Skyborn

by Sinéad O'Hart

  Mrs Mythen saw him looking. “You’ll not get out, lad,” she said. “Not from in here, at least,” she added quietly. “All of you manage it, in the end. But don’t be in a rush.”

  Bastjan chewed and swallowed. “Why not?”

  The woman sighed. “Because he takes it out on the next lad,” she told him. “The sooner a boy runs away, the worse it is for the chap that comes after him. Anyway, maybe you’ll end up happy. It’s not so bad, this life.”

  Bastjan took a swig of water. “I got things to do, far away from ’ere,” he said. He wiped the water from his mouth on his new-old sleeve.

  “You look so like him,” Mrs Mythen said unexpectedly. She reached out, as if she wanted to touch Bastjan’s hair, before realizing what she was doing and snatching her fingers back. Her face crumpled and she turned away. “Maybe you all do. I’m seein’ him in all the faces that pass through here. It’ll be my age, I expect.” She sighed. “Fifteen years he’s been gone, our Joseph. Fifteen years, an’ now here I am, lookin’ at you. You could be his double, I do swear it.”

  Bastjan frowned, wondering what she was talking about, but before he had a chance to ask, a deep voice startled them both.

  “What are you doin’, woman? Is he fed? Dressed? There’s cows here needin’ milkin’!”

  “Coming, Ivor,” the woman called, fumbling at her belt for the key. The floor was covered with straw and the stone walls were whitewashed; Bastjan thought it could have been a stable, once. But now it’s a cell, he thought.

  Mrs Mythen let them both out, keeping one hand on Bastjan’s shoulder. Her grip was loose and he could have thrown it off, but there was nowhere to run. The cell was at the back of the milking parlour, he now saw, and the farmer stood in the parlour’s wide door. The early light was weak outside and gentle lowing from the cows in their byre along the wall filled the air.

  Mr Mythen pointed to a stool and bucket on the floor beside the first byre. “Get to it,” he said, before ushering his wife outside.

  Bastjan stared at the bucket and the stool. After a moment, he crept to the open door and peeked through it. On the far side of the yard he saw the pigsties, low brick walls separating the animals from one another. Attached to the milking parlour and running around the side of the yard, facing the farmhouse, was a large hay barn, its door standing open. He took a step outside, trying to see more.

  Instantly, he heard a low, warning growl and he looked down.

  The farmer’s dog was there, its lip pulled back to reveal its teeth. The animal’s hackles were raised and Bastjan stumbled back through the door. This dog was three times Wares’s size and only a fraction as friendly.

  “Good boy,” he muttered. “Good fella, ain’t ya?” But the dog’s growl deepened and it began to creep forwards, as though it were used to herding lesser animals – and Bastjan got the distinct impression that included him. “All right,” he snapped, going back into the milking parlour. “I’m not goin’ anywhere. Leave off!”

  Bastjan took his seat on the milking stool and the dog draped itself over the threshold of the door. As the boy tried to work out the mechanics of milking, it never took its eyes off him for a moment.

  “You’d swear they’d nothin’ better to look at,” muttered Crake. Alice grinned at him. They’d come back to St Wycombe looking for any clues that might lead them to Bracklebrick Farm, but so far all they’d found were curious stares. Crake was so tall that Alice’s head, as she sat on the horse’s back, was barely higher than his own. He wore an ill-fitting suit he’d borrowed from Magnus Ólafsson and his hair threatened to spring loose at any moment. Two gigantic plaits of beard trailed across his expanse of stomach and he was leading a horse topped with a firemarked, mongrel-holding girl. They may as well have been followed by a pack of gambolling clowns.

  Alice raised an eyebrow. “Goodness knows what they find so interesting,” she said, straining against the stirrups and standing as tall as she could. She was sure she could see a square coming up, a water pump in the middle of it.

  “I have an idea,” she said, tucking Wares into the crook of one arm while she slid down from the horse’s back. She pushed her hair behind her ears in a determined fashion. “You go and find somewhere out of the way,” she said. “I’ll be back in a minute.”

  Crake turned away, gently urging the horse forwards with a click of his tongue. Alice set off in the other direction, heading straight for the busy square. All around the water pump were women, chatting and laughing, holding pots and pans and buckets, and between their legs scampered children, mostly barefoot, but all of them rosy-cheeked and clean. Sitting in a circle not far from the pump was a group of older children, closer to Alice’s own age. They were playing a spirited game of knucklestones, and she settled close to them without saying a word. She put Wares on the ground beside her, a piece of twine around his collar. She held its other end tightly in her fist.

  After a few minutes, one of the girls glanced her way.

  “Want to play?” she asked, shuffling aside to make room. Wares lolloped forwards a step or two, and the girl gave him a friendly pat on the head.

  Alice grinned and settled in, quickly picking up the words of the rhyme they sang every time someone threw a playing piece in the air. Wares sat beside her, watching proceedings with interest, his pink tongue hanging out.

  “Who’re you, then?” asked the girl who’d invited her to sit.

  “Just passing through,” Alice said, keeping her eyes on the game. “Here with my dad. We’re on our way to Bracklebrick Farm.”

  The girl’s nose wrinkled as she turned away, picking up the words of the rhyme without missing a beat. Both she and Alice scrambled to pick up the playing pieces, and then the game began again.

  “Where’s that?” the girl asked, and Alice’s heart sank.

  “Somewhere around here,” she answered. “Not sure where, exactly.”

  “Out towards Mop End,” a boy beside Alice piped up. He was deftly tossing some of the bones in the air and catching them on the back of his hand as he spoke. “Go past the train station an’ up the hill, an’ then follow the road. ’S out there somewhere, a few miles along.” He flipped his hand over and caught the bones in his palm.

  Alice gave a relieved grin. “Thanks,” she said.

  The boy threw the bones on the ground and looked at her. “What’s wrong wi’ your face, eh?” he said rudely.

  Alice felt herself reddening. “Nothing,” she muttered. She pushed herself to her feet and began to walk away, pulling gently on Wares’s lead.

  “Hey!” called the girl. “Where you going?” Alice put her head down and kept walking, leaving a slight commotion in her wake. The curious eyes of the women at the pump followed her. A beat of panic began to sound inside her head – get away from here! She pulled her hair out from behind her ear, covering her cheek with it.

  As she walked, Alice thought again about the things she’d stolen from Mrs Palmer. Coins, jewellery – and the ring. Now’s my chance. Get on the train, get to London, sell the ring. Disappear. She shut her eyes for a moment, desperate to quieten her thoughts. I wouldn’t last a week, she told herself, knowing it was true. Before she’d joined Mrs Palmer’s gang, she’d had a life that most people could only dream of. She’d wanted for nothing, besides a friend.

  She opened her eyes again and saw Crake, standing awkwardly in an alleyway. He looked around nervously, rubbing the horse’s neck, still drawing disapproving stares. As soon as he saw her, Crake’s face broke into a relieved smile. Alice returned it and he led the horse out of the alley to meet her.

  “Past the train station,” Alice told him as he fell into step beside her. “We’ll find it from there.”

  “Good work, girleen,” Crake said.

  Alice shrugged. “It was nothing,” she said, but as she spoke she caught the eye of a passing woman, a full water pail in one hand and a struggling child in the other. She gave Alice a look that was bright with curiosity, her gaze searching Alice�
�s face. “Now let’s get out of here, Crake, as quick as we can.”

  Bastjan ate his midday meal sitting on the kitchen step. The back of the farmhouse gave way to a small paved courtyard with a water pump at its centre. The sunlight pooled there, warming the flagstones and Bastjan’s bones. The meal was simple; a hunk of dry-crusted bread, some pickle and a hard-boiled egg, but Bastjan was grateful for it.

  A tiny kitten rubbed and purred its way around his ankles, and Bastjan bent forwards to scratch it gently between the ears. “I ain’t got anythin’ you’d like,” he whispered to it. “I’d share it, otherwise.”

  From inside the kitchen, he heard a whish-whish-whish sound as Mrs Mythen called the kitten inside. She slid a platter piled high with fish scraps on to the floor and the kitten bounded away from Bastjan’s fingers. The boy watched it eat for a moment, looking at the lumps of wasted fish falling out of the dish, then turned back to his own meal. He took a fierce bite out of his egg, clenched his eyes shut and leaned back against the doorframe, letting the sunlight sink into his eyelids as he chewed.

  When he opened his eyes again, there was a small bowl of bread-and-butter pudding at his elbow, a fork stuck into it like a flag. Mrs Mythen was at the sink, busily scrubbing something out and making a point of ignoring him, so Bastjan quietly took up the dish and polished off the rich pudding.

  Once he was finished, he slid the fork into his sleeve.

  “Bring over your dirty crockery, an’ get a drink from the pump,” Mrs Mythen told him, over her shoulder. “Then back to work.”

  Bastjan pushed himself up off the step and did as she asked. Mrs Mythen glanced down at the dish and her scrubbing hand paused for a moment. Then she continued, making no mention of the missing fork.

  Just as he was about to walk away, Mrs Mythen turned. “Mr Quinn told us your name was Thing, lad. Just Thing?”

  Bastjan shrugged. “Thing’ll do. Quinn ain’t never used no other name fer me.”

  The woman’s eyes glistened as she blinked at him. “I’d love to call you Joseph, like my boy. Maybe I will, in time.”

  Bastjan looked away. “I’ll get on.”

  Mrs Mythen nodded, turning back to her work, and Bastjan went back outside. He took a long drink at the pump, jumping at the sound of Mr Mythen’s voice as he came striding into the courtyard.

  “Into the barn, boy, an’ finish the job that’s there,” he boomed. “A cart with a broken axle. It’s to be done by the time I’ve had my dinner or there’ll be trouble.”

  Bastjan dried his face on his sleeve, taking care not to dislodge his hidden weapon, and met the farmer’s eye as he walked away. He hadn’t gone three steps before he felt a stinging slap on the back of his head, which sent him sprawling.

  “That was for yer insolence,” Mythen growled. “You don’t need to speak it for me to hear it. I know what’s in your head, you louse.”

  Bastjan rubbed his head and set his teeth as he clambered to his feet. He hurried down the laneway that led from the courtyard into the main farmyard and stared across at the open barn door. The cart was just visible inside it, propped up on a wooden block.

  He looked to his right. The farmyard gate was there, closed and locked, and Mr Mythen’s dog sat in front of it with its paws crossed, gazing steadily at Bastjan as the boy made his slow way across the cobbles.

  Bastjan stepped into the barn. The hammer leaning against the cart was heavy enough that he needed two hands to pick it up and all his strength to swing it. He got a feel for its weight and then he readied himself.

  ’Ow’s this fer insolence, then? he thought, bringing the hammer down on the axle with a grunt, again and again, imagining he was smashing down the farmyard gate with every blow – and then he blinked out of his thoughts. The wooden axle had split, the crack stretching right across its diameter.

  Bastjan dropped the hammer and then, next thing he knew, a wave of freezing water drenched him from head to toe, sticking his clothes to his body and making him cough. He turned in shock to see the farmer standing behind him. Mythen threw an empty bucket into the straw and grabbed Bastjan by the arm.

  “You can take a little break,” the farmer said, dragging Bastjan towards the milking parlour and the cell that lay at the back of it. “Sit in yer wet clothes an’ have a think about the money an’ time you’ve just cost me, an’ when yer ready to apologize, you can come out.” He threw the boy into the cell and stood over him. “Oh, an’ here’s hopin’ you don’t get hungry, or thirsty, or need to use the lavatory,” he sneered, “because there won’t be none o’ that until I hear those words from you. I’m terrible sorry, Mr Mythen, sir.”

  Bastjan stared at the man, shivering, and said nothing for a long moment. Then, as Mythen turned to walk away, Bastjan fumbled in his sleeve for the hidden fork. It fell into his quaking hand and, with a yell, he launched himself at the farmer’s back.

  Mythen spun on his heel and caught Bastjan’s wrist, squeezing it tightly enough to make the boy wail in pain and release the fork. It tumbled to the straw-covered floor and Mythen kicked it away with one boot. “I’ll break that backbone o’ yours. Just you wait an’ see.” The farmer stared into Bastjan’s eyes until the boy was forced to look away and then he flung him to the ground.

  Mythen slammed the cell door shut and locked it. Then he took one last look at the cold, despairing child in the straw and walked away.

  Alice and Crake led the horse over a bridge that spanned a river wider than any Alice had ever seen.

  “This must run all the way to London,” Crake said.

  “D’you think Ana and Carmen have made it?” Alice asked.

  The strongman’s face clouded over. “Let’s hope so, girleen,” he said. “If that airship leaves before we get there, I don’t want to be the one that has to tell Bastjan.”

  “It means a lot to him, doesn’t it?” Alice said. “Doing what his mother couldn’t. Trying to put her bracelet back where it belongs.”

  Crake looked down at her and his large hand rested on her shoulder. “Fixin’ the mistakes of the past shouldn’t drown out your present, lass,” he said gently. “But sometimes it feels like there’s no way forward unless you step back a bit first.”

  Just as they reached a marker stone with the words ‘Mop End’ carved into it, the sky darkened. Alice made a cloak out of her coat, trying to stay out of the worst of the rain that began to fall, while Crake’s greased hair ran with droplets. The horse trudged on, its hooves sticking in the mud of the path, and Wares took refuge in a saddlebag.

  They passed through a tiny village, its streets empty, and on its far side, a signpost greeted them, each marker carved to look like a pointing finger. “Missenden-by-Water,” Alice read. “Five miles. And there’s another – Holmer’s Isle, four miles.”

  “Here we are,” Crake said, from the far side of the post. “Bracklebrick. Seven miles.” They turned to look at the road the sign was pointing towards. It was small and winding, soon vanishing around a bend. They set off, following the track as it grew narrower.

  Shortly after the rain stopped, Wares poked his head out of the saddlebag and started to growl. Alice glanced at the road ahead. “There’s somebody coming,” she said.

  They pulled the horse on to the grass verge, leaving the road as clear as they could, and within moments the newcomer was near enough to see properly. As he drew up alongside them, Alice could see his curious expression as he tipped his hat. He was driving a cart and Alice fought not to grimace at the stench – it seemed to be filled, mostly, with a mixture of dung and straw.

  “Hallo there,” the farmer said.

  “We’re lookin’ for Bracklebrick Farm,” Crake said. “Be obliged if you could direct us.”

  The farmer blinked, as though surprised, and sat back. “Right y’are,” he said. “Keep on about a mile this way. When yer get to the bit of the road with the tree in the middle take the track to the left. It’s bumpy, but it’ll see you to Bracklebrick in about another mile. You should
be there afore suppertime, all goin’ in yer favour.”

  Crake nodded his thanks, clicking the horse forwards, and a moment later there was nothing left of the meeting but a set of trackmarks and hoofprints oozing gently in the mud.

  A little way down the road, beside a tumbledown gate, the farmer pulled his cart to a halt once more. He got to his feet, turning backwards to peer over his dung heap in the direction Alice and Crake had gone. Satisfied that there was no sign of them, he settled himself back on to his seat and spoke, seemingly to the contents of his cart.

  “Get yerself over that gate and down to Mythen’s,” the farmer muttered. “Tell ’im Josiah said there’s circus folk on his tail. Right? Circus folk. Remember that.”

  “Yes, Da,” came a tiny-voiced reply. A flap of canvas tucked in beside the dung heap, small enough not to be noticed, was nudged to one side and a small child clambered out – a little girl of perhaps five, her hair in plaits, her dress holed and dirty and her cardigan mostly made up of patches. She wore boots that looked like they’d served at least three owners before her and she carried a ragdoll older than she was.

  “Good girl,” he told her, blowing her a kiss as she climbed over the gate. “There’ll be posset for you tonight for this, pet.”

  The girl nodded, sent back the blown kiss and then disappeared into the corn.

  “This must be the place,” Alice observed as the horse clip-clopped to a halt. A large gate stood open between two stone gateposts, the track beyond it leading to a farmyard. On one side of the wide yard lay a low-roofed farmhouse, smoke trickling from its chimney.

  “I reckon so,” Crake said. “Let’s see what sort of a welcome we get, eh? I wouldn’t put money on it bein’ good.”

  “Crake, listen,” Alice said, speaking quickly. “Maybe you should go alone and distract the farmer. I’ll sneak in to look for Bastjan and get him out if I can.”