Skyborn

by Sinéad O'Hart

  The ringmaster’s wagon was, some said, the closest thing to a house. Bastjan had never been inside a house, and so he had no idea if this was true, but he never grew tired of looking at its interior – though of course there was rarely any joy to be had in being summoned before Cyrus Quinn. As he walked into the wagon, Bastjan tried not to stare at the latticed windows and the gleaming staircase and all the rooms. There was space in here for five families and yet Quinn had it all to himself.

  “Now. If you’re quite finished gawping, you an’ me have business to attend to,” the ringmaster said, striding past Bastjan and bumping his shoulder on the way. The boy stumbled momentarily before following him through a brightly lit doorway, which was standing open. Inside was a most remarkable room lined with heavy bookshelves, floor to ceiling. A desk made of dark wood was bolted to the centre of the floor with a tall chair behind it and two rather more modest ones in front. The ringmaster settled himself in the large chair and gestured for Bastjan to sit before him. The boy pulled himself up on to the hard seat, fighting the urge to swing his legs as the ringmaster sorted through a pile of papers on his desk.

  Cyrus Quinn’s beard was braided, as he preferred to wear it when he was out of the ring. His eyes were so dark that you could barely see the pupils. Most of his fingers bore gold rings and his fingernails were clean. His jacket was slung over the arm of his chair and he sat before Bastjan in a white shirt which was past its best, the sleeves rolled up to reveal his thick tanned forearms. His hair, which hung in curls beneath his top hat while he was in the circus ring, was scraped up into a knot on the top of his head, and the kohl around his eyes was smudged. Anyone who had seen him in his finery during the show would be hard pressed to believe this was the same man – only his sharp eyes and his strong white teeth remained the same.

  Some people thought him handsome, but nobody who knew him well.

  “Right, then,” the ringmaster finally said, once the stack of paperwork was sorted to his satisfaction. He sat back in his chair, placing his elbows on the armrests and tapping one finger on his chin. “Let’s talk, shall we, about your role in this circus.”

  Bastjan blinked. Absentmindedly he scratched at his hairline, and despite the scrubbing he’d given his face earlier, his fingernails came away green. He wiped them on his trousers, hoping the ringmaster hadn’t seen. “My … role?”

  “You’re wasted as a simple floor performer,” the ringmaster said. “Hopping around, gurning for laughs. I could hire ten kids who could do that.” He sat forwards a little, fixing Bastjan with a look. “But a boy with a lineage like yours is made for the air.”

  “Sorry?” Bastjan said, frowning.

  “Your mother,” the ringmaster continued, and the words were like a bell ringing in Bastjan’s ear. “Your mother, rest her soul. My original and best Annabella.” Quinn’s eyes softened momentarily at the memory. “She was born to fly, you know. Always climbin’, never able to sit still. She used to wish she had wings, she told me – an’ when she was performin’, you’d think she had. Such a talent.” The ringmaster’s gaze sharpened again. “When you were born, she told me how she put a name on you. ‘My little Skyborn’, she’d say, as if it was the name you liked performin’ under. No wonder you took to it so well while you were still bottle-fed, eh?”

  Quinn paused. Bastjan wondered if he could hear the thunking heartbeat inside his chest. “So what I propose is this: we get you tested on the high wire, see how you are, check whether your mum’s talent has somehow passed down to you. If it hasn’t, no harm done. If it has, I’ve got a new headline act without spendin’ a penny.” The ringmaster picked up a sheet of paper and sighed as he looked at it, before crumpling it up. “And goodness knows I need to stop spendin’ ’em,” he muttered, tossing the ball of paper to the floor.

  “An’ what if I say no?” Bastjan said, after a moment.

  “Then I guess I’m countin’ the miles between here an’ the nearest orphanage, an’ wonderin’ whether it’s worth the journey.”

  Bastjan felt his lips compress. He stared at Quinn, who raised one jet-black eyebrow.

  “Knew you’d see sense,” the ringmaster said in a reasonable tone. “And here. To sweeten the deal, so to speak, I’ve got this for you.” He pushed at something beneath the table and Bastjan looked down to see a chest come sliding towards him, propelled by the toe of the ringmaster’s boot. It was made of dark wood, bound with brass bands. Its corners and edges were bashed as though it had been dropped from a height.

  “This was hers. Your mother’s. Nobody’s looked inside since she passed. I’m betting her old costumes are in it, maybe some dried-up face paint. You might even find a love letter or two, perhaps addressed to your dearly departed dad.” Bastjan blinked away from the chest and his eyes found the ringmaster’s; they glittered now with a strange light, one that was colder than before. “Whatever’s in it is yours, but only if you go up on the wire like I’m askin’ you.”

  Bastjan felt something huge swelling inside him, like a whale turning over in the sea. “You’ve ’ad it all this time? This … treasure box?”

  The ringmaster snorted. “Treasure,” he said. “I hardly think so. An’ who cares how long? I only discovered it the other day, doin’ a bit of a clear-out.”

  Bastjan looked down at the chest again. It felt like his nose was filling up with glue, and his eyes burned, but he kept breathing as though nothing was wrong. All this time, he thought. An’ it’s been right ’ere. I’ve bin stickin’ pictures on my wall, an’ this was right ’ere…

  “Have a look now, take whatever you can carry,” the ringmaster said. Bastjan flinched as the man stood up. “I’ll have someone bring the rest to Crake’s wagon tomorrow.” Quinn walked around the desk, then dropped to his haunches to meet Bastjan’s eye. “An’ I’m assumin’ we have a deal.”

  Bastjan forced himself to give a single nod and then the ringmaster got to his feet. “Excellent,” he said. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got somethin’ I need to dispose of.”

  He bent to lift something into his arms – and Bastjan saw it was the doll, still wrapped in its shawl. Quinn curled his lip at it as he strode out of the room and then out of the wagon.

  As soon as the ringmaster’s footsteps faded into silence, Bastjan slid down off the chair to sit, cross-legged, in front of his mother’s chest. The hasp had no padlock keeping it secure. He ran his fingertips over it briefly, before pulling it up and opening the lid with a groan and creak of its long-unused hinges.

  For a moment, all he could see were piles of clothing, thrown haphazardly in. Some were crusted with old dirt and face paint; some were ripped and ragged. Others looked to be as new as the day they were made. There were corsets and dance shoes, rope-walking slippers and a pair of trapeze boots, and finally – right at the bottom, shoved into a corner – he saw a large, flat rectangular box with an enamelled lid. He reached into the chest and pulled out the box, feeling the weight of it in his hand.

  The box gleamed in the light of the lamps, the wood black and shining, and the pattern on the lid was of a leaping fish surrounded by colourful waves. Bastjan’s fingers quivered as he examined it, his eyes widening as he took in every detail – and then he heard the ringmaster’s rapid steps as he came striding back into his wagon.

  Bastjan shoved the enamelled box beneath his jumper. He leaped to his feet as the ringmaster entered the room, hoping it wouldn’t come crashing to the floor.

  “Anythin’ worth keepin’?” Quinn said, nodding at the open chest.

  “All of it,” Bastjan said tightly, and the ringmaster winked at him.

  “Just teasin’, boy,” he said. “Run along now. Get to bed. You’re goin’ to start trainin’ with Nanette, first thing tomorrow. She’s comin’ out of retirement to give me an aerial act for a week or two, until you’re ready, an’ until then you’ll be pullin’ double duty. Your floor routine with the rest of the Beans will carry on as normal, and as soon as you can do it, you’ll be
airborne. See you in the mornin’. Right?”

  He took hold of Bastjan’s shoulder and ushered him out. Just as he reached to pull open the door, he leaned down to mutter in the boy’s ear. “An’ don’t forget – if you muck up, or get cold feet, or, heaven forfend, have an accident out there tomorrow, your mum’s things get chucked on the nearest bonfire. Do we understand each other?”

  Bastjan stared up at him for a long moment. Then, he nodded.

  “Good boy. Clever boy. Out you go, then,” the ringmaster said, closing the wagon door firmly in Bastjan’s face. When Bastjan turned to make his way down the steps, he noticed the lamp that Crake had given him was sitting forlornly where he’d left it, its flame gone out, dark as a forgotten memory.

  The rain had stopped, leaving behind a cold night. Bastjan’s breath plumed whitely as he looked around the deserted camp. The campfire was low and there were no gatherings of friends between wagons, no instruments being passed from hand to hand, no singsongs or arguments or laughter. It was as though the ringmaster’s bad mood had sucked the life out of the circus, at least for tonight. He felt for the box beneath his jumper and hopped down from the bottom step of Quinn’s wagon, his boots landing in the mud with a squelch, and then he began to walk. There weren’t many places to think in the circus, but Bastjan knew there was one quiet spot. His feet trudged on, making for the animal enclosures.

  The cages housing the animals were set out in two wide lines, their wagons well spaced and surrounded with piles of fresh straw. Their handlers patrolled day and night, but Bastjan was known to them all. The only greeting any of them gave him was a distracted nod as he passed by, until eventually he found a patch of ground beside the circus’s largest animal wagon – the one belonging to Mammoth.

  Even though he saw him almost every day, the elephant’s size still made the boy hold his breath in amazement. He looked up at Mammoth’s huge bulk as the elephant explored the top of his cage with his trunk, his tail swishing lazily as he shifted his immense weight from side to side. Bastjan watched his ears twitch and wondered if the elephant knew he was here – or if he knew Bastjan existed at all. Perhaps all the people in Mammoth’s life were just specks and he was simply waiting for the day he could squish them all flat.

  Not for the first time, Bastjan noticed that no matter how big Mammoth’s cage was, it never seemed quite big enough. He glanced at the elephant’s front foot, the one on the far side of the cage. A metal shackle was attached to it, with a short chain anchoring the animal to a post driven into the ground outside his wagon. It was one of the first jobs they had to do whenever the circus moved to a new place. Bastjan could hear the thud-thud-thud of the post being hammered into position if he closed his eyes and thought about it, but he didn’t like to think about it much.

  He settled into the straw and fumbled inside his jumper for his mother’s box. He ran his fingers around the pattern on the lid once again. It was so fine – the most beautiful thing he had ever seen. An’ it was Mum’s, he thought, the words painful.

  He tried to open the lid, but the box was locked tight. The keyhole was tiny – too small to see clearly – and he wondered if there was a key for it. “Should I even open it? What d’you reckon, Mammoth?” He glanced up at the elephant, who twitched his ears again and flicked his tail, but had no other wisdom to impart.

  “An’ he’s makin’ me go up,” Bastjan whispered, stroking the lid of the box. “I haven’t been up since you fell, Mum. I don’t even remember what it feels like.” He closed his eyes and tried to imagine it – the height, the lights, the concentration. The fear.

  And the thrill. Flight!

  He opened his eyes just in time to see Mammoth lifting his tail. Bastjan, knowing what was coming, braced himself, watching carefully to make sure none of Mammoth’s droppings escaped from the cage. He slipped the box back beneath his jumper and pulled himself to his feet.

  “A pleasure, as always,” he whispered to the elephant. Bastjan reached out his arm, stretching into the cage, and then a noise caught his ear. Ahyuk, ahyuk. The sharp retort of a man clearing his throat. Hubert, one of the animal handlers, had a habit of doing that every few minutes, as though something immovable was stuck just behind his tongue. A few cages down, Bastjan saw the handler’s tall shape moving in the shadows as he checked on one of the lions. Soon, he’d be here. Bastjan wanted to be gone before that happened – he didn’t fancy answering any questions about what he was up to.

  With one last look at Mammoth, Bastjan slipped out between two cages into the open air. He took in a deep breath as he walked.

  The camp was still quiet, but Bastjan knew he had nowhere else to go now but home. He wondered whether Jericho and Crake’s card game was over yet. Sleeping through it could be hard, particularly if the game was going against one of the men, but Bastjan didn’t think he’d be able to sleep tonight anyway. His head was too full of thoughts about the morning.

  He walked towards his wagon, trudging as quickly as he could through the mud. Just as he reached the middle of the camp, a door opened to his right, spilling a rich yellow glow out into the night. Bastjan glanced towards it, squinting; a shape was moving against the light, pouring wastewater from a pitcher out on to the ground. Then the shape noticed him.

  “Querido,” said a gentle voice, and Bastjan’s face relaxed into a smile.

  “Evenin’, Ana,” he whispered.

  The woman gestured for him to come nearer, and as he did so Ana perched on the top step of her wagon, setting the empty pitcher on the step below. She wrapped herself in her shawl and patted the space beside her, where Bastjan settled. Ana was warm and she smelled of lemon-scented soap.

  “You’re out late, niño,” she said. “Is everything all right?”

  Bastjan thought about how to answer. “’Spose,” he finally decided, and Ana gave a chuckle.

  “When I have a problem, I am lucky,” Ana said, her brown eyes shining into Bastjan’s. “I have my sister Carmen, who listens to everything I need to tell her. If you have a problem, you know I will listen.”

  Bastjan gripped the box through his jumper, suddenly feeling unsure. “I’m … it’s all right, Ana,” he said. “I was just thinkin’ about my mum, that’s all.”

  Ana nudged him gently. “Ah, yes. I remember her, but not well. She passed a few months after Carmen and I joined the circus. You were so small then, querido. You became everyone’s boy.”

  Bastjan gave Ana a quick smile. “I miss ’er,” he said, and misery lurched in his chest again.

  Ana freed an arm from her shawl and wrapped it round his narrow shoulders. “You know something? Next time you miss her, come visit Carmen and me.” She jerked her head towards the open door. “This used to be your mama’s wagon. This is where you and she lived, when you were tiny. Did you know?”

  Bastjan’s eyes went wide. “No,” he said. “Really?”

  Ana nodded. “Yes! I think of your mama often. When I look in the mirror, when I step on the squeaky board at night and wake my sister, when I watch the stars shine through my window, I wonder – is this what Ester saw, or felt, or heard? And then I pray for her, querido, and blow a kiss to the sky.”

  Bastjan quivered. Something deep inside him felt like it was being squeezed – not painfully, exactly, but it wasn’t something he knew how to understand. “Thanks,” he managed to whisper. Ester, he thought, closing the name like a pearl inside a shell. My mother. As rarely as he heard his own name, he heard his mother’s even less.

  “It is no problem,” Ana answered. “And remember, come any time. Carmen and me, we would love to have you. We will have a party, just for you – una fiesta! But for now, you should go back to Mr Crake. We do not want him stomping over here and shaking his big old silly beard all over the place – ay! Dios mío!” Ana tickled him, and Bastjan gave her as wide a grin as he could manage.

  “G’night,” he said, getting to his feet.

  Ana reached out and pulled him close. She kissed his cheek and whispere
d into his ear. “Goodnight, querido. Sweet dreams.”

  Bastjan hopped down from the step. Giving Ana a final wave, he began to walk away. She lingered in the doorway of her wagon, in the shadows, watching until Bastjan reached his own door before going inside.

  As Bastjan neared his own wagon he knew the card game was over – Biscuit was gone, and all that seeped out beneath the door was the muffled sound of gentle, regular snoring and the glow of a damped-down lantern. He opened the door and crept inside, closing it behind him as quietly as he could.

  Slipping the box from beneath his jumper, he took one quick look before putting it silently under his pillow. Then, he got into his night things. He washed his hands and rubbed his teeth down with a clean finger. Before he slid into his narrow bed, he reached out to the low card table between his bunk and Crake’s, where the lantern had been left sitting, and put out the light.

  He reached up to the pictures on his wall, running his fingers over them. He didn’t need to see to know which one was which; he knew them by touch. Here was the one where his mother – or an artist’s impression of her – walked the high wire while balancing on top of a large wooden globe; there was the one where she sat on the swing like a lady from a painting, surrounded by flowers. And here, the picture of them together, dressed in matching costumes, spinning through the air as though they were held together with invisible string, his mother and him…

  Bastjan’s stomach lurched as he jerked out of the doze he’d slipped into, his chest tight with panic and cold sweat standing out on his forehead. He opened his eyes, blinking into the darkness. A dream, he told himself. Jus’ a dream.

  Crake snorted as he turned over in his bunk and Bastjan tried to calm his thundering heart. I was fallin’, he thought. Some of the thready tendrils of his dream still lingered, hanging in the air like smoke. Fallin’ from somewhere high. An’ there was somethin’ in my hand.

  But when he opened his tightly clenched fist, it was empty.