Skyborn

by Sinéad O'Hart

  Bastjan bounded into the ring alongside his fellow Runner Beans when their act was announced, almost losing his footing when one of the other boys jabbed him with an elbow as they took their places for the first tumble. As the son of a performer who’d died in the ring, he was considered bad luck by most of the other Beans. But they didn’t normally go so far as to try to interfere with his performance. He pushed the thought away as he listened for the cue, poised for his first trick.

  Sandrine, one of the smallest Beans, came sailing through the air as the music surged. Bastjan reached up to catch her and her foot landed perfectly in his palm. As she bent forwards to grab his other hand in hers, ready for her next move, Bastjan glanced up at her.

  “Think yer too good fer the likes of us now, do yer?” Sandrine whispered, her sneer made worse by the fact that she was upside down. “Mister fancy pants on yer flyin’ hoop.”

  Bastjan’s mouth dropped open, but his grip didn’t slip as Sandrine did a handstand over his head. As the audience applauded she flipped to the ground and jogged away.

  The rest of the act passed without incident, but Bastjan couldn’t shake his sense of foreboding as he and the other Runner Beans made their way backstage. He looked around the performers’ area. There was no sign of Crake, and even though he knew Alice had to be safe in their hiding place, he wished she was here where he could see her.

  And he would have given anything for a reassuring look at the box, and a stroke of its enamelled lid.

  “Bastjan,” came a familiar voice, and he turned to see Nanette. She wore a brown robe with its hood up over her hair, but her tights and shoes were white. Unexpectedly, the woman dropped to her knees in front of him and gathered him into a hug. After a moment, Bastjan hugged her back.

  “What’s up? Everythin’ all right, Nanette?” he said.

  “Come on,” she replied. Her voice sounded strange, muffled somehow. “Let’s get you ready.” She got to her feet still holding his hand. Her grip was tight. Bastjan tried to wriggle his fingers free, but Nanette didn’t let go.

  “No need to drag me,” he said as they approached the dressing room, which was blocked off from the main backstage area with thin plywood boards. “What’s goin’ on?”

  “Mr Quinn wants a word before we go up,” Nanette replied. She closed the dressing-room door behind them and turned to check herself in a mirror. “So we’ve got to hurry.”

  Bastjan muttered under his breath as he lathered a flannel for his face. He had to clean all traces of the Runner Beans’ green paint off before he could get ready for the headline act. Nanette had left out his sticks of face paint – they were silver and white. He frowned at them as he scrubbed at his ears.

  “Nanette, is this the right stuff?” he said, turning to her. Nanette stood in front of the door, watching him warily, her mouth a thin, quivering line. “Ain’t it red we’re usin’ tonight?”

  “There was a change of plan earlier. Mr Quinn’ll tell you about it.”

  Bastjan shrugged and turned back to the mirror, but he kept watch on Nanette all the time. She stood with her arms folded, her shoulders stooped and tense. Somethin’s wrong, Bastjan thought. He towelled his face dry, trying to stay calm. Then he pulled out his costume from the rack. He froze. It was white and covered with silver sequins. Like a snowflake, he thought.

  Bastjan turned to Nanette with the leotard in his hands. “What’s this, then? Some kind of a joke, is it?”

  Nanette didn’t answer. Instead, she loosened her robe and pulled down her hood. Her curled hair was piled on her head, dotted through with silver stars. She pulled the robe fully open, dropping it to the floor. Bastjan stared at her properly and finally understood. The white-and-silver leotard, the sparkling face paint on her cheekbones, the glittering headpiece.

  The Dance of the Snowflakes. She’s dressed in Mum’s old costume!

  “No way,” he said, every inch of his chest feeling hot. The heat erupted up through his nose and mouth and eyes, making them water. “I ain’t doin’ this!”

  “He wants a triple tuck, you flying and me catching, just like we practised,” Nanette said. She closed her eyes and two fat tears ran down her cheeks, smudging her make-up. “Only we’ve got to do it dressed like this. He’s got me over a barrel, Bastjan, and there’s nothing I can do. I’m sorry.”

  “What? Nanette, tell me what’s goin’ on.” Bastjan crushed the satin of the silver costume between his hands as he gripped it.

  “I’ve got a daughter,” Nanette said, blinking her tears away. “She has two babies and her husband’s dead. She’s sick and she relies on what I send her to keep those babies fed. Quinn’s goin’ to sack me, without the pay he owes, if I don’t do as he tells me tonight.” Nanette’s eyes filled again. “They’re only babies, Bastjan. And I’m all they’ve got. I can’t lose this job.”

  Bastjan stared, incredulous. “Nanette, jus’ tell me. What’s any of this got to do wi’ me?”

  The woman looked him in the eye. “It’s your friend. The girl with the firemark. He knows she’s got the box.”

  Bastjan blinked, his brain a whir. “What?”

  “Ester’s box, Bastjan. He wants it.” Her voice dropped to a whisper. “And it’s all my fault. I told him about her. I told him about Alice.”

  “How … how d’you know her name?”

  “Her grandfather’s been looking for her since the day she ran away from his house. Her face is in all the papers, Bastjan. Everyone knows her name.”

  Bastjan’s heart skipped. Alice ain’t safe, he thought. I gotta warn ’er! But Nanette was still blocking the dressing-room door, his only way out. “Alice ain’t got nothin’ to do with any o’ this.”

  Nanette shook her head. “Someone saw her, Bastjan. One of the rousties. And now Quinn’s convinced she has the box. He’s goin’ to do whatever it takes to get it.”

  “Whatever it takes?” Bastjan felt dizzy.

  “We’re going up,” Nanette said. “And if that girl won’t hand over the box, I’m to make sure you don’t come down.”

  High overhead, Wares began to growl.

  “What is it, boy?” Alice said, reaching out to scratch his head. Her eyes didn’t leave the ring. Bastjan’s act was coming up soon and she didn’t want to miss a moment of it.

  “He can probably smell an intruder,” came a voice from behind her, and Alice turned sharply, knocking over the open bottle of lemonade. It tinkled away over the boards, leaving a sticky trail. Cyrus Quinn stood on the ladder. In his hand he held a knife with a long, wide blade.

  Wares bared his teeth and barked. In the swelling noise of the ring, nobody heard. Alice picked him up, feeling his small body quivering in her arms.

  “What—” Alice began, but her throat closed over with shock. “What do you want?” she finally said, as Cyrus Quinn stepped up on to the platform. Alice knew there was nowhere to run, but she took a step backwards anyway, almost tumbling over a coil of rope.

  “I’d forgotten about you, you know,” Quinn began, taking a step towards her. “After that day we met beneath my big top. Remarkable as you are, young lady, I’ve had a lot on my mind and somehow you managed to slip out of it.” He paused, his smile thin-lipped. “And then one of my men reported seeing a girl, and a dog, on top of a wagon, and certain things began to fall into place.”

  “I’m not staying, I promise,” Alice said. “I just needed somewhere—”

  “There’s a box,” Quinn interrupted, “made of fine dark wood, with a fish on its lid.” He twirled the knife in his hand. “I think you have it. You must have, as I’ve scoured the camp and found no trace of it.”

  Alice gripped the bar beside her, afraid she might faint. “Don’t be ridiculous,” she said, her voice shaking.

  “I am many things, Miss Patten – or should I say, Lady Patten – but ridiculous is not one of them.” Quinn stared at her. “In my pocket I have a telegram, ready for sending, which is addressed to your dear old grandad. In it, I tell him I’ve fou
nd you safe and well, and I’m claiming the fat reward he has out for your safe return.”

  “Grandfather?” Alice said, blinking fast against her tears. “He has a reward out for me?”

  “Terribly worried, he is.” Quinn pursed his lips in a mockery of concern. “Been searching for you up and down the country.” He leaned casually against the railing, tapping the flat of the knife against his open palm. “So it’s like this. You hand over the box, I claim the reward, you go home and live in luxury for the rest of your life. Or,” he continued, raising the blade and pointing it at her, wagging it with every word he spoke, “you don’t hand over the box and I send a different telegram to poor old Lord Patten. One in which I tell him that, before I could secure her safe return –” Quinn took a step closer, tightening his grip on the knife – “his darling granddaughter met with an unfortunate accident.”

  Wares leaped from Alice’s arms, scrambling on the boards and launching himself at the ringmaster. Quinn bared his own teeth at the charging dog and Alice screamed as he grabbed Wares by the scruff of the neck, lifting his tiny body high.

  “No!” she shouted. “Don’t hurt him!”

  “After you,” Quinn growled, indicating towards the ladder with a wave of the blade. Wares wriggled his legs for all he was worth, but the ringmaster held him at arm’s length. Sobbing, Alice made her way to the ladder and began to descend. Quinn’s stare followed her all the way. As soon as she reached the ground, he placed the blade of his knife between his teeth and climbed down one-handed. Once at the bottom he removed the knife, wiping its blade on his sleeve.

  “Please,” Alice said, reaching out for the dog. “Give him back.”

  Quinn stuck the knife into a scabbard strapped to his chest before gripping Alice around the arm. Wordlessly, he led her through the forest of struts and scaffolding until they reached the performers’ area – just in time to see Bastjan burst through the dressing-room door with Nanette at his heels. He was still wearing his Runner Beans trousers, but with nothing on top besides a stained old vest. In his hands he carried a sparkling white costume.

  “Bastjan!” Alice shouted, and he turned to her. His eyes widened.

  “Let ’er go!” he shouted, but Quinn only tightened his grip. Alice winced, trying to wriggle free.

  “We all need to have a little talk, I think,” Quinn said. Bastjan threw the costume to the ground and Nanette ran to pick it up, shaking the dirt from it as best she could.

  “I ain’t goin’ up,” Bastjan said. “Ain’t no way.”

  “Well, then, I’m afraid we’ve got a problem,” the ringmaster said. “Because, you see, there’s an audience out there expecting a high-flying showstopper of a finale.” As he spoke, there was a gush of applause from beyond the curtain as an act came to an end. “Not to mention the fact that there’s something I need. Something you’ve got.” The ringmaster tossed Wares to the floor, aiming a kick at him. The dog dodged it and ran, vanishing into the campground through the open tent flap.

  “Mr Quinn, I tried to explain,” Nanette began. “Bastjan knows what you need. He—”

  “Then why isn’t he dressed?” Quinn asked mildly.

  “Let Alice go,” Bastjan said, his fists clenching.

  Quinn pulled his knife free, spinning it carelessly in his palm. “Get into your costume,” he said. “Time is running out, boy. And the longer you delay…” He stopped the blade’s spin with the point close to Alice’s cheek. She closed her eyes against it.

  “Please, Bastjan,” Nanette said, holding out the white leotard. “He’ll hurt her. Don’t try his patience, lad.”

  Bastjan turned to Quinn. “If I go up, you’ll let ’er go?”

  “I get the box, nobody gets hurt. You get to survive your great debut, little Lady Patten here gets to go home safely and I get paid a great deal of money.” Quinn cocked a small grin. “And that’s just the start of it,” he added, half to himself.

  Alice opened her eyes and the children looked at one another. “Give it to ’im as soon as I’m back on the ground,” Bastjan murmured to Alice, his voice low. “Nothin’s worth gettin’ hurt for.”

  “But—” Alice whispered.

  “Jus’ do it,” Bastjan said. He grabbed the leotard out of Nanette’s hands and began to pull it on.

  Nanette vanished into the dressing room for a moment and re-emerged with the sticks of make-up in her hand. She did her best to paint Bastjan’s face despite his glowering expression, until finally he stood ready, his cheeks sparkling in the light.

  “Passable,” Quinn muttered, shoving Alice away from him. Nanette took hold of her instead, digging in her strong fingers. Then she stood to one side, pulling the children with her, as performers spilled out of the ring and into the backstage area – Lily and Gustav, Lady Zenobia, and Christabel with her dogs.

  “Please,” Nanette murmured. “Please, don’t say anythin’. If this doesn’t work, my grandkids are as good as dead. I’m beggin’ you.”

  “Where’s Crake?” Bastjan asked, watching the last of the performers disappear into the dressing room.

  “There’s been an emergency in Mammoth’s enclosure,” Nanette said, and as Bastjan turned to her, eyes wide, she quickly continued. “Not a real one – don’t worry. Just somethin’ to keep Crake an’ some of the other men out of the way, until… Until this is done.”

  The ringmaster buttoned his jacket over the knife at his chest, smoothing down the fabric to ensure the weapon couldn’t be seen. “I’m off to give you the best introduction I can muster,” he said, throwing Bastjan a wink. “Break a leg.” Then, with a laugh, he was gone beyond the curtain.

  Bastjan quivered as he closed his eyes and listened for the ringmaster’s voice. “Ladies and gentlemen! Boys, girls, friends! We’re nearing the end of our evening and I wanted to thank you all, most sincerely, for being part of our family here tonight.” The audience responded with a gentle ripple of applause.

  “You’ve seen tumblers and jugglers, flying knives and spurts of flame. You’ve witnessed the finest dancers and singers this side of a circus ring. You’ve marvelled at creatures from distant lands. You’ve seen things that – I hope! – you’ll be talking about for years to come.” Bastjan grimaced as he listened. “But now, my friends. Now the time has come for our highlight of the evening.” Quinn paused and Bastjan held his breath.

  “It’s rare, my friends, to come across a talent so incandescent as the one you’re about to see,” Quinn began. Bastjan imagined him walking around the ring, his hands behind his back, the audience hanging on his every word. “You think you’ve seen performers in the air? You think you’ve seen artists on the trapeze? They pale beside my next act, ladies and gents. Not since the days of the Dance of the Snowflakes have we seen a performer of this level of artistry. No, my friends! Prepare yourselves for skill beyond compare.” The drums rattled, growing louder and louder. “Ready yourselves for acrobatics that go beyond the bounds of what is possible. Without further ado, I present to you my most trusted aerialist, Miss Nanette van Hemel, and the young man known only as…” The drums rolled for a moment that seemed far too long.

  “The Skyborn Boy!” the ringmaster shouted, and the crowd erupted.

  In the next moment, Quinn ducked beneath the curtain again. He grabbed Alice, but Bastjan didn’t have a chance to say anything before Nanette was pulling him forwards. Just before they passed through the curtain and into the ring he looked back, but all he could see were Alice’s angry, tearful eyes and the ringmaster’s jaw, set tightly.

  Then they were through the curtain and into the spotlights’ glare. Nanette released his wrist and raised her arms in the air before bending into a graceful bow. Knowing he had no choice, Bastjan copied her movements exactly. He jogged lightly to one side of the trapeze apparatus while Nanette jogged to the other, and as they rose into the air, he could feel the piercing weight of her gaze with every foot they climbed. He closed his eyes as the platforms settled into place and tried to breathe.
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  Behind the curtain, Alice edged away from the point of the knife which the ringmaster insisted on holding against her side.

  “Can’t you put that away?” she asked.

  “Afraid not,” he said, as they peered out through the gap. The spotlights were trained on the sparkling figures high above. The music soared as Nanette and Bastjan readied themselves to swing. “It’s multipurpose, you see. Keeps you from getting too feisty and it also acts as my failsafe. If you try anything –” the ringmaster angled the blade, just enough to catch the light – “it has other uses.”

  Quinn angled the blade further, reflecting the light straight into Alice’s eyes. She squeezed them shut against the glare and turned her head away, her pulse booming in her ears. “This is how we pass messages in the circus, you know, when shouting and whistling won’t do. A simple flashing signal. Although normally we use mirrors,” Quinn continued, a note of amusement in his voice. “Nanette is ready and waiting for a sign from me. If you give me any trouble, all I need to do is let her know.”

  Alice blinked as the band struck up a loud, rolling tune. The audience began to clap along, all eyes on the performers – Bastjan on one silver swing and Nanette on another. Then they were off, swooping effortlessly across the dizzying space. Alice glanced down at the poles holding the tent aloft; there was no safety net.

  If he falls, he’s done for, she thought, and with a lurch, she made a guess at what the ringmaster had been hinting at.

  “You mean – he’s going to fall,” Alice said, turning to Quinn. “If you signal to Nanette, she’s going to drop him.”

  “Ain’t you the clever one,” Quinn said. He kept his eyes on his performers. “Sharper’n this blade, young Lady Patten. It’d be tragic, eh? Going the same way as his dear old mum. But headlines are headlines, and there’s no paying for coverage like that. Can you imagine? I’d have to beat them away from the door.”

  If I fight, he’ll signal, Alice realized, glancing up at Bastjan’s swinging form. If I scream, the same. And if he thinks there’s any chance I won’t hand over the box… Her thoughts cascaded, one after the other. But he doesn’t know whether I’ve got it on me or not. I can still delay things. Maybe just long enough to get Bastjan down from there. She frowned. But I won’t give up the box, even then, no matter what Bastjan said.