Free Black Feathers by Joseph D'Lacey

do.”
    “I know that, Dad. It’s oka–”
    Louis held up his hand.
    “No. Just listen to me for a second. Life is hard enough even at the best of times. But these aren’t the best of times right now. For anyone. I want you to know – to remember, no matter what happens in your life – that your mother and I love you very, very dearly. We’d do anything for you, Gordon. Anything at all.”
    Gordon nodded. He had no idea what to say. His father stood up from the bed, weariness overtaking him once more. Gordon had never seen him look so old.
    “Think you’ll sleep better now?” Louis asked.
    “Yes, Dad. I think I will.”
    Louis nodded.
    “Great,” he said, without enthusiasm. “Goodnight, son.”
    “Goodnight, Dad.”
    Louis flicked the light out and moved to the door in the darkness, sure of his way. It wasn’t until the thin light of morning seeped through the curtains that Gordon finally slept.

9
     
    June 21st ’13
    My eyes only
     
    When I woke up I thought I’d pissed myself. But the dampness was everywhere and I realised it was sweat. Then I remembered the dream. Replaying it, it felt like the first time I’ve had this dream but while I’m dreaming it, it’s all so familiar. As though I’ve seen it a thousand times. Like I’ve lived it a thousand times.
    There’s a dead tree. Its branches are like blackened arm bones and blackened finger bones reaching up into the sky. The trunk of the tree twists up from the ground, its black bark spiralling as though the wood is contracted and taut. There’s a bend in the trunk like an old man’s back, the sky crushing it. Among the topmost of its dead branches sit three watchful crows. One faces north, another south. The third looks up into the sky. The sun is behind the tree, just above the horizon. Terrible pain or total ecstasy seems to hinge on whether the sun is rising or setting.
    I hear people’s voices, some crying as if they’ve lost everything in the world. Others weep more softly but the wound that caused their tears seems deeper. I hear the tramping of feet. Not marching but the sound of people on the move. The road they travel is treacherous – behind the black tree I can see the snipped ribbon of tarmac stretching away over the low hills. In many places, the road is broken by huge cracks in the earth. There’s a smell too, like overcooked steak. Smoke blows across the landscape. The crows caw, flap and settle, ever vigilant.
    At the foot of the tree there is a single feather. The feather is long and thin, black at first glance. Then I’m holding the feather in my hand and it has a shimmer of deep blue-green. In the tree there’s a rattled cackle and I look up to see a magpie bobbing its head and flicking up its tail in a lower branch.
    That’s all I can remember. Why would that make me soak the sheets with sweat?
     
    Megan walks in almost total darkness along the track through the village. She wears lambswool underwear her mother has made beneath her roughest outdoor clothes. Over that she has wrapped a thick woollen blanket which doubles as a winter coat. She has never been up at this hour before and, with October’s days running short, it is chilly before the sun rises. Despite all her layers she is cold inside and shivers as she hurries along. Dawn is still some time away as she reaches the edge of the village and leaves the main track. She hopes she has allowed enough time to reach Mr Keeper’s place before the sun clears the horizon.
    Amu and Apa have always been early risers, up at first light. Apa to go and work in the fields and Amu to make sure he has a good breakfast before he leaves. Both of them stand outside the back door each morning. They drop flour and barley onto the soil and make their prayers of thanks and ask for strong crops, a good harvest and peace between all creatures. Megan has always spent those few extra minutes in bed because children are not expected to pray formally until the time of their coming of