“You’re not getting anything until Bastjan’s safe,” she said.
“He’ll be perfectly safe so long as I don’t give the signal,” Quinn replied. There was a hard edge to his words.
“Even so…” Alice forced the wobble out of her voice. “I’m not handing anything over until he’s back on the ground.”
Quinn turned to her. “In that case, I think we’ll have to come to a compromise, milady.”
Alice curled her lip. “Stop calling me that,” she snapped.
Quinn leaned forwards, raising the knife so that the blade was between his nose and Alice’s. “You see, I have this,” he told her. “And with this, you’ll find things get done a little more easily. Things like searching a person for something they shouldn’t have.”
Alice swallowed hard and looked away from the blade, back into Quinn’s face. “I’m still not giving you anything until Bastjan’s safe.”
“Once he’s back in Nanette’s arms, he’s as safe as a baby in a cradle,” Quinn said. “So I propose this.” He lowered the knife, looking back out into the circus ring. “As soon as Nanette has caught Bastjan – and she will catch him – you’ll give the box to me. And if you don’t –” Alice yelped as the point of the knife was again pressed against her side – “I’ll make sure to take it from you anyway. Maybe Lord Patten will pay out for your return, even if you’re missing a piece or two.” He gave a low chuckle. “I’m willing to take my chances, at any rate.”
The tempo of the music shifted and Alice focused on Bastjan, glittering high above. He was hanging from his swing, getting ready to fly.
Alice closed her eyes, trembling, and prepared herself for what had to come next.
Bastjan sat on the bar of his swing, running through the act in his head as he performed every movement. He and Nanette mirrored one another; his swing matched hers exactly, their timings precise. They swung towards one another, leaning back with their toes pointed, stretching their legs until the tips of their slippers almost touched, before gravity pulled them apart again. Below them the audience applauded.
He swallowed back a mouthful of sickness that had nothing to do with the height, or the movement. Got to get this right, he told himself. He crunched his eyes shut, knowing without having to look exactly where he was in the roof space. He’ll hurt Alice if I muck this up.
The swings moved forwards once more, and Nanette and Bastjan leaned backwards to propel them along. On the count of three they each released one hand, letting the spotlight dance along their sparkling costumes; far below, the audience gasped and clapped as the swings began their return journey. With the next swing, they released their other hands and flew holding on with only their legs, bending backwards to reach out for one another at the swing’s highest point. They came close enough for Bastjan to see the fear in Nanette’s eyes and then the swings began their downward journey.
Bastjan sat back up on to his swing as Nanette landed lightly on her platform. She paused, bowing to the crowd and allowing their applause to wash over her, as Bastjan built up his speed. He tried not to think about the drop that yawned beneath him. The only thing he had to rely on to keep him from falling to the sawdust below was Nanette. His mouth filled with sour-tasting saliva and he had to swallow it back.
As he started his descent, Bastjan quickly swapped his grip from the ropes to the swing, holding on tightly with both hands while his legs swung clear. Now his whole body hung beneath the swing like a sparkling teardrop, and he knew he had two more swings left before it would be time to let go. The band began to roll their drums once more but he pushed the sound out of his mind.
She smelled like roses, heavy and sweet. Her smile shone as she swung, gripping the rope with one hand and holding him in the crook of her other arm. Holding him close beneath her chin, kissing his forehead with her red lips, swinging her legs as though she hadn’t a single care in the world. Then she hooked her infant son to her leotard and began to swing with all her strength, pushing forwards through the empty roof space, going so high the spotlights could hardly find her.
And then, just as she started her descent, his mother unhooked him from her chest, gave him a single kiss and flung him into the air…
Bastjan’s eyes snapped back into focus. His lungs were burning – but not with exertion. It felt like he was drowning, his chest struggling to open. “Whoop,” came the sound, unasked for, out of his mouth. “Whoop.” He looked towards Nanette’s platform – she was hanging beneath her swing with her legs bent around its bar, and she was beginning to move.
He finished his swing, knowing that the next time he flew forwards, he would hear Nanette’s signal, just like they’d practised, and he would have to let go.
He would have to fling himself into the air and hope she would catch him.
“Ayup!” came Nanette’s voice. Bastjan heard it, clear as clear – the signal to release and fly.
He let go of his swing and tucked his legs to his ailing chest, counting his spins. One. Two. Three.
Quick as a thought, he uncoiled, his hands seeking Nanette’s, his head swimming from a lack of air. And then Nanette’s face was right beside his own. Her hands were stretched out and Bastjan reached for them.
“Got you,” she said, trying to smile, as her fingers closed around his wrists. They began the return swing, ready for their final trick – but just as they began to move, Bastjan saw Nanette flinch, dazzled by a flash of light. She closed her eyes against it but Bastjan saw it again, so bright that it made him sick with dizziness. He stared up into Nanette’s face. She opened her eyes. They were dark with grief and Bastjan knew what she was about to do.
“I’m sorry,” she whispered, her face twisted with pain – and then she let him go.
At the same second as Nanette loosened her grip, Bastjan reached up as high as he could, grabbing at whatever he could find. He got a handful of Nanette’s hair, and the woman screeched in pain and surprise. The swing began to wobble dangerously as Nanette tried to fight off Bastjan’s hold and the boy knew he was seconds away from losing his grip completely.
One. Two. Three. Alice counted Bastjan’s spins as he sailed through the air, and then, with a crashing of cymbals from the band, he was caught and held. Bastjan and Nanette began to swing and the audience’s applause swelled like a wave.
“Now!” Quinn bellowed into her ear. “The box. Give it to me!”
“I don’t have it,” Alice said, fear making her words tight. “Not with me. But I know where it is. Just let him get back on the ground, and then we can all go together and fetch it. Please!” Stall him, just long enough, and maybe we can take the box and run…
“What?” Quinn turned to her, snarling with rage. “You little—”
Alice tried to pull away, but Quinn held her tight. Then he hefted the blade of the knife – but instead of using it to hurt her, he angled it towards the light. Once, twice, he flicked it.
“No!” Alice cried. “Please!” She fumbled through her inside pocket. Her sweaty fingers met the edge of the box and she pulled it out. “It’s here! You can have it – just get him down!”
“It’s too late,” Quinn panted, his eyes fixed on the box. “The signal’s sent. It’s over.”
A shriek of horror made Alice look out into the ring, where she saw Bastjan and Nanette grappling on the swing. Before she could break away, Quinn threw Alice to the floor. The box flew from her fingers. Alice had no time to reach for it before Quinn grabbed it up, and in the next moment, he was gone.
Suddenly, amid the clamour from the audience, there was another noise. A noise Alice recognized – a sharp, angry yap.
“Wares,” she whispered, hauling herself up on her hands and knees.
A group of people were running across the circus ring, led by a tiny patchwork-coloured dog. Crake was right behind Wares, Jericho and Ana and Carmen right behind him – and just as Bastjan began to lose his grip, three clowns came running from the far side of the ring. Between them they carried a
trampoline, their eyes focused on the boy. They’d barely got into position before Bastjan finally dropped from the trapeze. Alice lost sight of him then, amid the forest of arms and hands which rushed in to help.
From high overhead there was a scream and Alice looked up. She saw Nanette suspended upside down from a harness – but something had gone wrong. She was hanging awkwardly, one leg pulled horribly out of shape. The woman kept screaming, her cries becoming bellows of agony as a pair of rousties began to lower her to the ground. Alice grimaced and looked away. She hauled herself up using the ringside curtain, stumbling her way towards the spot where Bastjan had landed.
Crake was lifting the pale-faced boy into his arms just as Alice reached them. She dropped to her knees and Wares launched himself at her.
“Good dog,” she said, kissing the top of his silky head. “Good, good dog.”
Crake got to his feet, carrying Bastjan as though he were a baby, and strode out of the ring. Alice, Jericho, Ana and Carmen followed him, ignoring the restless audience all around as they made for the performers’ area.
“Not this way,” Alice said, pulling at Crake’s arm. “What if Quinn sees us?”
“He’ll keep out of my way if he knows what’s good for him,” the strongman rumbled, ducking beneath the curtain. There was no sign of Quinn in the backstage area. All they saw were abandoned props, sandbags, piles of rope and haybales – and the open flap in the tent leading to the outside.
Ana ran ahead of the group. “Bring him to our wagon. We have medicine.” Crake followed without a word.
The strongman creaked his way up the steps and through the door of the sisters’ wagon, Alice close at his heels. A moment later he laid Bastjan gently on a bunk, going down on one knee on the floor. He kept one hand on Bastjan’s chest, as though to check he was still breathing. Every inhalation and exhalation was marked by a gentle whoop, and the boy’s breath sounded sticky and thick.
“This will help,” Carmen said as she held a bottle to Bastjan’s lips. Crake helped him to take a mouthful, and the boy sat up and coughed, wiping his mouth. He coughed again, his lungs clearing, and slowly his colour began to come back. He looked around and found Alice as Crake eased him back on to the pillow.
“You’re all right,” she breathed. Wares licked away the tears that suddenly began to flood out of her eyes and she turned away, embarrassed.
From outside, the sound of raised voices was heard. Crake got to his feet. Ducking his head around the lamp hanging from the wagon ceiling, he hurried to the door. He looked out and then he turned to the others, his eyes wide with rage.
“He’s burnin’ our wagon!” Crake shouted, and then he was gone.
Ana and Carmen bounded to the door, Jericho only barely beating them to it.
“Gimme a hand,” Bastjan muttered, and Alice helped him out of bed. Then the children and Wares followed the adults out of the wagon and down the steps.
Across the campground the only home Bastjan had ever known was aflame, gouts of fire bursting from its roof and licking along its wooden fittings, smoke billowing in a black cloud out of the half-door. Alice watched as Crake ran towards the burning wagon, helping with a bucket chain that some of the other performers had set up. But it didn’t seem to matter how quickly they poured water on the blaze. The wagon was lost, along with everything in it.
Alice didn’t know how long she stood and stared. Eventually she turned to find Bastjan, her heart filled with sorrow for his loss, and regret for how badly she’d guarded his most precious thing, but her words died on her tongue.
For where Bastjan had been standing was now an empty patch of muddy grass.
All Bastjan knew was the rocking of the world and the animal stench and the bursting, burning pain in his head.
Things came and went, like he was slowly opening and closing his eyes.
Nothing he saw or heard made any sense.
Voices. Voices he knew.
“How much longer?”
“Ahyuk, not too far now, sir, just down this lane, an’ then…”
“… has to work, Hubert. I won’t let the circus fail. Not while I’m in charge.”
“I know, Mr Quinn, sir. I know.”
“As soon as the boy is out of the picture, we’ll leave for London. The airship will be ready, with any luck. We’ve got to reach the island before…”
Then all was darkness, for longer than Bastjan could name.
Suddenly, his head whacked painfully off a strange, hard surface. He moved one hand over it. Boards? Rough wood? Everything smelled different. He could hear birdsong. He opened his eyes, but all was blackness.
“Ahyuk. Ahyuk.” The sound was so familiar.
“Hubert,” Bastjan tried to say. His voice sounded like he had cloth in his ears.
There was a scrambling nearby and then the warmth of a face near to his, the feeling of breath on his cheek. The smell of whiskey and sweat and animal dung. The smell of home. “Lie still, lad. Ahyuk. You’ll be all right. You’ll be minded here and you’ll be fed, an’ everythin’ will work out fine. Ahyuk.”
“Home,” Bastjan said, the throbbing in his head becoming unbearable.
“Best forget about it, boy. Ahyuk. Best for you, just to put it all away.”
Then the feeling of a warm, calloused hand on his forehead, stroking back his hair, and Hubert was gone.
Bastjan felt himself burst through a barrier, like waking up suddenly from a bad dream. His head was lolling painfully to one side. Wheels rumbled beneath him, over a rough and rutted road. He knew he wasn’t in a wagon, where the going would have been smooth; whatever he was riding in, it was jolting and jerking him as it rolled. He opened his eyes, but he still couldn’t see. Then he realized he was wearing a rough, itchy blindfold and he tried to lift his arm to pull it loose – but his arms were tied behind his back, the rope cutting painfully into his wrists. A pole ran up his back, pressing uncomfortably hard against his spine as it kept him sitting upright, and his wrists were tied around it. Quickly, he drew up his legs. They were bound at the ankles, but that didn’t stop him from catching the blindfold between his knees and pulling it down.
He squinted. It wasn’t quite dark, but almost. Everywhere he looked, all he saw was sky and trees. And somewhere close by, someone was whistling.
“Hey!” he shouted, struggling against his ropes. “What’s goin’ on?”
“Awake, are yer?” came a voice. Bastjan turned his head as far as it would go. Finally, he could see enough to make sense of where he was.
He was tied up in the back of a plain, tall-sided cart, empty of anything besides him and a few stray bits of straw. Up ahead, his back turned to him, sat a stranger. By the clicking of his tongue, Bastjan knew he was driving a horse. Just as he worked all this out, the cart rolled over a bump in the road, jostling him painfully against the pole.
“Who’re you?” Bastjan shouted.
“Yer new boss,” came the reply.
Bastjan blinked. His head was clearing, but it still thumped with pain. There was a horrible taste in his mouth too. He spat, dislodging a thread of fabric that had been lying on his tongue.
Quinn knocked me out, Bastjan realized. Shoved a rag over my face, an’ knocked me out. “An’ then he sold me,” Bastjan said out loud, remembering the ringmaster’s words. I should sell you, I should! The boy squeezed his eyes tight, imagining the circus wagon leaving him behind, rolling and bumping down a narrow laneway, getting smaller and smaller as it vanished into the distance. But why?
“You were a bargain too!” chortled the stranger.
Bastjan roared, bracing his feet against the boards beneath him. He pushed against the pole keeping him tied in place, gritting his teeth with the strain.
“Don’t get any big ideas there, sonny,” came the driver’s voice. “If you want my advice I’d tell you to rest as much as you can while you’ve got the chance. I don’t abide slackers, me. No dead weight on my land, I can tell you.”
Bastjan igno
red the man and tried to think. Where was Crake? What had happened to Alice? He swallowed back his fear that the ringmaster had hurt her. Crake’ll take care o’ her, won’t he?
He pressed his face against his knees, feeling hot tears soak through his tights. The last thing he remembered from the circus was the sight of his wagon going up in smoke, and his heart tore in half at the thought of all the pictures of his mum turning into ash, floating through the evening sky. An’ does Quinn have the box? He hoped against hope that Alice hadn’t handed it over.
He looked around, peering out through the gaps between the cart’s slats. There were no buildings anywhere he could see – no tents, no wagons, nothing familiar at all. He had no idea where he was, nor any clue how to get back to the circus. He let his face fall forwards against his legs again, trying to keep warm. He shivered as the night drew in; all he had on was his performance costume, and eventually it became all he could do to simply keep himself going, one heartbeat at a time.
Finally, the cart came to a stop in a small, cobbled courtyard, surrounded on three sides by low, neatly kept buildings. Bastjan jerked awake, his senses jangling. At one of the windows a candle burned and overhead all he could see were stars. Somewhere close by a dog growled, low in its chest, before letting free a volley of loud barks.
“Put a sock in it, you!” the man shouted, and the dog fell silent. A door opened and a figure stood in the gap, holding a lantern high. The person – a woman, Bastjan saw, wrapped in a warm-looking shawl, her face a wary scowl – came down the garden path and handed the lantern to the driver. He took it with a muttered grunt. The cart rocked as the man climbed down and a heartbeat later Bastjan heard him undoing the backboard.
Skyborn Page 13
