by Eoin Colfer
Ahead, on the hill, the palace turrets poked into the night, blotting out patches of stars.
‘No, sir. I’ve been here before.’
As a boy, Conor had not spent every minute lost in his studies. He’d passed his share of time up to his armpits in mud and seaweed. He’d climbed cliffs, built dams and on occasion stolen eggs from the puffins that waddled along the flat rocks like clockwork toys.
These manly endeavours sometimes caused him to miss his curfew, and when this happened Conor would spy through the windows of the Broekhart apartments to see whether or not his father was home or even what kind of mood his parents were in.
He occupied the same spot now, straddling a gargoyle drain, ten feet off the ground across the square from the Broekhart house. Water from the salt spray trickled from the gargoyle’s mouth, painting white streaks on its twisted stone lips. Even climbing the wall brought pangs of longing for home.
My feet find the footholds in the stone. I climb this wall as though I had done it only yesterday.
The Broekhart home was quiet and dark, but for a single candle in the kitchen window. There was no sign of his parents.
It is late, I suppose.
Conor was greatly disappointed, but relieved too. The knot of nerves in his stomach was tighter now than it had been during his balloon flight from prison. He knew that if he had seen his parents in abject misery, it would have been almost impossible not to venture inside and reveal the truth.
They hate me now, Mother and Father both, but it is a false hate. Manufactured. Underneath there will still be love.
Inside the Broekhart dwelling, a shadow drifted into the kitchen. Conor felt his pulse throb in his forehead.
Perhaps my mother cannot sleep; nightmares haunt her, as they do me.
It was his mother. Catherine Broekhart drifted past the window, her hair sleep dishevelled. Her eyes were half closed, and both hands waved the air, until her eyes adjusted to the sudden light.
Mother. Oh, Mother.
The simple sight of her tore down the barriers Conor had erected round his heart. It was time to end Bonvilain’s cruel charade. The consequences were on the marshall’s head, not Conor’s.
He shifted his weight, to dismount the gargoyle, then froze. His father had entered the kitchen and he was not alone. There was a child in his arms, tousled toddler, lower lip jutted with bad temper.
A child. My brother.
His father was not the broken man he imagined. Declan Broekhart wore a familiar smile as he coddled the little boy, wrapping him in the sleeve of his robe. He spoke, and through the open window Conor recognized his tone even if he couldn’t quite make out the words.
My father is happy.
Catherine poured a mug of water for the little boy, and they fussed over him together, sitting by the fireplace while he had his drink. Gradually the child’s temper softened, as the memory of his nightmare was replaced by the sight of two loving parents.
Outside on the gargoyle, Conor felt scalped, as though the final remnants of Conor Broekhart had been cut away.
A child. A brother.
Things were not as he had imagined them. It seemed as though he was the only one suffering. His parents had rediscovered happiness with their new son.
The cold of the stone gargoyle spread through his thighs, creeping up into his chest. Salty spray fell in sheets over the Wall drenching his jacket, the chill soaking through to his shoulders.
They have a good life, thought Conor. They are happy again.
Conor knew that he could not reveal himself, or the truth.
Bonvilain would kill them without a second’s hesitation. It would be my fault.
Conor turned his face away from the window and swung himself down from the gargoyle.
I am Conor Finn, he told himself, taking quick determined steps towards the harbour.
The airman flies one more time. Two bags of diamonds and then America.
Forlorn Point
Linus Wynter was busy when Conor reached the tower. He had completely rearranged the sleeping chamber to his personal preference. There was hot chocolate on the stove, along with a pot of bacon and potatoes and he was stitching a seam on the sleeve of his dress coat.
‘It’s the middle of the night,’ said Conor, climbing through the elevated door.
Linus tapped his temple. ‘It’s always night for me, boy. I sleep when I am tired.’
Conor peered down into the cellar. ‘Why do you bother to move the furniture? We leave in a few days, I told you this.’
‘In a few days? Your precious flying machine is not finished.’
When Conor was not patching the wings on his glider, he spent every minute constructing the aeroplane he had designed in prison, complete with petrol engine and retractable landing gear.
‘It is almost complete. Anyway, if needs be, I can ship it to America.’
‘We’re not tethered to one another,’ said Linus, laying the needle against his finger to find the ripped seam. ‘Maybe I’ll stay behind and save your family myself.’
‘My family don’t need saving. They live in a palace with a new son.’
This gave Linus pause. He listened for Conor’s breathing, then walked carefully towards him, feeling for his shoulders.
‘You are so tall,’ he said, surprised. ‘Victor said you would be. Long bones, Frenchy always said. So you have yourself a little brother. That is wonderful news. Wouldn’t you like to meet him before you leave?’
Conor felt tears film across his eyes. ‘I… I, of course that is what I would like, but what would it mean for the child… My…’
‘You can say it,’ said Linus. ‘He is your brother.’
‘What would it mean for my brother?’ blurted Conor. ‘Bonvilain would murder him. If my father challenges the marshall, he will kill them all.’
Linus seemed to glare down at Conor, as though he could see through the silk scarf tied across his eyes. ‘And what of Isabella? I hear talk in the village, she has already repealed taxes and abolished import duty. She is becoming a true queen. How do you think Bonvilain will respond to that?’
Conor wiped his eyes. ‘She is the queen. She has people to protect her. She loved me, she said, and yet she believed that I helped to kill her father.’
‘That’s not what I hear. There is talk of Conor Broekhart in the village too. He was a hero, they say. He died trying to protect the king.’
Conor snorted. ‘The official story. Bonvilain said that my part in the murder would be covered up to spare my family. That was his gift to the Broekharts.’
‘And you are certain that Isabella was included in this deception.’
This was a startling thought. What if Isabella had not known? Imagine if she believed her young suitor to have perished that night.
Don’t think about it. It is too painful, and it makes not a jot of difference.
Conor sat at his workbench, clenching both fists before his own face.
‘Please, Linus, stop. I can’t bear to explore possibilities. My connection with the Broekharts is severed. I cannot be responsible. Bonvilain is too big. I am Conor Finn.’
‘The name Finn. Bonvilain’s gift to you.’
Conor felt as though his forehead were collapsing, crushing his brain.
Love, family, happiness. They were luxuries. Life was the prize. Stay alive and keep your family alive.
‘I am alive. I will stay alive.’
Linus barked a short laugh. ‘Stay alive? Which is why you hurl yourself daily from a tower.’
‘I made a promise to Otto Malarkey.’
‘So, you would kill yourself for diamonds, but not for family or honour. I think Victor would be much disappointed in his student.’
Conor surged to his feet. ‘Do not lecture me, old man. You are not my father.’
‘Exactly right, boy,’ said Linus softly, the anger draining from his face. ‘I am not your father.’
Conor turned his back without another word, gathere
d the collapsed glider under his arm and climbed the ladder to the roof.
CHAPTER 16: SNAKES IN THE GRASS
Conor and Linus barely spoke the following day, apart from a few grunted greetings. The American purposefully bashed himself against the furniture a few times, hoping to squeeze some concern from Conor, but without result. Either Conor didn’t hear the groaning or he was ignoring it.
His heart may have been hardened by Little Saltee, thought Wynter, but it was petrified by the sight of his little brother.
Night came with little change in mood, but when Conor primed the engine for the wind tunnel, Linus felt he had to speak.
‘You cannot fly tonight, Conor. The wind is wrong.’
Conor did not turn round. ‘You are not my father, remember? And the wind is not wrong, it is a few degrees more to the south than I would like, but I can manoeuvre around it.’
‘And the moon? There should be a harvest moon tonight.’
Conor buttoned his black jacket, scanning the panorama before him. There was barely a cloud in the sky. A glowing moon was reflected in dancing sections on the ocean’s surface. As clear a night as he had ever seen.
‘It’s overcast,’ he said brusquely, positioning himself below the glider, which hung from a gantry overhead. ‘Lower the glider, would you?’
Linus, familiar now with the rooftop layout, counted the steps to a winch bolted to the wall.
‘Ready?’
Conor raised his arms, ready to thread through the harness. ‘Lower away. Five cranks of the handle.’
‘I know. The same as yesterday. Will I bother with dinner?’
‘Yes. Sorry about last night. I was in no mood for eating.’
‘Nothing fresh, mind. I will reheat last night’s fare.’
‘The hot chocolate too? I regretted walking out on that. The roof is cold.’
Linus smiled. ‘Sometimes a tantrum is expensive.’
The glider settled on to his back, and Conor buckled the harness across his chest, and drew the straps up between his legs. He reached down, curling his fingers around the harness winch handle, like a gunfighter checking the butt of his pistol.
‘I wound the propellers,’ said Linus.
Conor twanged one of the bands. ‘Good and tight. Nicely done.’
‘I have a heightened sense of tautness,’ quipped Wynter, locking the winch. ‘Can’t you wait, Conor? The wind is wrong. I can smell the salt.’
Conor buttoned the flying jacket to his chin, then fixed his goggles. Once disguised, his entire demeanour changed. He stood taller and felt capable of more violence, no more a boy.
‘I cannot wait, Linus. Not another night. I will have my diamonds and be done with this life. America awaits. We can open a business together. I will fly my gliders and you can test the tautness of things.’
Wynter’s smile was tinged with sadness. ‘I am not ready to return home just yet, boy. Nicholas brought me here to do a job and I intend to see it through. At the risk of sounding melodramatic, I shall not rest while Bonvilain flourishes. He took the best men I have known away from me. Tonight, I fear, he may take another.’
Conor drew his sabre, balancing it on one wrist to test its weight. ‘Do not fear for me, Linus. Fear for anyone who stands in my way this night.’ He sheathed the sword, then checked the load in both revolvers.
‘Oh, and would you turn off the wind tunnel before you go to bed?’
Conor ducked into the wind tunnel and was blasted into the night. Linus heard him go in a whoosh of air, creak of wood and trailing whoop.
Come back alive, boy, he thought. You are their only hope.
And then.
Perhaps I will make dinner from scratch. Some of my famous grits perhaps. An airman deserves to eat well. Fresh hot chocolate too.
Conor held his breath while the tunnel blast filled his wings and propelled him towards the stars. That first moment of tumult and force was as confusing as ever. He could not tell sea from sky, stars from their reflections. The air pummelled his torso with ghostly fists until the glider aligned itself with the wind’s direction.
Then came the moment of pure flight when the wind lifted him, his glider creaked and took the strain and he was propelled bodily further from earth.
A moment of happiness. Nothing to do but be at peace.
Conor found that he relished this brief stretch more each time he flew. It was a calm before the storm, he knew, and yet while he flew with the wind at his back he could forget his troubles; they were as earthbound as most humans.
Rising thermals lifted him to an altitude higher than he had ever flown. The land spread out below him like a living map. He could see white tops stretching in lazy meanders for miles along the coast, like contour lines on a map. Several small boats bobbed gently on the silver black sea, fishermen taking advantage of the night tide and calm waters. Conor thought he heard a chorus of halloos from one boat. Had he been seen? It didn’t matter – after this night the mysterious airman would fly no more. The next time he took to the air would be as a free American citizen with papers to prove it, thanks to Zeb Malarkey. He would ship the flying machine in parts to be assembled in Nebraska, or Wyoming or maybe California. Whichever was furthest from the Saltee Islands.
Conor moved hand over fist across the steering bar, turning the glider in a wide arc. Time to concentrate on his work or he would overshoot Little Saltee. Two more salsa beds, two more bags. Then Otto could buy his freedom and there would be plenty left for a secure life in America.
Great Saltee
Billtoe and Pike lay behind the ridge above Sebber Bridge, a series of soot-blackened blades arranged in the long grass around them.
‘That cleaver is my special favourite,’ said Pike fondly. ‘Does for any sort of flesh. Fish, fowl or human. It will put a fair fracture in a bone too, it will.’
Billtoe begged to differ. ‘Your common cleaver is clumsy, you gotter swing yer arm too high. Plenty of time for me to nip in and tickle a lung with this beauty.’ He dinged a long and deadly ice pick with his nail.
‘I favours my beloved sabre, name of Mary Ann,’ said a husky Irish voice behind them.
‘Quiet, you dolt,’ hissed Billtoe. ‘The airman could be here any moment.’
‘You was talking,’ said the man, wounded.
‘I was whispering,’ corrected Billtoe, and then to Pike. ‘Why did you bring this scatterfool?’
‘I could only shave three men from the prison guard,’ said Pike. ‘And you said it would take the half-dozen to knobble the airman. So I picked Rosy up in the pub. He hasn’t had more than a quart of ale.’
Billtoe was not pleased. ‘You saw the airman. He was a six footer at the very least and armed to the gills. We need sharp eyes and quick hands to take him, not drunken red nosed Paddies.’
Rosy snorted. ‘You is a Paddy yerself, Arthur. And I can chop down any man you point me at. Let’s face it – this airman of yours, he’s no more real than the banshee; he’s just one of those yokeybobs, ain’t he?’
Billtoe chewed his bottom lip, causing his chin stubble to quiver. ‘A yokeybob?’
‘You know. In yer brain. A phantom cos of you in that barrel.’
‘You told him, Pikey,’ said Billtoe reproachfully.
‘You told me yourself in the tavern,’ laughed Rosy. ‘You told anyone who would listen all about the devil and poor little Billtoe in the barrel. There ain’t no airman. I’m only here for the five shillings’ payment. Why all the blades anywise? One bullet would do the trick.’
‘We need the blades, you beer-brained beetroot face,’ fumed Billtoe, ‘because a gunshot would have the Wall guard on us like flies on a cow biscuit. And that would lose us any bounty our airman might be carrying.’
‘If there was an airman.’
Billtoe wrapped his fingers around the hilt. ‘Well, Rosy, if there ain’t an airman, why don’t you tell that there fellow in the sky above you that he’s just a yokeybob sprung from my brain.’
Rosy
glanced up fully expecting to see nothing but stars. What he did see had him pawing the grass for his beloved sabre.
‘God preserve us,’ he breathed, crossing himself with his weaponless hand. ‘A man with wings.’
‘Yokeybob, my eye,’ snorted Billtoe, then talked no more as his teeth were clenched on a dagger blade.
***
Conor had succeeded in unearthing the final pouches, but they had cost him dearly. The silver moonbeams lit his wings like Chinese lanterns.
A guard had seen him glide over Little Saltee’s outer wall, and being one of the few stout chaps on the island had decided to chase what he took for an albatross. He stalked his prey to the salsa beds where he realized his mistake and put a round through one of the glider’s wings, just as the strange airman bent low to retrieve some kind of pouch. Only a slight nervous shake to the guard’s hand spared Conor a bullet in the brain gourd.
The shot split a stone at Conor’s feet, throwing up a shard that scored a lightning flash on the left lens of his goggles.
He reacted quickly, ditching the glider with two yanks on the harness belts, then spinning towards his attacker, pistols drawn.
‘Yield or die, monsieur,’ he called, cocking the revolvers.
The guard could not decide whether he wished to yield or die, or something in between. Yielding was not something he was comfortable with, but neither did he relish a midnight battle with a flying Frenchy. Those fellows were dangerous enough without wings, as his grandfather had learned at Waterloo.
By the time he had considered his options and thought to cock his firearm, the black-clad airman was upon him, leaping from rock to stone with the speed of a cat, the guard would later swear. And growling too, like a hungry wolf. A cat-dog Frenchy, twirling guns and with blades clanking on his thighs.
‘Bonsoir, monsieur,’ said the airman, then clocked the surprised guard on the crown.
Conor was examining his glider almost before the guard fell. The upper port section had been punctured, but there were no rips radiating from the hole and the heat of the bullet had sealed the edges well enough. It would hold to Sebber Bridge if he could get himself into the air.
