Black Feathers by Joseph D'Lacey

Maurice glances at her husband, a flash of worry passing over her face before he stands to open the front door.
    “Mr Keeper,” says Fulton, frowning. “I’m afraid you’ve missed Megan. She’s out berry-picking with Sally Balston and the Frewin boy.”
    “I know,” says Mr Keeper. “That’s why I’m here.”
    Heather dries her hands on her apron and comes to her husband’s side.
    “What is it?” she asks. “What’s the matter?”
    Mr Keeper glances over his shoulder. Already, a couple of neighbours have taken an interest in his presence. He gestures towards the table and whispers:
    “It might be better if we talk on the warm side of the door.”
    The Maurices stand back and let Mr Keeper pass. He sits at their table and loads his pipe. Fulton Maurice, usually placid, fidgets. Heather places her hand on his sizable forearm. Mr Keeper doesn’t seem to notice. He lights up, takes a deep breath and clouds the kitchen with smoke in a single exhalation.
    “There’s something I couldn’t tell you with Megan listening. Something that would make all this much harder for her.”
    Heather’s brow creases and she squeezes her husband’s arm. Fulton Maurice places his massive hand over hers, engulfing it. Mr Keeper leans towards them, his face solemn but kind.
    “It’s nothing bad, you understand. But it is so very important and you must swear to me that you will never mention it to her – whether she walks the Black Feathered Path or not.” He searches their eyes. “Can you do this?”
    Fulton Maurice nods but Heather is thin-lipped. When she speaks her voice is unsteady.
    “You’re asking a great deal of us already, Mr Keeper. And a lot more of our Megan. She’s our only child and still just a girl. I’m not sure any of this is right for her. Or for us.”
    Mr Keeper’s face becomes grave. Fulton Maurice shifts in his chair and looks away.
    “This isn’t simply about you,” says Mr Keeper. “It isn’t even about Megan. It concerns all of us. It concerns the land. And Megan is not so young as you wish to think. She is, even now, becoming a young woman and I can tell you, with the Earth Amu as my witness, that without Megan our future will be uncertain at best. The Crowman wants her – he’s made that plain enough – and now it’s up to her to decide what’s right.” Mr Keeper takes a pull on his pipe and looks out through the wind-eye beside the front door, staring far beyond the cottages on the other side of the track. When he looks back, as though returning from some terrible distance, neither of the Maurices can hold his gaze. “I can’t make Megan’s choice for her and I wouldn’t want to, but can I at least rely on your silence? You must believe me when I say that much rests on your answer.”
    Heather sighs and leans against Fulton’s shoulder.
    “We’re her parents,” she says. “We can’t help but be afraid for her.”
    Mr Keeper nods.
    “I know.”
    Heather turns to her husband. Their eyes meet and, in time, Fulton Maurice speaks.
    “We need to trust in the way of things, Heather. Strikes me none of this is an accident.” He looks at Mr Keeper. “You have my word I’ll say nothing to Megan.”
    Heather sits straight again.
    “And you have mine.”
    “I thank you both.” Mr Keeper put a hand inside his boiler suit. “There’s something you need to see.” He draws out a large, flat leather pouch which he lays on the table. Its ruby-dark surface has been polished smooth by years of handling and its edges are beginning to fray and crumble. With fingers roughened and wrinkled by constant foraging, Mr Keeper gently flips the pouch open. Inside is a pocket. He reaches for it and hesitates. Instead, he taps out his pipe and refills it.
    “I need to tell you a story first.”
     
    “There was one Keeper who lived in the time when the Crowman walked this land. Just one. He remains the only person to ever meet the Crowman face to face – to be touched by his wings – and