White Crow

by Marcus Sedgwick

  Monday, 26th July

  The two girls make their way through the thickets of this scrubby wood - a twenty-minute walk, but only fifty strides wide, with farmland to the right and the cliff to the left, as they head south along the coast.

  More than once, Ferelith stops and points.

  ‘Look! See that way, there. That path used to go somewhere, and now it just falls off the edge. Into the sea. Splosh!’

  Ferelith chats about this and that, explaining the history of the village, like a textbook, Rebecca thinks. Ferelith is certainly unusual, and intelligent. Maybe very intelligent. Rebecca wonders about the DVD, and whether she should ask straight out if Ferelith put it in their house. She decides not to.

  Again Ferelith stops.

  ‘I want to show you something,’ she says, pushing off the path and into the undergrowth once more. ‘Come on!’

  Rebecca watches her go, and then pushes in after her. The branches snap back, whipping her cheeks.

  ‘Ow!’ she cries, but Ferelith doesn’t stop, head down, fighting a couple of brambles that have hooked her.

  She drops onto her hands and knees and Rebecca drops beside her.

  ‘Ow!’ she says again.

  ‘Yes,’ says Ferelith, ‘but look.’

  In front of them is a gravestone. Just one, overgrown by weeds, covered in moss. Behind it through the trees lurks the bright and sunny cliff edge, maybe three metres away.

  ‘This is the luckiest man in Winterfold. Well, in this churchyard anyway.’

  ‘What churchyard?’ Rebecca asks, feeling slow. ‘It’s just weeds and bushes.’

  ‘It is now, but this was the churchyard of St James’s. It’s not the one we’re going to look at. That one’s still standing. All that’s left of St James’s is this one gravestone. All the rest have fallen into the sea. So this is the luckiest man in the churchyard. Look, you can just see his name.’

  Ferelith traces her pointed fingertip across the letters, hard to read through the lichen, but still legible.

  ‘Robert Eyatt, Departed this earth, July 30th 1752.’

  ‘That’s in four days’ time,’ Rebecca says.

  Ferelith nods.

  ‘This year, maybe next. No more than three, and he’ll be in the sea too.’

  ‘That’s creepy,’ Rebecca says, but even as she says it, she finds it fascinating too.

  ‘I think it’s fun,’ Ferelith says, sensing Rebecca’s interest. ‘After a big storm, I run along the beach in the morning and see what I can find.’

  ‘Find?’

  ‘From the graves. I’ve found some amazing things over the years. I can show you sometime, if you like.’

  ‘Thanks,’ says Rebecca, but her voice is empty. Is this what she finds unsettling about Ferelith? Some foreshadowing in her, some foreshadowing of death?

  ‘Come on,’ Ferelith says, getting back to her feet. ‘This is the only grave of St James’s left, but there are still loads at St Mary’s. It’s getting dark, we should hurry.’

  They retrace their haphazard route through the undergrowth to the relative ease of the path. In another few minutes they come to the end of the wood. The path turns inland and joins the main footpath that the dog walkers use, and runs parallel to the cliff for a short while. Then it stops, and turns up a slight rise.

  Here, Ferelith ducks underneath some yellow tape strung across the path, preventing access to the churchyard. It’s the sort of tape police put around a crime scene; she’s seen her father with it, but this is not a crime scene. The tape has some writing on it, but in the dark she can’t make it out.

  Dusk has fallen, and the sun is out of sight beneath the horizon now. Still, there’s enough light for Rebecca to see the shape of a large church rearing from the ground.

  ‘This is St Mary’s,’ Ferelith says, ‘and it’s the best church in the world.’

  Rebecca doubts that. When she was little her parents took her to lots of places: Moscow, Venice, Chartres. So she’s seen some amazing churches and cathedrals and been equally amazed and bored by them all.

  ‘Really?’ she says, not that interested. They’re standing in the churchyard, and there are indeed plenty more graves around them. Ferelith glides away in the gathering darkness towards the front west door of the church.

  ‘Oh, you wait!’ she cries, and as Rebecca follows, Ferelith grabs the huge iron handle, and wrestles with it.

  ‘It’ll be locked,’ Rebecca calls.

  ‘No point,’ Ferelith says.

  ‘Why not?’

  Ferelith has the door moving now, and puts her insubstantial weight behind it, leaning with her shoulder to get it open. The door swings wide as Rebecca catches up with her.

  ‘That’s why,’ says Ferelith.

  ‘Oh,’ says Rebecca, unable to find anything smarter to say.

  She’s looking through the door, but she’s not looking into the church, instead, she’s looking through it.

  She’s looking through it, because the church has no back. She can see the nave, the aisles, there are even pews between the columns, and there’s a roof to the columns, but the whole eastern end of the church is missing.

  What she’s looking at is the last glow of light from the sunset, the dusky sky, some wisps of cloud, and an evening star.

  Where the pulpit should be, the moon hangs low in the sky, as if rising out of the sea like a bathing goddess.

  ‘Oh,’ Rebecca says again.

  ‘I told you,’ Ferelith says, and laughs. ‘The end fell away about five years ago. It’s been pretty stable since then, but they’ve stopped having services in here. Which I think is a shame. Because . . .’

  She runs down the aisle, dancing like a ballerina, and before Rebecca can guess what she’s going to do, leaps onto the altar.

  ‘Because I think it’s better now!’ she cries.

  ‘You shouldn’t do that!’ Rebecca calls, running to stand by the altar on which Ferelith is now dancing to some unheard tune.

  ‘Why not?’ she calls.

  ‘Because it’s . . . wrong,’ Rebecca says, aware of how pointless that sounds.

  Ferelith stops dancing. She puts her hands on her hips and looks down at Rebecca.

  ‘Before this church closed for business, four old ladies and a dog made up the whole congregation. I really don’t think it’s much missed. The eastern end of the church is the sacred end, the end that looks towards the Holy Land. But the eastern end is gone, and now it looks towards something truly magnificent! The sea! This church is a temple to the sea!’

  Rebecca shakes her head.

  ‘You’re crazy,’ she says, but Ferelith’s mood is too infectious.

  ‘Look!’ Ferelith says. ‘Isn’t it amazing? You look that way and the stained glass is still there.You look that way, and it’s just sky and sea.’

  Rebecca looks at the windows, and in the dusk she makes out a scene from the Easter story. Ferelith notices.

  ‘It’s horrible, isn’t it?’

  She sounds subdued all of a sudden. Her smile has gone.

  ‘What?’ Rebecca asks.

  ‘That story. How they crucify him. It’s gruesome. Don’t you think?’

  ‘I suppose so. I’ve never looked at it like that. When I think of Easter I think of eggs and bunnies and chocolate and . . .’

  ‘Yes, but what’s Easter all about? A dead guy on a cross.’

  ‘Maybe.’

  ‘You know what the really sad thing is?’ Ferelith asks.

  She stands on the altar as if she’s preaching.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Well,’ she says. ‘He died on the Friday, and rose from the dead on the Sunday, right?’

  ‘So? What’s so sad about that?’

  ‘Well,’ says Ferelith. ‘He missed nearly all the bank holiday weekend.’

  She starts giggling again, and tilts her head to the night sky.

  ‘Come on, come up and join me,’ she says, and Rebecca can’t resist any more.

  Rebecca reaches
out and Ferelith pulls her onto the ancient stone table, and they both begin to dance.

  ‘What are you dancing to?’ Rebecca asks.

  ‘None of your business!’ Ferelith says with mock outrage. ‘What about you?’

  ‘I’m not sure,’ Rebecca says, ‘but you know, this is totally wrong. It might not even be safe.’

  ‘Do you care?’ Ferelith asks, not breaking step.

  Rebecca can’t even see the edge of the cliff now. There’s a gaping hole where the sanctuary should be, and very, very near, she can hear the sound of the waves breaking at the foot of the cliffs.

  Suddenly Ferelith grabs Rebecca round the waist, a hand on each hip, and keeps dancing. Rebecca doesn’t stop her, and lets her touch her, though she doesn’t touch back. Not yet. Ferelith holds her gaze for a long time, before asking her question again.

  ‘Well,’ she says. ‘Do you care?’

  Rebecca thinks. She’s dancing in the dusk on the altar of a dead church that now only worships the sea, and suddenly she realises it’s not the sort of thing she will do every day of her life.

  She tosses her hair, smiling, and throws her hands in the air. She leans back and Ferelith has to take all her weight to stop her from tumbling off the stone table.

  ‘No!’ Rebecca shouts. ‘I guess not. I don’t care!’

  Suddenly there’s a flicker of light at the door, a torch beam arrows across the pews, and a voice is shouting.

  ‘Who’s that? Who’s there? Hey!’

  ‘Run!’ shouts Ferelith, and they jump from the altar, and duck around the open end of the church, closer still to a near vertical cliff edge that could slip away at any moment.

  They don’t stop running till they’re back in Winterfold.

  Safe.

  1798, 9m, 15d.

  I was born among a set of foul heathen thinkers, and in that sect I was without God and knew not of God until my eleventh year on the earth, when a plague of vicious ills was enough to wipe the heathens away, leaving me alone. It was a miracle. I came to see it that way, in time.

  Unknowing of my true place in the world, and destitute, I came upon a house of God, and they, seeing my plight, taught me the truth of the world, and of God’s love, and of his terrible wrath.

  And thus, though I came late to the Truth, did I come upon it fervently, and do now, I believe, hold the Truth more strong than any other man.

  1798, 9m, 16d.

  Today is the Lord’s day, and after I had undertaken my duties of worship, I ended the day in solemn contemplation of my lot.

  As I now approach the far end of my life, certain thoughts raise themselves above others.

  More and more, my dreams are haunted by visions of a dire and dreadful nature.

  My preaching today, as often these days, hounded the sinful and the wicked. Even as I stood in the pulpit, I scourged the wrong-doers below me with a thousand lashes of my tongue.

  And yet, O God, am I any better than any of the wicked of my congregation? And when my time comes, what will be my judgement?

  Where will I spend eternity?

  Catholic Day

  We all make choices, thousands of them, each and every day. Many are so small that we’re barely aware of making them: which knickers shall I wear today? What shall I have for lunch? Shall I leave that light on, or not? Which foot shall I put first on the threshold?

  But some of our choices are bigger, not massive, but bigger, and they have an impact on the people around us: shall I help that old lady with her shopping, or not? Shall I say something kind to you when I meet you? Shall I laugh at your ideas, shall I walk through the world gently, or shall I push everyone aside?

  And then there are the biggest choices, ones which don’t come along every day, but once in a while, and which are the stuff of fears and worries and of major turns in the road; these are the choices we make for good, or ill, and they determine our future, and the future of those around us.

  It’s these choices that interest me the most.

  Tuesday 27th July

  Ferelith knocks on Rebecca’s door at two o’clock next day, as they’ve arranged.

  Rebecca’s father opens the door, and raises an eyebrow at the girl standing there. He’s still finding it hard getting used to living in the country, and last night, walking late in Hall Lane he heard someone mucking about in the ruined church. Probably just kids getting kicks, but he resented having to be a policeman when he no longer is. He’d mentioned it to Rebecca, but she’d just given him a look and turned away.

  The girl at the door is odd. She’s a bit overdressed given the continual heat the summer is throwing at everyone, but there’s something more than that he can’t place, not just that she’s dressed entirely in black, which looks strange in the height of summer.

  ‘Are you Rebecca’s friend?’ he asks.

  ‘Ferelith, yes,’ she says, and holds out a hand.

  ‘John Case,’ Rebecca’s father says, thrown slightly that there is still a teenage girl in the world who knows how to introduce herself properly.

  He shakes her hand, and stands aside, grabbing his bag from the small table by the door.

  ‘I’m just off,’ he says, ‘but Rebecca’s upstairs. You can go and find her.’

  ‘What do you do, Mr Case?’ asks Ferelith as she steps into the house.

  ‘I’m a Detective Insp—’ he stops himself, rewinds slightly. ‘I’m . . . doing a spot of gardening. Here and there. I’m just here for the peace and quiet.’ He stops, wondering why he’s bothering to tell her this.

  ‘Absolutely,’ says the girl, and wanders into his house, leaving him to close the door and head over to his car, trying to work out why he feels he’s just been defeated in some way.

  Tuesday 27th July

  They chat as they stroll down to the beach, towels over their shoulders.

  Rebecca carries a plastic bag with some bottles of water and a couple of apples, Ferelith has a CD player, old and battered but loud-looking.

  They crunch their way onto the shingle and Ferelith groans.

  ‘Let’s get away from the tourists a bit, yes?’ she says, and without waiting for a reply, heads to the left and away from the families, couples and gangs of teenagers clogging up the nearest stretch of beach.

  The sun burns, and Rebecca pulls her floppy straw sunhat down across her face.

  ‘Did you bring sun cream?’ she asks.

  ‘Put it on at home,’ says Ferelith. ‘Factor One Thousand to keep my coffin-like complexion. Didn’t you?’

  ‘No,’ says Rebecca, unable to inspect Ferelith’s pale white skin. ‘I’ll go back and get some.’

  She hurries home and by the time she gets back to where they were, she can’t see Ferelith. Then she spots a speck of black a long way off down the beach. She heads in that direction, but as she gets close, and finds the towel and the stereo, she can’t see Ferelith. She catches sight of someone bobbing around in the water. The figure raises an arm and waves, then dives and starts swimming steadily back to shore.

  Rebecca watches her approach, smearing sun cream on herself as she does so, and then as Ferelith gets to the shallows and stands up, Rebecca realises that she’s naked.

  As soon as she’s out of the water, she starts to run up the beach. Rebecca looks around frantically. There are people in plain sight, but maybe they’re all too far way to see or care.

  Ferelith arrives, swearing comically with each painful footstep on the shingle, and grabs her towel, pulling it round her.

  ‘Coming in?’ she says, panting, shaking her wet hair out.

  ‘You haven’t got anything on,’ Rebecca says.

  Ferelith raises an eyebrow, maybe about to say something sarcastic, but all she says is, ‘Nicer that way. So? Coming?’

  ‘Yes, but I’m keeping this on,’ Rebecca says, pinging the strap of her swimming costume.

  ‘Suit yourself,’ Ferelith says. ‘Are you shy?’

  ‘Something like that. I just don’t take my clothes off i
n full view of half the world.’

  Ferelith cocks her head on one side.

  ‘Supposing I dared you to?’

  Rebecca actually laughs at that.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘If I dared you to do it, would you do it then?’

  ‘No. I wouldn’t. What difference does that make?’

  Ferelith drops her towel, and runs back to the water.

  ‘Maybe a lot,’ she calls as she goes.

  ‘Wait,’ says Rebecca, but Ferelith is gone.

  Rebecca pulls off her shorts and T-shirt, but keeping her swimming costume firmly on, she tiptoes down to the water, feeling faintly disappointed, though like her father, she can’t work out exactly why.

  1798, 9m, 18d.

  Heaven is a field of summer-ripened wheat, upon which the sun always shines, but there is a cool brook nearby to quench your thirst.

  No.

  Heaven is a pasture of green, with apple trees, and young lambs nibbling the grass beneath them.

  No.

  Heaven is a vast white cloud where the angels sit, playing gentle and sweet music, reciting tragic poetry to each other.

  No.

  Heaven is a forest glade in which a thousand pretty girls lie in wait, each one sitting on a freshly opened barrel of wine.

  NO!

  Why is it so hard to envisage a blissful afterlife? Why is it so hard? Try as I might, I do not feel that anything I can think of even begins to approach the true nature of God’s celestial realms. Why is this? Do I find it easier to conjure the other place to mind because that is where I am heading?

  O Lord, let me mend my ways while I still can, and while I still have time, let me see the truth of what lies on the other side of the veil!