more that she can do for this woman.
As though reading her thoughts, Carissa says:
“Listen, Megan. You don’t owe me a thing. You may not understand it until you’re a bit older but you’ve given me a new life. I’ll always be grateful for that and I’ll always be here if you can find your way back to me.”
Unable to meet Carissa’s eyes, Megan mumbles a quiet “thank you”. She glances around the small domed space. Much of it is taken up with essential animal furs and blankets, protection against the frost that would penetrate the bender in winter. There is no sign that the space is shared with another; Carissa seems to be sitting in the area she uses for sleeping and, apart from a cooking pot and a couple of cracked bowls, she appears to have no possessions. However, near the grease-coated log which acts as a base for all her candles, there is a tiny shelf hand-carved from a single piece of wood. It contains no books, however. Instead, Carissa has made a shrine of it. A crude charcoal sketch of a crow wearing a top hat forms its centrepiece. On either side of it, black feathers have been gummed to the back of the shelf in layers, imitating a black wing. Where the books would sit, Carissa has placed offerings of flowers, grain and polished pebbles from the river.
“I’ve kept his memory alive ever since you came,” says Carissa, noticing what Megan is looking at. “And I see black feathers wherever I go. I used to be terrified of them, you know, but now I take each one to be a blessing.”
Megan glances up.
“They aren’t always a blessing,” she says before she can think better of it. The boy and everything she has seen of his desolation so far are not hers to speak of yet. First she must complete the book. And the path.
Carissa doesn’t appear to have read much into her slip of the tongue, though. She shrugs.
“They always will be to me. I’ll never forget how you called on him or what he did.” Carissa takes a final draw on her almost spent fag, licks her fingers and pinches it out. She drops the dog end into a cup of damp river silt beside her. “Give me your hand, Megan. Only if I touch you can I give you what you’ve come for.”
Megan frowns.
“What have I come for?”
Carissa’s smile levels out and disappears.
“Let’s find out.”
Megan slides closer and reaches towards Carissa. Before their fingers make contact, she senses a radiated warmth that vibrates at some barely perceptible frequency. Carissa takes Megan’s hand in both of hers and the cheery candlelight suddenly dims, the flames choked small and blue. Megan finds it hard to breathe. At first, she expects Carissa to begin speaking but it takes only a moment for her to realise that whatever is happening is affecting them both. She glances at Carissa’s eyes and sees the trepidation there.
A wind rushes at them and their cosy, intimate surroundings disappear. All Megan can feel is Carissa’s hand gripping hers in the darkness as the ground falls away. Megan reaches for the point of contact with her other hand and holds on as hard as she can.
The wind increases, pressing tears from Megan’s eyes and tearing at her hair. She becomes aware of pinpoints of light in the blackness above them and a thin band of almost midnight purple that seems very far away. Only then does Megan remember these feelings, even though it can be no more than three days since she last experienced them. She is unable to stop herself from crying out. The tiny dots of light are stars; the ribbon of brightening colour is the dawn horizon. They are flying but there is no feathered breast or black wings to cling to now, no Crowman to guide them.
“What is this, Carissa?” asks Megan. “What’s happening?”
There’s no reply other than a tightening of the grip on Megan’s hands.
“You know how to travel, Megan. And I know the way. Hold me. Hold me tight.”
8
Flora frowned for a moment at the touch of Gordon’s hand and then sat back
As though reading her thoughts, Carissa says:
“Listen, Megan. You don’t owe me a thing. You may not understand it until you’re a bit older but you’ve given me a new life. I’ll always be grateful for that and I’ll always be here if you can find your way back to me.”
Unable to meet Carissa’s eyes, Megan mumbles a quiet “thank you”. She glances around the small domed space. Much of it is taken up with essential animal furs and blankets, protection against the frost that would penetrate the bender in winter. There is no sign that the space is shared with another; Carissa seems to be sitting in the area she uses for sleeping and, apart from a cooking pot and a couple of cracked bowls, she appears to have no possessions. However, near the grease-coated log which acts as a base for all her candles, there is a tiny shelf hand-carved from a single piece of wood. It contains no books, however. Instead, Carissa has made a shrine of it. A crude charcoal sketch of a crow wearing a top hat forms its centrepiece. On either side of it, black feathers have been gummed to the back of the shelf in layers, imitating a black wing. Where the books would sit, Carissa has placed offerings of flowers, grain and polished pebbles from the river.
“I’ve kept his memory alive ever since you came,” says Carissa, noticing what Megan is looking at. “And I see black feathers wherever I go. I used to be terrified of them, you know, but now I take each one to be a blessing.”
Megan glances up.
“They aren’t always a blessing,” she says before she can think better of it. The boy and everything she has seen of his desolation so far are not hers to speak of yet. First she must complete the book. And the path.
Carissa doesn’t appear to have read much into her slip of the tongue, though. She shrugs.
“They always will be to me. I’ll never forget how you called on him or what he did.” Carissa takes a final draw on her almost spent fag, licks her fingers and pinches it out. She drops the dog end into a cup of damp river silt beside her. “Give me your hand, Megan. Only if I touch you can I give you what you’ve come for.”
Megan frowns.
“What have I come for?”
Carissa’s smile levels out and disappears.
“Let’s find out.”
Megan slides closer and reaches towards Carissa. Before their fingers make contact, she senses a radiated warmth that vibrates at some barely perceptible frequency. Carissa takes Megan’s hand in both of hers and the cheery candlelight suddenly dims, the flames choked small and blue. Megan finds it hard to breathe. At first, she expects Carissa to begin speaking but it takes only a moment for her to realise that whatever is happening is affecting them both. She glances at Carissa’s eyes and sees the trepidation there.
A wind rushes at them and their cosy, intimate surroundings disappear. All Megan can feel is Carissa’s hand gripping hers in the darkness as the ground falls away. Megan reaches for the point of contact with her other hand and holds on as hard as she can.
The wind increases, pressing tears from Megan’s eyes and tearing at her hair. She becomes aware of pinpoints of light in the blackness above them and a thin band of almost midnight purple that seems very far away. Only then does Megan remember these feelings, even though it can be no more than three days since she last experienced them. She is unable to stop herself from crying out. The tiny dots of light are stars; the ribbon of brightening colour is the dawn horizon. They are flying but there is no feathered breast or black wings to cling to now, no Crowman to guide them.
“What is this, Carissa?” asks Megan. “What’s happening?”
There’s no reply other than a tightening of the grip on Megan’s hands.
“You know how to travel, Megan. And I know the way. Hold me. Hold me tight.”
8
Flora frowned for a moment at the touch of Gordon’s hand and then sat back
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