Black Feathers by Joseph D'Lacey Page B

face it is as though life cut him to put them there. He has been Mr Keeper to their community since before she was born – possibly since before her parents were born. This was not something that was bestowed upon him lightly. The lives of hundreds of people have been in his hands over the years. He has delivered children, healed the sick, tended the elderly, the crippled and maimed. He has driven out madness and given nothing but his love – though sometimes it is an angry love – to everyone hereabouts.
    And he is the only one who can show her the path.
    “I trust you to guide me, Mr Keeper. No matter what happens on the path, I trust you.”
    In the dark, his smile is like sunshine before the dawn.
    “Oh, well done, little thing. That is so very, very good to hear.” He sighs. “Now, I must ask you to be brave for the first time. And it won’t be the last. It is all very well saying words and meaning meanings for the future. But you must be sealed into this future and sealed into your word. The Crowman has visited you and now he must mark you. Take off your jacket, little thing, and loosen your clothes a little.”
    By the glow of the stove, Megan reddens.
    “It isn’t what you imagine. Come now, do it quickly.”
    Unable to think at all now about what is happening, not knowing whether her trust is already about to be broken – maybe Mr Keeper exacts a price from the community that no one ever talks about – she does as he has asked.
    “Come here to the stove where I can see, and expose your chest.”
    She moves as commanded, pulling open her cardigan and shirt, stretching down her lambswool vest. She is embarrassed by the fullness of her tenderly ripening breasts and does her best to hide them. It is only then that she sees what Mr Keeper is doing. He snatches the tiny tool from beside the kettle. Before she can react, he places one palm behind her back and with his free hand forces a faintly glowing piece of iron into the centre of her chest.
    As she screams, the smell of her own skin burning mingles with the many other scents in Mr Keeper’s roundhouse.
     
    October 10th ’13
    My eyes only
     
    Since the shortages have gotten worse, the vegetable patch has doubled, taking over most of the lawn. I’ve spent most of the holidays digging, weeding and hoeing. Most of the apples and pears usually drop and rot on the ground. This year, we’ve harvested the lot. Some are wrapped in paper up in the attic and mum has canned the rest or cooked them into sauce or chutney.
    We also have a new chicken enclosure with six hens in it. They arrived with a nanny goat in the back of Dad’s pickup and Mum says this is the only milk we’ll get soon enough.
    Everything in the garden is a reaction to what’s happening in England and everywhere else. Mum and Dad act as if we might starve to death sometimes. Can they really believe that?
    The other day we went into Tesco with mum. They have security forces in the store now. We saw them wrestle a young mum to the ground, spray mace in her eyes and electrocute her with a taser. Her baby was still in the trolley screaming. It made me feel sick. We got out in a hurry.
    You’re not meant to hoard petrol but everyone does. We started before the price rises put vehicles off the road, taking five litres at a time. It’s hidden in jerry cans in the hedge by the back gate. There’s enough to get us to the coast if things get bad. But where would we go? More and more countries are closing their borders as they try to deal with the weather, fuel shortages and economic chaos. The only thing s going in and out are trade goods under military escort.
    Everything is scarce now. Gangs are stealing anything. Not just TVs and phones but heating oil and diesel. They’re even chopping down trees so they can sell the wood. It wouldn’t take much for someone to break into the garden and take all our produce, as well as the chickens and the goat. Dad keeps his shotgun handy now. He bought a