being drawn across the skin of his palm. The blood had spilled lavishly onto the pine needles and then soaked down into the earth. Cooky had made him speak a few words of fealty and Gordon spoke them solemnly. The bandage Cooky applied was grey and a little greasy, and the palm of his left hand throbbed hotly. When Cooky noticed him holding the wound, he said:

“If it didn’t hurt, it wouldn’t mean much, would it? Don’t forget who you are now, will you?”

“I won’t forget.”

“And don’t talk about it unless you’re in the right kind of company, understand?”

“I won’t, Cooky.”

“And there’s a sign so you’ll recognise other Green Men. You stroke the skin at the outer corner of your eye three times.” Cooky showed him. “Like you’re brushing away some grit, see?”

Gordon nodded.

“But what it signifies is the tears we cry for the land and the tears she cries for us. Remember that.”

Gordon was smiling now. Cooky was like a fussy parent.

“I’ll remember.”

He left the camp before the others returned from hunting, his pack laden with smoked deer meat. Drunker than ever, Cooky hugged him as though Gordon was going to the gallows.

At first light, after an uncomfortable night on the damp, insect-infested matting, the same hands that took her from sleep beside Mr Keeper and the old man do so again. This time they drag her from Bran’s filthy hovel into the chill of early morning. Megan shivers; her coat is still on the other side of the river. She can hear the waterwheels tantalisingly close. If she broke away now, she could run to the river and dive in. She’s a good swimmer and could easily make it to the other side. But she’s not such a great runner, and she is still stiff with sleep and aching from the hard ground.

As Bran has instructed, they hand her a small pack with some provisions and a leather sleeve which contains a map. Once these items have been given to her, the five hooded figures stand back with their arms folded across their chests. It is only then that Megan thinks she can see the swellings under those folded arms. Her kidnappers are all women.

One of them points the way out of the ramshackle gathering of tents and shelters, and Megan can do nothing more than turn and walk in that direction.

She hears footsteps run up behind her, and one of the hooded figures is there. It holds out something in its hands, and Megan hesitates before taking it. After a brief pause, in which Megan is certain words will come out of the hood, the hooded figure runs away again. Megan turns and keeps walking, all the while tearing into the cut of cold meat that has been saved for her from someone’s meal the night before. Having not had any food since lunch the previous day, she is ravenous.

Before the last dwelling is behind her she is gnawing the bone clean. When there’s nothing left she tosses the bone to her right, towards the water where she knows some animal will extract what little nourishment the bone has left to offer. The river tempts her. It would be a swift and simple matter to run for the bank now, throw away the map and knapsack, dive in and swim to safety.

She keeps walking.

Something in the way Bodbran threatened her keeps her away from the river. A curse, the woman had said; a curse so profound even death would be no escape from it. The only way to cross back to Mr Keeper and the old man is to make this journey first and bring back what Bodbran seeks. Then she’ll be free to go.

One advantage of a light pack is that she makes good time. Soon the sun is up and Shep Afon and Bodbran’s hut are miles behind her. To her right, on the other side of the river, the land rises up into a ridge and she recognises that she and Mr Keeper arrived along that same ridge to find the bustling market village. She looks at the map and sees the ridge represented there, a path running along its spine. As Bodbran has said she would, Megan begins to understand the map and its purpose.

By the time the sun is as high as it will get given the time of year, Megan has crossed many meadows and picked her way through or around thickets of hawthorn and blackthorn. Sloe berries are abundant and she collects them as she goes, enjoying their bitterness. The map shows a huge forest and soon Megan finds herself within it. It’s far too large to go around and its trees border the river right to its bank. All she can do is go through.

What little warmth the sun has afforded her over open ground is quickly dissipated once the trees block it out. Most of the leaves are gone now but the growth above and all around her is dense. The expansive feeling of walking over meadowland is gone and now any sound she makes is reflected right back to her from every tree trunk. Each rustle and snap sounds as though it comes from behind her or from cover, and she whips her head around often to check. There’s no one there, not even a fox or a badger, and when she stops walking the forest is utterly silent. Not a single bird chirps anywhere.

Megan is thirsty and she’s fairly sure she can hear something sloshing in her knapsack. On the map, about halfway through the forest, there is a clearing and in that clearing some kind of tree, larger than all the others.

If I can make it to that tree before nightfall, that’s where I’ll rest and drink.

The forest slows and saps her. Thorns catch at her and fallen logs trip her. Megan stumbles and stops walking, feeling the strength drain out of her legs. Nearby is a moss-covered log and she sits down on it, resting her elbows on her knees and her head in her hands. After a while, she opens the knapsack and removes the water skin. It is much smaller than the one she usually carries and so she takes the tiniest sips to make it last. If she can find a spring she’ll be able to refill it, but she doesn’t know the river water here and suspects that, even this far away, it will be rich in waste from the village.

The knapsack also contains a gauzy tarpaulin which she assumes is for shelter, though how it will keep out the elements is a mystery. There is no sleeping mat or bedroll, only a light poncho. Maybe Bodbran expects her to make the journey in a single day. The afternoon light shows the forest in darker and darker tones. She’ll be lucky to make it to the clearing before nightfall at this rate.

Once the water skin, tarp and poncho are out of the knapsack, there’s very little left. Bodbran has provided tinder and flint to make fire but there is nothing to boil water in. A small knife in a soft leather sheath lies at the bottom of the pack. The sheath is branded with the motif of a feather and beside the sheath there is another leather wallet. Inside this is a single, large black feather.

She studies the map and reconsiders what it is Bodbran has asked her to find:

“It is a thing of power, ageless and unchanged since it was created. All about it will be destruction and decay and this alone will shine. You will know it by its purity. Bring it back to me and you will go free.”

“And if I can’t find it?” Megan had asked through the aromatic smoke haze.

“If you fail, you are cursed, Megan. You must find it.”

“But where exactly is it? How long will I have to search for it?”

“Beyond the forest is a place where no one goes. I have seen it in the Weave but I can tell you nothing about it. It is the kind of place not shown on any map. Do you understand what I’m telling you?”

“No. I don’t understand any of this.”

“You will soon enough. All you need to do is find the very centre of this place beyond the forest. Go to its heart. That’s where you’ll find it.”

Looking at the map now, the task seems hopeless. Beyond the forest, what the map shows is indistinct. Megan tries to make sense of what it represents. It seems to show gradual ruin and decay. The trees at the other side of the forest are small and withered or burned. The path becomes broken and peters out. From there the map shows nothing but shading or blank space. Beyond it the grasslands continue. The river runs beside the missing area on the map and on through to the other side where the land becomes distinct again. Something else runs across the blank patch in a diagonal line. Neither a road nor a river, it is depicted merely as a connected series of curving lines, like teeth marks. Somewhere within the blank area on the map is what Bodbran has sent her to find.

At its heart.

The light of day is waning and there’s still a good way to go before she reaches the clearing and the tree where she plans to camp. Megan takes another couple of small sips from the water skin and rolls the fluid around her mouth many times before swallowing. When everything is back in the knapsack, she shoulders it and walks on, trying to find a little brightness within herself and give her steps a little bounce.

The best she can manage is a fast trudge, each footstep overshadowed by a growing sense of dread.