Airman

by Eoin Colfer

  At that moment a clunking mechanical noise echoed across the channel. It thrummed from a low register to a high one, spluttering alarmingly.

  ‘Perhaps this Airman does not rely on the wind,’ said Declan, snatching the telescope from its stand. ‘Conor always said that one day man would build an engine-powered aeroplane.’

  ‘Engine-powered,’ said Bonvilain, through gritted teeth. ‘A clever one that Conor, eh?’

  Declan glanced down at the Wall. The watch had extinguished their lights and gathered in a cluster at the third tower. Several had climbed the parapet and were pointing skywards. Two held telescopes pointed thirty degrees skywards north-east. Declan raised the marshall’s telescope to his eye and followed their line. For a moment he saw nothing but night sky and stars, but then something flashed across his field. Not a bird. Too big to be a bird.

  Declan zigzagged the telescope, trapping the object in his circle of vision. What he saw took his breath away.

  It was a flying machine. Conor’s dream come alive in front of his eyes.

  The aeroplane could not be called graceful, but it was flying, lurching through the air, trailing billowing streams of smoke. In the moonlight, Declan saw the Airman seated behind the engine, shoulders hunched as he wrestled with the controls, face obscured by goggles and soot, gritted teeth white against the blackness.

  ‘I see him,’ he gasped. ‘The Airman. He’s flying.’

  Catherine rushed to the balcony, leaning over the rail, peering skywards.

  ‘Oh my goodness. If only Conor could have seen this.’ She turned to her husband. ‘This cannot be coincidence. You need to talk with this sky pilot.’

  Behind them a shrill whistle blew twice, and immediately the Wall watch stripped off their cloaks, twirling them like bullfighters. Three Gatling-gun teams hoisted their weapons on to custom wall mounts. Whoever this Airman was, he was headed straight for a hail of fire.

  Bonvilain still had the whistle to his lips. ‘The order is given. I had no choice, Catherine. He may be carrying grenades. My first duty is to the queen. Declan, surely you understand?’

  Catherine turned to her husband, eyes blazing, fully expecting his support, but it was not forthcoming.

  ‘The marshall is correct,’ admitted Declan, though it pained him to say it. ‘There is an unidentified craft approaching the island. The pilot may be armed. There is no option but to open fire.’

  ‘He is flying a motorized kite,’ said Catherine, her eyes stung by Declan’s betrayal. ‘The walls are four feet thick. Had he a brace of cannon on his wings, he could not penetrate the tower.’

  Declan would not be swayed from his duty. ‘This man has conquered the skies so perhaps he can conquer our walls too. I hear rumours of grenades filled with poison gas. We must not expose the queen.’ He took Catherine’s hands in his. ‘The queen cannot die, do you understand?’

  Catherine searched her husband’s face for a deeper meaning to his words, and she found it.

  The queen cannot die because if she does Bonvilain becomes prime minister.

  ‘Very well, Declan. I understand,’ said Catherine dully. ‘The queen must live, so the Airman must die.’ She dropped her husband’s hand and stepped across the threshold. ‘I have no stomach for this murder. Enjoy your victory, Marshall.’

  Absolutely, thought Bonvilain, but aloud he said, ‘One never enjoys the death of another, madam. I have been involved in many battles, but no matter how righteous the cause I have always concluded they could have been avoided. This time, sadly, there is no alternative.’

  And with a regretful half-smile on his lips, the marshall raised his whistle and blew one final blast.

  Below, on the Great Saltee Wall, the Gatling operators cranked their handles, pouring a thousand rounds a minute into the sky through their revolving barrel system. The bullets sped towards the Airman trailing grey smoke tails.

  No one can survive that, thought Declan. No one.

  Bonvilain was thinking exactly the same thing.

  It was a battle of vectors and gravity. The Gatling cradles would only allow for a certain elevation, and even though they had a level range of 6,000 feet the Airman was as yet too high to be struck. But gravity was his enemy too. His fragile craft could not stay aloft forever, and when it dropped the bullets would shred it to confetti.

  The noise and sheer concussion from the guns were shocking. It seemed as though the very island shook. It was easy to imagine the Wall being pounded to dust under repeated recoil. The chambers belched long cylinders of smoke, and steam rose in clouds as the water boys cooled the barrels by dousing them from buckets.

  Declan had never seen Gatling guns at work on a battlefield, but he had heard that a single round could tear a man apart. There was enough lead in the air now to defeat an entire army. The sky was thick with their buzzing, like a dense swarm of metal hornets determined to find the same target.

  Declan raised the telescope for one last look at the Airman. Even from this distance, it was clear that he was in dire straits. Hot oil bubbled on his face and goggles. Both hands were locked in struggle with a vertical rudder, and strips were coming loose from his wings, flapping behind the aeroplane like May Day ribbons.

  Declan lowered the telescope.

  He is gone. We will never know his true purpose.

  Seconds later, the Airman lost his battle for control and altitude. His engine spasmed, growled and died. It seemed then as though there was a moment of echoes, as the craft spiralled down and the marksmen held their ammunition. Waiting.

  It was not a long wait. Mere seconds. A short command was barked from the Wall, and the Gatling cranks were turning once more. Eighteen barrels spat fire and a fresh blizzard of rounds rocketed into the night sky. Spent cases clinked on the parapet like coins thrown to a beggar.

  The bullets tore through the craft’s wings and body, almost halting its descent. The impact was terrible, splintering the fragile body and tearing the wings to nothing. Round after round slammed into the engine until it exploded in a tight orange burst. Tendrils of flame shot along ribs and ropes, tracing the remains of the aeroplane against the night sky.

  They did not hear a splash.

  The night sky

  Conor flew his machine through the sky above Great Saltee. A savage crosswind sheared across his bow, tilting him to starboard and he noticed a congregation of lights by the third tower. Lights meant guards.

  The lights below winked out one by one, and Conor’s stomach heaved with dread.

  I am the target now.

  For a moment there was nothing but shadowed activity from the third tower, then dots of fire flashed and a hail of shot erupted towards the heavens. A second later Conor heard the scream of the bullets and their frustrated cry as they passed below.

  Pure panic bubbled in Conor’s chest, and he almost jumped bodily from the machine.

  Wait. Wait. I must pass Bonvilain’s tower.

  The engine was stuttering, missing beats like a failing heart, losing its battle with the skies. Both wings were in tatters now, the wind’s claws ripping strips of muslin from the frame. Below Conor’s toes, the pedal had broken free from its stanchions and jiggled uselessly.

  Almost in position. A few more yards.

  A second swarm of bullets blasted towards him, and Conor felt the highest missiles tugging at the landing gear, sending the wheels spinning. He was in range now. Time to say goodbye to La Brosse. All evidence of his flight would soon be destroyed.

  Conor knew that the marshall would never have allowed him to reach Great Saltee alive, so the trick was to persuade Bonvilain that the Airman was finally dead. This was a challenge. As a master of deception, Bonvilain was not an easy man to deceive.

  But he knows nothing about flight. In the heavens, I am the master.

  Conor wore his glider harness with one extra strap that connected him to his flying machine. The rest were, as usual, buckling him to his glider, which lay folded across his back, ribs slapping against hi
s flying jacket, ripples running along the fabric. Linus had repaired it for him and it was stronger now than it had ever been.

  One more flight, old friend.

  It was difficult reaching down in all the confusion, it was difficult figuring which way was down, so Conor ran his hand along his own body, finding the strap at his waist. He yanked it upwards freeing the buckle and the aeroplane rocked loosely around his torso, but did not fall away as they were still bound together by momentum and gravity. The bullets were splintering the wood around his legs now – if he did not separate, his invention would become his coffin.

  With a practised motion, Conor reached for the spring-loaded lever at his side. One swift tug, and the glider’s wings deployed. They spread themselves wide against the stars like some great night bird, acting like a powerful brake, lifting Conor clear of the doomed aeroplane.

  He watched it go, dipping into the shoal of glinting bullets. His historic invention was obliterated completely. Nothing left but burning fragments and a crushed metal heart.

  The engine exploded, blew itself into fist-sized pieces, which spun into the darkness.

  Gone. No place in history for La Brosse.

  Far below on Great Saltee, a haze of gun smoke shrouded the Wall and through it Conor saw the muted glow of electric globes.

  They turn the lights back on because they believe themselves safe.

  Conor hung in the sky, finding his bearings. Bonvilain’s tower was marked out by the rectangular glow of an open door. Isabella and his parents were inside that tower, in mortal danger. It could be that he was already too late.

  Into the lion’s den, thought Conor, then dipped the glider’s nose, aiming for the light.

  Bonvilain’s tower

  Marshall Bonvilain stepped over the threshold into the dining room, his face an exaggerated picture of regret. Behind him the last flames of destruction flickered out in the sky. From below on the Wall came the sounds of high-spirited congratulation, and the hiss of steam rising from glowing gun barrels.

  ‘A great pity,’ he said, chin low. ‘That man had so much to teach the world.’

  The gathering had been morose before, now the humour had switched to irate. Bonvilain took one look at the mood writ on his guests’ faces and realized that a crisis was fast approaching.

  ‘There was no other way, ladies… Declan. As marshall, I could not permit an assault on the Wall.’

  Isabella stood by the fireplace, flushed cheeks contrasting with a high-collared ivory dress.

  Bonvilain was unsettled by her expression, as he had not seen this look before. Ever since the coronation Isabella’s confidence had been growing; now she had the temerity to glare at him. And just after he had supposedly saved her life.

  I sincerely prefer the old Isabella, he thought. Confused and grief-stricken is how I like my monarch.

  No one was talking, and they were all treating Bonvilain to the same disgusted stare.

  They have been conferring, Bonvilain thought. While I was on the balcony.

  ‘Are we all distressed?’ he asked innocently. ‘Shall I close the window?’

  And still no one spoke. Bonvilain saw that the queen was working up the courage to deliver a lecture.

  ‘I think I shall sit for this,’ said the marshall calmly, dropping cross-legged to a cushion. ‘Else my legs may give way. You have something to say, Majesty?’

  Isabella took a step forward. Her dress almost disguising the shake in her legs.

  ‘The sweep found something, Marshall. In my father’s chamber.’ These were her first words of the evening.

  ‘Oh really?’ said Bonvilain brightly, but inside he was discomfited. In his position, there was no such thing as a good surprise.

  ‘Yes, Marshall, really.’ Isabella took a small leather-bound book from her bag, and held it close to her heart. ‘This is my father’s diary.’

  Bonvilain decided to brazen it out. ‘Why, that’s wonderful, Majesty. Something to connect you to King Nicholas.’

  ‘Not so wonderful for you, Marshall,’ continued Isabella, clutching Catherine’s hand for support. ‘My father was very suspicious of your activities. He wrote how you abuse your power to build a personal fortune. How you cultivate a network of spies on the mainland. How you are suspected of complicity in dozens of murders. The list goes on.’

  ‘I see,’ said Bonvilain, while in his head plotting.

  It will be difficult to make them take the poisoned wine now. Already they do not trust me.

  Isabella’s legs were no longer shaking, and her tone was regal. ‘Do you see? I think not, Marshall. Did you know that my father planned to see you in prison? Did you know that he planned to completely revise the power structure on the Saltee Islands? To inaugurate a parliament?’

  Bonvilain managed to maintain his bland expression, but he knew that a crisis was upon him.

  Typical, he thought. Murder one enemy and three more spring up in his place.

  ‘May I read something for you?’ asked Isabella.

  Bonvilain nodded. ‘It is not my place to allow or forbid, Majesty.’

  ‘I shall take that as a yes,’ said Isabella, with a curt smile. She released Catherine’s hand to open her father’s diary. ‘“Hugo Bonvilain is a scourge,”’ she read. ‘“His power is formidable and he abuses it at every opportunity. When I have proof of his crimes, he will spend the rest of his life staring at the same cell walls he has condemned so many to suffer within. But I must be careful: nothing is below the marshall and I believe if he knew of my plans then he would take whatever steps necessary to thwart them. I do not fear for my own life, but Isabella must be kept safe. She is my heart.”’

  Isabella’s voice almost broke at the end, but she reached for Catherine’s hand and finished strong.

  Bonvilain clapped both palms on his knees. ‘Well, that’s damning stuff,’ said Bonvilain. ‘Obviously the text is a forgery, planted by one of my enemies.’

  I must make them drink. How to do it? How?

  ‘I know my father’s hand,’ said Isabella firmly.

  ‘I have no doubt of it, but an expert forger can deceive sharper eyes than ours. Have the book verified by an expert of your choice. I insist on it. This book is a grave insult to my life’s work, and I will have my name cleared.’

  ‘I have not finished,’ declared Isabella. ‘You are removed from office immediately. Declan… Captain Broekhart will take your place.’

  Bonvilain kept the rage inside him corked up tight. ‘Declan would certainly make a fine marshall. I thoroughly approve, but surely I deserve an opportunity to…’

  ‘Enough!’ ordered the queen, in a tone that brooked no argument. ‘You will remain here under house arrest until your affairs can be investigated.’

  Bonvilain silently cursed himself. He had provided the queen with the perfect forum to launch her attack. He had some men hidden in a secret compartment behind the wall, but it was difficult to reach behind a tapestry and pull a hidden lever under such scrutiny.

  Everything rests on the poisoned wine. If it were just the queen I could force it down her gullet, but Declan Broekhart would run me through with that darned ceremonial sword, and if his wife’s stares were daggers I would be dead already.

  A great relief shone in Isabella’s eyes, and shoulders dipped as the tension drained from her body. The prospect of this confrontation had terrified her since the diary’s discovery. She had planned every word in her speech and, finally, victory was hers, and her father’s.

  ‘And now, Hugo Bonvilain,’ she said, ‘I think we should conclude what we are here to do. We should raise a toast to our beloved Conor Broekhart.’

  Bonvilain bit his lip.

  Oh, thank you, spirits of irony. The gods have a sense of humour after all.

  Bonvilain’s expression was peevish. ‘I hardly think… Under the circumstances…’

  Catherine stepped forward, plucking the special bottle from the ice bucket.

  ‘I realize that you in
vited us here in a transparent attempt to toady to Isabella and Declan, but we wish to honour our son and you will raise a glass with us.’

  ‘This is ridiculous,’ grumbled Bonvilain. ‘But I, of course, will not cause my queen displeasure.’

  He stood and slouched while Declan opened and poured, Bonvilain muttered under his breath and threw hateful stares. The picture of a beaten bully, and certainly not a schemer on the verge of his greatest coup.

  They held their crystal glasses aloft, Bonvilain’s at half-mast. With Catherine’s smile of approval, Isabella gave the toast.

  ‘To Conor, my best friend. My prince and saviour. Look after my father.’

  Tears sparkled in Catherine’s eyes, and Declan actually moaned. Bonvilain tried not to laugh, but it was difficult.

  Look after my father? You can look after him yourself if I have my way.

  Bonvilain waited for his guests to drink, but they did not. He abandoned his surly expression for a moment to glance at their faces. Each one regarded their twinkling glass with dawning suspicion.

  Perhaps this wine is poisoned. Perhaps this is why Bonvilain invited us here.

  There was only one way for Bonvilain to allay this suspicion.

  Ah well, there goes my evening. It’s the water closet for me until morning.

  ‘To the Broekhart boy, how I miss him,’ he said, quaffing half of his glass in a single swallow.

  ‘To Conor, my son,’ said Declan. ‘Heaven is lucky to have him.’ And raised the glass to his mouth.

  But before he could do more than wet his lips something dark detached itself from the night outside and pounced on Hugo Bonvilain. Something dark with wings.

  Conor hurtled through the window, a creature of the night, crashing into Bonvilain, tumbling them on to the low table. Crockery and cutlery flew, and both men were instantly entangled in swathes of gold embroidered tablecloth. Only Conor’s wings remained exposed and he must have resembled a giant moth, attracted to the cloth’s bright pattern.

  Declan reacted quickly, throwing his glass aside and wrapping his fingers round the grip of his ceremonial sword. Ceremonial, but razor sharp nonetheless.