Skyborn

by Sinéad O'Hart

  Nothing in the circus felt right tonight. Spirits were low and tempers high. There’d been a fight between Clement and Lady Zenobia about the placement of their wagons in the convoy, and Magnus Ólafsson had taken to his wagon with a flagon of beer, which meant he wouldn’t re-emerge for a day or two. Questions about the mysterious money man were on everyone’s lips, and Bastjan couldn’t forget how the ringmaster had looked at him when he’d mentioned the new sponsor earlier. As if that wasn’t enough, there was the issue of the strange bracelet in his mother’s box. Every time his thoughts even skirted it, he felt his fear spiking – along with his curiosity.

  At least there was one mystery that he could get some help with. He turned away from the window, pulling it closed. The half-door at the far end of the wagon was open and Bastjan could see Crake’s shoulder as he sat outside on the porch, the horse’s reins in his great hands. Bastjan slid off the bunk and reached beneath his pillow to take his mother’s notebook out of her box. He tucked it into the waistband of his trousers as he made his way to the door. Crake greeted him with a good-natured grunt.

  “How far ’ave we come?” Bastjan asked. Goodness knew what time it was. The moon was high and the stars were up, and even Crake had a scarf on to muffle against the cool night air.

  “Fifteen, maybe twenty miles, I’d say,” Crake answered. “Should be there by first light, with any luck.” He harrumphed. “Not that we’ve been havin’ much of that, of late.”

  Bastjan reached out to unlatch the half-door and Crake shifted a little to make room for him. “Gotta ask you somethin’,” Bastjan said, keeping his voice quiet as he pulled himself up.

  “Somethin’ so important that it has to be discussed in the heart of the night, when all good boys should be in bed,” Crake said. A smile danced over his lips as he threw his young friend a sidelong glance.

  “Yes,” Bastjan replied, his face set and serious. He pulled the notebook free and Crake’s grin faded. The strongman looped the horse’s reins around the wooden railing in front of him and held out his hands. The horse, accustomed to following the wagon in front, simply kept on plodding as Bastjan handed over the book.

  Crake took one look at its cover, illuminated by the wagon’s swinging lantern, and stared at Bastjan. “Your mother’s,” he whispered. “You got the box open, then?”

  Bastjan unfolded his fingers. The key lay in his palm. Crake’s eyes widened as he stared at it.

  “I got to know what it says, Crake,” Bastjan said.

  The big man cleared his throat. “I’m years out of practice, lad,” he said, in a small voice. He carefully laid the notebook down on his knee and opened it with the tips of two fingers. He squinted at the page with the drawing of the island on it for a moment, holding the book at arm’s length and then bringing it right up to his nose. “No good,” he proclaimed. “I’m goin’ to need me goggles.”

  Bastjan went back into the wagon, searching through Crake’s cupboard until he found the wire-rimmed, thick-lensed glasses which Crake had discovered one evening after a performance and afterwards kept for his own. He brought them out to the strongman, who took them from him with grave dignity before settling them on the end of his nose.

  “Now,” Crake muttered, peering at the book again over the rim of the purloined spectacles. “Me-li-ta,” he read, sounding out the syllables of the unfamiliar word written beneath the hand-drawn map. “An’ the rest of it, I can’t read. I’m sorry, son.”

  “Please, Crake,” Bastjan begged. “Try!”

  Crake turned, blinking at him over the top of his glasses. “It’s not in English, lad. The rest of the words are in a language I don’t know.” He sighed, flipping through the pages. “Ah. Now here’s somethin’ I can understand,” he said, as the book fell open at the page with the stick figures drawn on it. “Mama,” Crake read. “And this here says ‘Nikola’.”

  “Who’re they, then?” Bastjan asked.

  “Well. If your mam drew this, as I’m sure she did,” Crake said gently, “then this lady here –” he jabbed at the page – “is your grandmother. I’m not sure who this Nikola chap is, but he must’ve been someone who meant somethin’ to your mam, I s’pose.”

  My grandmother. Bastjan gazed at the drawing for several long minutes, taking in the pencil marks sketching out the woman’s headscarf, her dark eyes, her long dress.

  Crake began to flick through the notebook from the back. Bastjan frowned, wondering what he was doing. All the pages seemed to be entirely blank. Finally, the strongman flattened it out to reveal a torn-off page from a different book – a printed book – folded into a tight square and jammed in against the notebook’s spine.

  “Hah,” Crake said. “I thought I felt somethin’ back there. Here we are.”

  Bastjan reached in and pulled the loose sheet free. He unfolded it and, together, the man and the boy stared at the page. Bastjan’s scalp prickled as he looked.

  “Now there’s a sight,” Crake said.

  The page, its torn edge ragged and uneven, bore a drawing of a creature which was half woman and half something else – something with a scaly body from the chest down, short, lizard-like legs and small feet with three red-tipped claws. From behind her rose a tail which was poised to strike. She had human arms and a human face, and her hair fell in thick golden waves which turned, eventually, into streams of water. She stared out at them with an angry gaze.

  “I can’t read what it says,” Crake said, running one thick finger along the words printed beneath the picture. “Meta-somethin’. Makes no sense.”

  “Crake, look,” Bastjan said, pointing to the top corner of the page, over the lizard-lady’s head. “That word. Ain’t it the same as the one my mum wrote?”

  Crake blinked. “Begob,” he said. “You’re right. Melita.”

  They looked at one other in confusion. “A place,” Bastjan finally said, his expression clearing. “The island.”

  “Her home, lad,” Crake said gently.

  They turned back to the page in Bastjan’s hand. Above the word ‘Melita’ was a drawing of something Bastjan couldn’t describe. It looked like a gigantic hole in the earth surrounded by a high wall, drawn as though the viewer had a bird’s-eye view of it. A sheer cliff leading down to the sea was pressed against one of its sides, and in the centre of the enclosed space was a beast, one with arms and a humanlike head, but the body of a fish. Part human, an’ part animal, jus’ like the lizard-lady, Bastjan thought. An’ like the thing my mum drew.

  They turned the page over, but all they could see on the other side were more drawings of nightmarish creatures, including one which gave Bastjan a cold shiver down his spine – a huge, tentacled thing with a wide-open beak, thrashing in water and destroying a ship in the process.

  “Let’s just put it back,” he said, yanking the notebook from Crake’s hands. As he did so, two narrow white pieces of card slid from between the pages and landed in the boy’s lap. A thin night breeze threatened to blow them away and Bastjan slapped his hand down to catch them before they vanished into the dark. They were covered in words printed in thick black type.

  “Tickets,” Crake said, taking one. “Well, now. This here’s a third-class ticket on a ZepLiner, leaving from Isle of Dogs Airship Station in London, heading for the city of Mdina, on the island of Melita, for one adult. And the other –” he peered at it, still held carefully in Bastjan’s fingers – “is the same, except for a child.” Crake blinked, meeting Bastjan’s eye. “And they’re one way.”

  “What’s that mean?” Bastjan whispered.

  “It means she wanted to go home, son,” Crake said. “An’ she wasn’t comin’ back.”

  “Mum,” Bastjan whispered. “She bought ’em, right?”

  Crake ran his finger gently over the dates of travel printed on the ticket in his hand. “Right before she died, by the looks of it. An’ she never got to use ’em.”

  Just as Bastjan opened his mouth to tell Crake about his mother’s bracelet, and the ot
her things he’d found in the box, a jolt rocked the wagon on its springs.

  “Whoa!” Crake called, reaching out to pull the reins free as Bastjan scrambled to grab the notebook, the loose sheet and the tickets. He lost his balance and pitched sideways, his hands too full to break his fall – and then he felt Crake’s fingers wrap securely around his arm, hauling him back on to the seat.

  “All right, lad?” Crake said, holding the reins with one hand as he settled Bastjan with the other. He squinted into the darkness. “We must’ve rolled over a rock. I’ll have to pay better attention to this road or we’ll be on our ears before too long.”

  Bastjan caught his breath. He looked down at the things in his hands. Luckily, nothing had fluttered off into the night.

  “Go on to bed, boy,” Crake said to Bastjan. “Take these with you and keep ’em out of sight. I’ll stay out here and try to keep old Betsy from turning us over.”

  “Crake…” Bastjan began, but the strongman was focused on the road.

  “It’ll have to wait till mornin’, son,” Crake said, his tone firm. “I’ve enough to be doin’ now. Off you go an’ rest. It’s a big day ahead.”

  Bastjan sighed, getting to his feet. He took his mother’s things and went back into the wagon, closing the door behind him. But he had no intention of going to sleep; his head was thudding with everything it was trying to contain. He hurried to the window, swishing the thin curtain closed. Then he turned up the flickering gaslight and sat cross-legged on his bed, his mother’s notebook on his knee. Opening it, he flicked to the page with the creature his mother had drawn, the one with the band around its wrist. There was a link between this drawing and everything else he’d discovered, but no matter how hard Bastjan twisted his brain, the answer wouldn’t fall out.

  And then, with a jerk, he remembered the bracelet and the power it seemed to have.

  Bastjan pulled out the box from beneath his pillow. It was still unlocked, and he lifted the lid carefully, as though afraid something was about to jump out and bite him. The bracelet sat at the top of the box, curled in on itself like it was sleeping. Gently, he pulled it out. Its touch on his skin was soft, like cool silk; the threads that made it up were many-coloured, some of them gleaming in the lamplight, golden strands among the black. It was beautiful, but the fang-like clasps still made his stomach churn.

  Closing his fist around the bracelet, Bastjan shut his eyes. He pushed away the noises of the circus – the clip-clopping of hooves, the distant whistle of the steam engine, the shouts of the rousties, the occasional burst of song – and tried to focus. Come on, he thought, setting his jaw. Do it again! I’m ready this time – I ain’t afraid. Do it!

  And then a face burst into his mind – a thin face, young and scared, one with fine golden-brown hair on its cheeks and down its neck as well as on top of its head, where the hair was long and matted and thick. A face with a wide-open, screaming mouth filled with sharp teeth; a face with eyes that were too wide and too hungry, their golden pupils slit like a cat’s. In the next breath it felt like he was falling, and the face grew smaller and smaller above him until finally it vanished into the dark.

  Morning light trickled greyly through the wagon curtains, tickling Bastjan’s eyelids until they opened. Straightaway, he knew they were in a new place. Everything smelled different and the noises coming through his window were unfamiliar. Voices shouting, horses whinnying, the rumble of cartwheels on cobblestones, and somewhere the clack and whistle of a train.

  His head pounded as he sat up. There was something in his hand and he was surprised to find it was the bracelet – he must have fallen asleep still holding it. Feeling around beneath his pillow with his free hand, Bastjan yanked out the box and deposited the bracelet inside. His chest felt tight as he slid the box back into its hiding place.

  He sat on the edge of his bunk, trying to shake away his dreams. But some fragment of them lingered around him as though it didn’t want to leave – as though it had finally found the warm place it was looking for and wanted to make itself at home. He forced in a few deep breaths, trying not to remember the face he’d seen in his dream – if it had been a dream. A memory, he told himself, feeling sure he was right. A thought needled at him: were the memories trapped in the bracelet his mother’s? He could hardly bear its touch, but something inside him needed to know.

  Bastjan padded to the washstand and grimaced at his sunken-eyed reflection. Then, balancing on one leg even as the wagon tipped and dipped over rough ground, he pulled himself into his Runner Bean costume, ready for the Grand Parade. Carrying his plimsolls in his hand, he unlatched the wagon door and went outside. The morning was crisp and bright, and the freshness of the air finally began to clear his thoughts.

  Stop bein’ such a baby! Bastjan told himself. Believin’ in fairy tales an’ monsters, an’ lettin’ dreams get the better of you. You got bigger things to worry about.

  Crake’s eyes were small and red-rimmed beneath the brim of his hat as he took in their surroundings. Bastjan plopped down on the bench beside him and pulled on his plimsolls, one by one.

  “Mornin’,” Crake grumbled, before clicking the horse on gently. “I know, girleen. I know you’ve pulled my rickety old bones the whole night long. But you’ll be able to rest soon.”

  “Where are we, then?” Bastjan said. Close-packed houses lined the narrow street, with warrens of lanes and alleys breaking off at every junction. To their right soared a huge church, and just ahead arched an impressive stone structure – a railway bridge, Bastjan realized, watching a plume of steam pass over it at speed. He didn’t like cities, or even towns like this one; the tall, overhanging buildings made him feel crowded and locked in, and it seemed too easy to get lost.

  “Comin’ into St Wycombe,” Crake replied, glancing around. “Though it’s changed a bit since I was last here.”

  Bastjan pulled his knees up to his chin. “How d’you know this place?”

  Crake shrugged. “Been through it once or twice. This is far from the most direct road to London, but the old ways are underwater now. You spend long enough in the travellin’ life, an’ you get to know every road and byroad, lad. Now –” he handed the reins to Bastjan – “let me go an’ get into me fightin’ gear.”

  Bastjan felt nervous as he guided the horse through the unfamiliar streets, but they were midway through the convoy so all they had to do was follow the rolling trail of the wagon in front. Soon, they took a turn to the left, clopping up a narrower road, before turning again and passing over a bridge. The railway lines shone below them, and Bastjan squinted at the large, forbidding building not far from the tracks. It looks like a prison, he thought. Or a work’ouse. He suppressed a shudder and looked away.

  Just as the wagons approached the gates to a huge park and the convoy began to slow, Crake emerged. He was dressed in his showtime clothes, his beard in its two great plaits, his red hair slicked back and pinned unwillingly down around his ears. He stood in the doorway and left Bastjan to drive, placing one reassuring hand on the boy’s shoulder.

  Somewhere behind them, the band began to play, a bright and heart-gladdening tune, and Bastjan noticed faces looking in their direction. Some were curious; most were smiling.

  Moments later, they entered a wide thoroughfare with parkland all around. The ringmaster led the way, his magnificent wagon emblazoned with the circus name in gold letters already beginning to draw a crowd. The other wagons took their accustomed places, pulling to a halt in a large semicircle with the ringmaster’s wagon at the top, and the band marched into the centre, playing with gusto.

  Crake leaped down from the wagon before it had quite finished moving, leaving Bastjan to roll it into position. When that was done, Bastjan hopped down from his perch. He watched as the crowd started to gather at the open end of the semicircle. Children pushed to the front and a cluster of them took up residence around the hissing steam engine, which had pulled to a halt a few moments before with a sharp toot on its whistle.

/>   The rousties were trickling through the camp, smoothly swapping out tired horses with fresh ones and beginning to lay out the perimeter fence. The animal wagons were being re-hitched, ready to roll out, and Bastjan watched as three rousties walked the length of the trailer which had carried the circus tent all the way from Oxford, checking for damage.

  As the men reached the halfway point, something at the end of the trailer caught Bastjan’s eye and he blinked. He frowned, staring harder, as a girl jumped down from the end of the trailer. She was covered in grime, but as she turned her head to look behind her Bastjan saw a rust-red birthmark on her face, like a splodge of faded paint, almost covering one cheek and trailing down her neck.

  The girl turned back to the trailer to grab a small, nondescript dog, which she tucked under one arm. Then she and the dog melted into the crowd – and just in time too, as in the next breath the three rousties arrived at the end of the trailer and began to haul out the rolls of canvas, ready to reassemble the big top.

  Bastjan watched the space in the crowd where the girl had vanished and jogged towards Crake. “Breakfast’s goin’ to have to wait, eh, son,” the strongman muttered as he drew near.

  From behind them came the stilt walkers, their impossibly long legs swishing gently in the morning air, and the circus band struck up once more. The ringmaster, in his full regalia, stepped into position at the head of the band, and then, with one swoop of his metal-tipped cane, he summoned his performers into formation behind him. Like soldiers behind their general, the members of the Quinn Family Circus filed out into the morning sunshine and the Grand Parade began.

  Alice’s every instinct was telling her to stay away from the crowd, but something else – maybe her memories of the magical days when she was new to living with her grandfather, when they did things together, and before he’d started ignoring her unless there was a doctor in the room – was forcing her to stay. She pushed through the crowd, jostling like everyone else for the best position. The stilt walkers had passed overhead moments before, scattering flyers like leaves in their wake, and the band was probably half a mile away, though its music could still be heard.