The Island of Birds

by Austin Hackney

  “Have you forgotten what this day is, Your Highness?” said Cranestoft as he led her forward.

  Annabel realized she had forgotten what day it was. “It’s my birthday,” she breathed.

  “The day in which you would have become Queen.”

  “What do you mean, would have…?”

  A steady, slow drumbeat started. The crowd fell silent. Annabel looked up at the gallows.

  Four figures, their hands bound behind their backs and nooses slipped around their necks, stood on the platform. Annabel recognized the three young men from Harry’s crew. The fourth was Dr. Ravensberg. The fifth noose still hung empty.

  “What does this mean?” Annabel said, although her voice issued so thin and papery that she could barely hear herself. “For whom is the fifth noose intended?”

  Cranestoft made no reply. But she already knew. Cranestoft released her arm and took a step away. A guard stepped forward and bowed, his arm outstretched, inviting her to climb the steps and take her place beside the other four.

  She froze. Her skin tingled. Her tongue stuck to the roof of her mouth. Her heart raced. But there was no hope of escape, no chance to get away. The crowd looked on in silence. – were they sorry? Afraid? Did they think her death justified? What lies and threats had brought them to collude in her execution?

  She considered shouting her innocence, making an appeal to the people to revolt against the Regent’s will. But she knew she would only seem desperate.

  That she was about to die seemed impossible. Her life had barely begun. This day, her birthday, had been the future point upon which she had pinned all her hopes. Annabel had dreamed of freedom from Cranestoft’s control; dreamed of becoming Queen and ruling well; of repealing the scientosphy laws; of opening the island to exploration and enlarging the boundaries of her people’s endeavor. She had dreamed of making a difference, of bringing positive change.

  She would take a few steps. A noose would be placed around her neck. Cranestoft would give the word. The hangman would pull the lever. The traps would fall, and she would struggle for a few merciless seconds, gasping for breath, instinctively, compulsively clinging to life. And then she would die.

  All reason left her. Her core turned as cold as ice while her flesh burned in a hot sweat. The world became brighter. Her heart, her beating heart, her life, pounded and pounded and pounded as if it could escape the prison of her body and avoid its terrible fate. She backed away from the noose.

  “No!” She screamed. “No!”

  Soldiers rushed forward, gripping her arms. The point of a sword pressed into her back.

  Her gaze fixed on the noose. It was like a zero. A negation of everything she had ever hoped. She couldn’t recall climbing the stairs. She was in a stupor, beyond fear. The hangman pulled Annabel’s hair back. With a pair of shears he severed the fine strands, leaving her locks to fall in a clump on the trapdoor through which she would soon fall. He slung the heavy hemp noose about her neck and slipped the knot into place. The rough twine pressed against her throat.

  Annabel dared not look at Dr Ravensberg, nor could she turn her eyes to the captain’s crew. She had failed them all; failed herself; failed her father’s memory. She had failed her people.

  Perhaps it is better I should die, she thought. I would never rule anyway. The rebels are destroyed. Brave Captain Harry and the sky monkey…

  Wait.

  Where were they? Here were the three boys who had never escaped the dungeon. Here was Ravensberg, arrested and tried for crimes of treason and scientosophy. But if Cranestoft had captured Harry and Sibelius, he would have brought them to be hanged.

  The drum rolled. The hangman adjusted his black hood. He flexed his fingers around the lever which would drop the trapdoors beneath them. Cranestoft raised his ceremonial sword and with a single sweeping gesture sliced the air, stabbing the blade into the sand.

  The noose tightened round Annabel’s neck.

  And the hangman dropped the traps.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Annabel’s eyes snapped open. I’m still alive. She looked to the others. They were still standing just as she was. Something had gone wrong. The trapdoors hadn’t dropped.

  The Hangman grunted and tried the lever again. Still they stood. After the third attempt failed, he turned to Cranestoft and shrugged.

  The Regent’s face blazed fury. He stormed onto the platform, scowling at the floor, stamping on the trap under Davy with his booted foot. He shoved the Hangman out of the way and closed both hands around the lever. Annabel braced herself, certain this time it would work.

  Boom! An explosion smashed the gates in the palace wall. Flaming splinters of wood flew in all directions. Another blast cracked the air. The people scrambled to get away, tumbling over each other, screaming in fear as a section of the wall exploded and stones crashed over their heads.

  Through a screen of smoke and fire armored mechanical walkers stalked into the arena, guns blazing. Hundreds of children stormed in after them. Huge cannon rumbled into the Place and boom! boom! boom! opened fire on the palace.

  “Seems your cannon thingy still works, miss,” someone said behind Annabel. The noose loosened and slipped from her neck. She span round. “Harry!” she said. “Oh, Captain!”

  “Bit handy meself,” the captain said. “Don’t take much to wedge a few trapdoors shut.” Annabel embraced her fiercely.

  “Save it,” Harriet said, kindly, disentangling herself. “We got a war to win first, ain’t we?”

  The Hangman had fled. Sibelius freed the others.

  Cranestoft scowled. He leapt from the platform, drawing his sword. “Kill them!” he shouted, spitting fury. “Kill them all!”

  The Place of Assembly was now a bloody battlefield. Sibelius and the boys grouped round Annabel and Harry, with Dr. Ravensberg by their side.

  “Get down!” shouted Sam, shoving their backs. They jumped behind the platform. The noise, smoke and cries of battle raged all around them.

  “I must get Princess Annabel to safety,” Dr. Ravensberg said. “That is our priority. When this is over, there must be someone to bring order again.”

  “We must support Mademoiselle Josephine et les enfants,” said Sibelius. “They give their lives for all of us. But I agree Annabel must be taken to safety; also you, Monsieur.”

  “My laboratory is the safest place,” Annabel said. “I feel like such a coward.”

  “You ain’t that,” Harry said to her. “But there’s no point pretending you could hold your own in a fight, is there? A dead princess ain’t never going to be a queen, right?” She turned to her crew. “You lot help Jo and the kids. With any luck, we’ll get the people on our side, too, once we can get the word out what’s going on. Sibelius is me deputy while I’m away. You follow his orders and you work for Jo, get it?” They all nodded. “I’ll get Annabel and the Doctor to the lab. I’ll be back soon as.” She looked at each of them with a love Annabel only just understood. They each spat on their left palms, wiped the spittle on their right and shook her hand saying, “’Til death.”

  “Good luck!” the captain said and then turned to Annabel and Ravensberg. “Down there,” she said, pointing to a drain grille. Annabel had to strip down to her bloomers and corset to fit through the gap. Ravensberg swallowed his embarrassment and followed her. Once they were in the dank chamber, the captain slipped through after them.

  “This way!”

  And they scuttled like rats into the dark, the sounds of battle echoing behind them.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  “Battons-nous! Let us fight!” cried Sibelius, gripping the two electrostatic pistols he had liberated from an unfortunate guard. He somersaulted over the platform and into the battlefield. The others, he knew, would follow him, sticking close to keep an eye out for each other in the fray.

  Sibelius scanned the battle, as
sessing the shape of the conflict. Civilians had fled to their homes. The palace guards were better trained and better armed, but the rebels outnumbered them. The rebels had the advantage of surprise and had pushed the palace forces into a defensive position.

  Sibelius dodged a chunk of stone hurtling towards him. He raised his guns and squeezed off a few shots. Palace guards fell, clasping their chests. The rebels were erecting effective barriers built of salvage to protect their forward progress. But Sibelius saw the heart of the battle: the thick of hand-to-hand combat; ground gained and lost; the greatest risk; the greatest need. Josephine, sword in one hand, pistol in another, lead her rag-tag rebel force, in the heat of the fighting.

  “To Mademoiselle Josephine!” Sibelius shouted to the others. “To the fray!”

  Davy, Sam and Barney fought their way to him and as one they battled forward to fight alongside the rebel leader. The public had all fled the Place of Assembly, leaving the conflict to the soldiers and the rebels. Josephine acknowledged Sibelius and the crew with a smile as they fought side by side.

  The palace guards suddenly rushed forward into the line of the rebel cannon fire, laying themselves at the mercy of the stomping mechanicals. It seemed a bizarre, even suicidal tactic. Then Sibelius laughed. Josephine was smiling, too. The liberated slaves had found their way from the underground factories, armed and drunk on liberty. The palace forces were sandwiched between the attacking bands of children.

  “We have them now!” Josephine shouted and fought even more ferociously than before.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  With the civilians in hiding and the palace forces focused on the battle outside, Harriet, Ravensberg and Annabel had emerged from the drains and pushed on through the palace.

  Cannon fire continued to bombard the walls. In places the floor had fallen through to the level below when supporting pillars were blasted away. Fires had spread through the halls. When they arrived at the Throne Room, it was engulfed in flames. Harriet raised her arms to protect her face from the heat.

  “It’s no good,” Ravensberg said, short of breath, unused to physical exercise. “What can we do?”

  Harriet didn’t have time to answer. A figure hurtled along the hallway toward them on the back of a mechanical rooster. The machine leaped over fallen rafters and crumbled stone work, its rider’s grim-set face and wild eyebrows demonic in the light of the blaze.

  He had an electrostatic gun raised and pointing toward them. Harriet realized the horror of what was happening as he squeezed the trigger and a crackling bolt of energy seared through the hallway. Ravensberg threw himself forward, arms spread wide, chest exposed, to protect the princess.

  Harriet dived for Annabel, shoving her to the ground as Ravensberg took the force of the energy bolt. It knocked him back, crashing onto the marble tiles. A pool of blood spilled out around his head, his body lifeless and limp.

  Harriet jumped to her feet, tugging Annabel behind her. But Cranestoft was on them. Harriet gasped as steel talons slashed through her clothes and tore the skin beneath them. Annabel was snatched from her. The last thing she saw was the butt of Cranestoft’s gun. Then there was only pain. And then there was only darkness.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Annabel screamed as Harriet fell. Cranestoft slid from the machine, his gun held point-blank at Harriet’s head. “Into the Throne Room,” he growled. “If you want her to live. Move!”

  Annabel was shaking. She moved toward the door. The heat was intense. Another flaming rafter crashed to the marble floor. Cranestoft leapt over Harriet’s unconscious body and grabbed Annabel, twisting her arm behind her back and throwing his cloak over them both as he shoved her toward the laboratory. The tapestry had burned away. Inside the corridor Cranestoft barked, “Where’s the key?” Annabel whimpered, sobbing, unable to answer him. His eyes alighted on the chain around her neck. He tore it from her and pushed the key into the lock.

  “Here,” Annabel said, taking hold of the key. She twisted it left and right and left again until she heard the coded clicking. The door sprang open and Cranestoft shoved her inside. He slammed the thick plate of steel closed behind them. The clamor of battle and destruction dulled beyond.

  “Well, well, well,” he said. His deep, resonant voice was close behind her back. “What have we here, Princess? A treasure trove of heresy!”

  Annabel felt weak. She smelled his heavy, masculine sweat mixed with blood and the stench of battle. The world swam around her. Sickness boiled in her gut. She turned to face him. Her voice issued as little more than a whisper. “Lord Cranestoft…” she began, but found she had no more words to say.

  “A horde of heresy!” said Cranestoft stalking into the room after her. His eyes devoured the abundance of scientosophical books and instruments. He ran a gnarled finger along the surface of one of the old scientosophical workbenches. “Very interesting,” he breathed.

  Annabel shuddered when his finger brushed the table’s surface. It was as if his hand rested on her father’s coffin. She wanted to slap it away; to spit in his face again. His presence in the laboratory defiled her father’s memory.

  “You have no right,” she said, despite the tremor in her voice, “to enter here.” Released from his grip, she slipped as far from him as she could. Although in a room with no windows and no other door there was no escape. She stood behind a sturdy scientosophical work bench, shielding herself behind a stack of books and mechanical parts.

  The Regent still had a gun. He aimed at her. Shifting it with his thigh so he could keep the firearm steady, he shoved a metal trunk, scraping it across the floor to block the door shut.

  He turned and took a few steps toward Annabel. She looked first at the barrel of the gun and then into his eyes. They were dark, smoldering with angry fire.

  Annabel’s breath came ragged and short. The anxiety which her shock had masked, now knotted in her stomach.

  “What do you want?” she said. “Why don’t you kill me? I was to be hanged wasn’t I?”

  Cranestoft sneered. “Much has changed in the last hour, Princess. I will kill you, be sure of that. This room is the last place you’ll ever see. But there are things I want you to know before you die. It will give me some satisfaction. You were always nagging me for information, weren’t you? I’ll tell you.”

  Annabel shifted still further from her oppressor.

  “I know you wanted to kill me before my birthday,” she said. He knotted his eyebrows as his face darkened. Annabel stuck out her chin. “Yes,” she said. “I was here, at the end of the little corridor behind the tapestries. I heard you plotting with the Master of the Guard.”

  Cranestoft moved suddenly. Annabel’s heart almost stopped. But he only strode past her and threw himself into the comfortable reading chair that nestled in a corner at the end of a bookcase. He sighed. “It is true,” he said. “Only you stand between me and the Throne.”

  “You would be a usurper then,” Annabel said, the bile of anger rising in her throat from the pit of her stomach. Her fists clenched. She strode toward him. “You hypocrite! You accuse me of treason and illegal activities! You claim to represent the Royal House and to be responsible for this island! And all along you are nothing but a plotter, a schemer, a traitor planning to kill your queen!”

  Cranestoft rubbed his regent’s ring with the thumb of his right hand and pursed his lips. “Do you know, Princess, why scientosophy is banned?”

  Was he teasing her now? Was he attempting to trap her in the net of her own curiosity? She had been bewildered by the ban. She had always wondered what the reason behind stifling knowledge and progress could be.

  “It has never been clear,” she said. “It makes little sense. Many of the technologies we have retained are scientosophical: electrostatic energy, for example, even if we are constrained to generate it from clockwork mechanisms and are forbidden to use crystals or steam, was a scientosop
hical discovery. The knowledge of aerodynamics which enables us to fly also comes from scientosophy. Even the technology of clockwork was developed by scientosphists of old. Why have we limited energy sources to the mainspring and brute animal effort?”

  “Everything you say is true, Princess. Your father taught you well.” Cranestoft leaned forward, pressing his palms together, elbows resting on his knees. “I will not lie to you,” he said. Annabel snorted in contempt. The Regent continued. “There is no practical reason to outlaw scientosophy. But long before my birth it was considered to be politically expedient. Scientosophy furnishes us with useful technologies. But it’s not technology that is dangerous. It’s the method. It’s reason. Widespread critical thinking would be a terrible threat to the power of the State. The Royal House must lead. It must control. It must have authority. Princess, we must maintain the ignorance of the population to maintain its compliance.”

  The Regent lifted his head and raised his craggy eyebrows. “Look what you have done, Princess! In all these years we have used war for propaganda and control – and always for the benefit of the people of this island. But there has never been a war. Not a single drop of blood spilled until today. Then your juvenile zealots undertook this bloody rebellion!”

  His words stunned Annabel.

  He leaned forward again, eyes wild. “The people must be compliant to the law. Nothing breeds compliance more than fear; the need for protection. In the old days we fought real wars for this purpose alone. But we realized we didn’t need the expense of real wars. The idea of the enemy was enough. If people are afraid of an enemy, of the others, they turn to the State for their protection. That’s how it works, Princess. We threaten them with invasion and terror. We reward them with food, clothes and entertainment. We are the shepherds. They are the sheep.”