Kieron noted how much usquebaugh had been taken, and asked the question he would not have dared to ask in the light of a sober morning.
‘Master Hobart, did the Divine Boy ever attack flying machines?’
‘Flying machines?’ Master Hobart was puzzled. ‘There are no flying machines.’
‘No, sir. But once there were.’ Kieron was sweating. The fire, certainly, was warm; but his backside was cold. Nevertheless, Kieron was sweating. ‘You, yourself, have told me of the missiles; and I have heard that once there were winged machines that transported people through the air, across the seas, from land to land, at great speed. That is why I ask if the Divine Boy ever attacked flying machines.’
‘Ludd save us all!’ Master Hobart scratched his head. ‘Flying machines! My history serves me ill. But, Kieron, boy, I think they came long after Ned Ludd. I think they came when the First Men had utterly abandoned the ways of righteousness. I think they came but a hundred years, perhaps two hundred years, before the great destruction.’
Kieron gazed at the level of usquebaugh in the flask of green glass, and decided to press his luck. ‘They say that even the Second Men had flying machines. Surely, if such machines were used not to destroy people but to take them wherever they wished to go, they could not be evil?’
Master Hobart rolled his eyes, tried to focus, took another drink and again failed to focus. He scratched his head. ‘They were evil, Kieron. What is to prevent men walking or riding across the land? What is to prevent them from sailing across the oceans? Men do not need to take to the air. Quod erat demonstrandum. Therefore machines which lift men into the sky are evil.’
Kieron took a deep breath. ‘Some day, I shall construct a flying machine. It will not be used for evil purposes, only for good.’
Master Hobart stood up, swayed a little, gazed down at his apprentice hazily. ‘You will paint, Kieron. You will paint well. Ludd protect you from fantastic dreams. Help me to my chamber.’
4
At fifteen Kieron was a boy worth looking at. Master Hobart’s spoiling and Widow Thatcher’s prodigious cooking had given him height and broad shoulders and self-confidence. He looked more like a young farmer or hunter than a painter’s apprentice. At Midsummer’s Night Fair, he could run, jump, wrestle or hurl the javelin with the best of the young men in the seigneurie; though Master Hobart winced greatly and comforted himself with preach spirit when he saw Kieron leap seven metres along the sand pit and come down like a rolling ball, or when the boy’s hand was held in a wrestler’s lock and the joints could be heard to crack noisily under pressure. He was not afraid for Kieron’s neck, only for his fingers. What kind of an artist would the boy become with broken fingers?
But Kieron was a golden boy and seemed to bear a charmed life. More than ever, Master Hobart thought of him as a blood son. Indeed, in a fit of stupidity, he had even gone to see Gerard the joiner and his wife Kristen, offering them one thousand schilling if they would surrender their blood claim for all time.
Gerard grew red in the face, and spoke more loudly and less courteously than he ought to one who had entry to the castle and the ear of the seigneur. Kristen, as was the way with women, wept somewhat, shrieked somewhat and uttered strange accusations for which Gerard promptly commanded her to apologise. Hobart was greatly embarrassed by the whole venture. He found himself apologising also, profusely and at some length. In the end, he managed to enjoin Gerard and Kristen good, honest people for whom he professed the greatest esteem et cetera – to say nothing of the matter to Kieron.
The next day, he sent Gerard a dagger of Spanish steel, and Kristen ten metres of Irish linen. He also sent them an imaginative picture of Ned Ludd raising his immortal hammer against the weaving machines. It was the first truly satisfactory composition in oils that Kieron had executed. It was signed Kieron app Hobart; and it was one of the most precious things that Hobart possessed.
Kieron’s skill in art was now all that Hobart could desire in a boy of his age. His strength still lay in line – the master was amazed at the boldness and confidence of his strokes – but he had begun to develop the true, authentic feeling for colour and texture that is the hallmark of a great painter. Also, his mastery of the mechanics of his art was phenomenal. He could mix pigment and oil to achieve a true and beautiful primary. Also, without any help from Hobart, he had devised two methods of obtaining a purer flax seed oil. The first was elegantly simple: it consisted only of waiting. The oil was stored in jars until its impurities settled in a layer at the bottom. Then, not content with the purity achieved in this manner, Kieron would add caustic soda, which settled out any suspended matter still remaining. The result was a completely pure flax seed oil, clear, warm, golden. Perfect for the use of an artist.
Hobart was astounded by this. Previously he had used the oil as it came from the flax growers, with minute particles that muddied its translucence. But Kieron’s refined oil, as he called it, was surely a gift of Ludd, in that it did not pollute the pigments or harden too quickly upon the canvas. Hobart was convinced that no painter in England could have a finer oil base than that discovered by Kieron.
He asked the boy how he had devised such methods of purification. The answer was not greatly enlightening.
‘You always complained of the quality of the colours we use,’ said Kieron: ‘The pigments were true, so clearly the fault lay in the oil. I poured oil into a clear flask and gazed at it. I could see nothing wrong. But I let the oil stand and came back to it the following day. Still I could see nothing wrong. But on the second day, I discovered that the bottom of the flask was covered with fine particles. Again, I let it stand. Seven days later, there was a sediment, and the oil was more clear. Then I understood the need for patience.’
‘But the caustic soda. How did you understand that the caustic soda would give yet greater clarity?’
‘I didn’t,’ Kieron smiled. ‘It seemed to me that the process of depositing impurities might not yet be over. So I experimented.’
‘You experimented?’ Hobart was shaken. Experiment was but a hair’s breadth from heresy.
Kieron was unperturbed. ‘I experimented with the addition of salt, with the addition of vinegar, with the addition of weak soda and with the addition of strong soda. I would have experimented with many other substances, too, had they been easy to obtain.’
‘Boy,’ said Hobart, ‘you frighten me.’
Kieron laughed. ‘Sometimes, sir, I frighten myself … The flax seed oil is to your liking?’
‘It is a great oil, Kieron. We could make a fortune by selling it to painters throughout the land.’
‘Then, Master Hobart, do not sell my refined oil. Use it only yourself, and be the greatest painter of our time.’
Tears came to Hobart’s eyes. He was not much given to weeping, except when the coughing spasms tore him apart. ‘You truly wish to keep this clear oil for my use only?’
Kieron smiled. ‘Sir, I could not wish for a better master. But is it not possible to establish both fame and fortune? If you use the refined oil until – until you no longer choose to paint, you will be known far and wide for the purity of your colour. Then would be the time to sell refined oil, when you are already too high to fear rivalry.’
Hobart induced a fit of coughing, as an excuse for the tears he could no longer conceal. ‘Boy, I see that you love me, and I am proud. I see also that you are touched by greatness, and I am again proud, but also terrified … Kieron, humour an old man. The refined oil is truly marvellous. But do not experiment rashly. The church … The church likes new ideas little. I would commend discretion to you.’
‘I think perhaps all experiment is rash,’ answered Kieron, ‘but my mind will not rest … However, I will be discreet. I would not wish to shame you or my parents.’
These days, Kieron did not see a great deal of Petrina. The times when they could go up on to the downs alone together seemed very long ago. Now, they met socially only in the company of their elders. They saw each o
ther chiefly at the Church of the Sacred Hammer, at the fairs of the four seasons, and on holy days, when all work ceased and folk ventured out in their best clothes to visit relatives or friends or to promenade in the castle grounds listening to Seigneur Fitzalan’s musicians.
Sometimes Kieron and Petrina met accidentally in the street, but they could not stay long to talk to each other for fear of the mischievous wagging of tongues. As Kieron had grown in stature, so Petrina had grown in beauty – or so it seemed. Her hair stretched below her waist in a long luxuriant plait. There was blue fire in her eyes, and her lips were hauntingly full. The freckles had gone, the boyish figure had gone, and the curves of a woman swelled pleasingly upon her. Kieron, normally full of confidence and self-assurance, became tongue-tied in her presence. But, without looking, he knew when she was watching him at the games; and her presence lent a curious strength. In three more years she would be his wife. Truly, his father had contracted well with Sholto the Smith.
Kieron made sketches from memory of Petrina, which he hung on the wall by his bed. Hobart inspected them and said nothing. The boy’s artistic discipline went to pieces when he dealt with this particular subject. But the results were curiously exciting, enough to make the blood sing. There was one sketch of the girl climbing in what was, presumably, a beech tree. Somehow, Kieron had managed to make the girl look naked while being properly clothed. The technique was rough; but the sketch had great impact. It smacked of heresy. The church had never approved of nakedness. And yet she was fully clothed. And yet she seemed naked. Hobart hoped that the neddy would never see this sketch. He scratched his head and seriously wondered if he should summon an astrologer to conjure against daemons.
But preoccupation with dream images of Petrina did not distract Kieron unduly from his obsession with the conquest of the air. Over the years he had conscientiously studied all things – however great or small – that had some freedom of movement through the air: clouds, birds, insects, drifting seeds, even autumn leaves. On summer afternoons, when there was no great urgency of work and when Master Hobart was content to doze in the sun, Kieron would lie back on the sweet-smelling grass and feel the pull of earth, the flexible and invisible band that constantly tried to draw him to the centre of the world. And he would look up at white clouds drifting lazily across the sky, at larks soaring, at swallows cutting the air magically as with a knife, at butterflies that seemed to nervously jump across unseen stepping stones, at dragonflies hovering.
It seemed absurd that so great a creature as man was tied down. Once, so it was said, man had even ventured upon the surface of the moon. Kieron did not entirely believe the legend; but it was known beyond any shadow of doubt that men had once enjoyed the freedom of the sky. They would do so again, of that Kieron was sure – whatever the priests of Ludd might say.
Meanwhile, it was pleasant, if tantalising, to watch the great clouds scud, to know that they were made of water, which was heavier than air, and yet could still float high in the azure reaches. And it was pleasant, if tantalising, to watch a bird of prey hover, circle, and with little or no wing movement rise higher and higher until it became a speck.
Kieron contrasted such effortless movement with the frenetic motions of the bee, beating its wings so fast in order to stay aloft that they became invisible, though the sound of the tiny membranes was at times as he imagined that of a great engine of the old days.
Truly, the mysteries of being airborne were profound. Truly there must be many different ways of conquering the sky.
Kieron began to experiment with kites. Kites were permitted by the neddies. Kites were not defined as machines but as toys. Many of the children in the seigneurie flew kites. It was considered a harmless thing to do. But it was also considered eccentric in a young man of fifteen, with a bare three years of apprenticeship left; a young man whose mind should now be focussing on more serious matters.
Elders raised their eyebrows when they saw Kieron standing on the green on blustery autumn afternoons, solemnly reeling out string for a kite that climbed higher than any before it. They marvelled not at the height achieved by Kieron but at the indulgence of Master Hobart. Surely the old painter was in his dotage, or Seigneur Fitzalan was displeased with his work, else he would find much for idle young hands to do.
Kieron’s contemporaries were less passive in their reaction. They made great fun of him, which he bore patiently. They thought him witless, and called him Kieron-head-in-the-air because he always seemed to be gazing upwards. Aylwin, apprenticed to the miller, went further.
Aylwin, a broad-set strong young man of Kieron’s own age, had always envied him. For two reasons. Aylwin had never wanted to become a miller. From childhood he had been obsessed by drawing and painting. More than anything, he would have liked to be apprenticed to Master Hobart. Also, there was the matter of Petrina. Aylwin was contracted to Joan, daughter of Lodowick, the saddler. Joan, at best, was a dumpy girl, lacking grace. True, she would bear children well, and she was versed in the womanly arts. But she was not the kind of girl to make a young man’s heart beat noisily inside his breast.
Aylwin could have forgiven Kieron for being apprenticed to Master Hobart. Or he could have forgiven him for being contracted to Petrina. But he could not forgive him for both. So, one afternoon when a kite newly designed by Kieron had risen exceedingly high, and when Kieron, impervious to the taunts of his fellows, continued to manoeuvre it yet higher, Aylwin threw discretion to the winds, rushed upon the green and cut the cord that held the kite. The wind was high. The kite swung crazily for a moment or two, then it drifted south towards the sea.
Kieron gazed at Aylwin in perplexity. ‘Why did you do that?’
‘Because you are a fool.’
‘Do I not have a right to foolishness, if it is my pleasure?’
Aylwin was appalled at his own stupidity, but there was no going back.
‘No. You should be as the rest of us. Kite-flying is for children. We are beyond childish things.’
‘You are not beyond a beating,’ said Kieron. ‘There was much thought in the design of my kite. For that you shall pay.’
‘Try me!’ shouted Aylwin. ‘Try me!’ But he did not feel over confident. He had greater strength than Kieron. That he knew. But Kieron had suppleness of limbs and suppleness of mind. A formidable combination.
‘Aylwin,’ said Kieron quietly, ‘you have earned some chastisement. I am sorry.’
The two young men faced each other; Aylwin confident of strength but not of tactics, Kieron confident of tactics but not of strength.
Aylwin rushed in. If he could come to close grips with Kieron, that would be an end of it.
He rushed in, but Kieron did not wait to receive him. He gave a mighty leap over Aylwin’s head. Aylwin stopped his charge and turned round – only to receive both of Kieron’s feet in his face – a magnificent flying kick to the jaw.
Aylwin saw stars. The world darkened, and he fell down. But sight returned, and he looked up to see Kieron waiting patiently for him. With a cry of rage Aylwin leaped to his feet. Again he rushed at Kieron, prepared this time for some evasive action. There was none. Kieron seemed determined to take the charge on his shoulder, a stupid thing to do in view of Aylwin’s superior weight. But, at the last moment, with splendid timing, Kieron bent. Aylwin could not stop the charge and sprawled helplessly over Kieron’s back. As he did so, Kieron straightened; and Aylwin executed a full turn high in the air then landed flat on his back with a jarring thud. He tried to get up, and could not. His head ached, there was a great roaring in his ears and pain in every part of his body.
Kieron stood above him. ‘Are you sorry for cutting the cord, Aylwin?’
‘Ludd damn you!’ He snatched feebly at Kieron’s leg.
Kieron trod on his arm, pinning it down. ‘Are you sorry?’
Aylwin whimpered with pain. ‘Damn you to hell and back. I will never be sorry. You have Master Hobart, and you will have Petrina. May Ludd strike me if ever …’ Aylwin
fainted.
When he returned to consciousness, he found that Kieron was gently slapping his face.
‘Leave me alone, fellow. I am all right, and I will never be sorry. You may break my bones, Kieron-head-in-the-air, but I will never be sorry. I swear it.’
Kieron lifted him gently to a sitting position, then crouched by him. ‘Why did you speak of Master Hobart and Petrina?’
Aylwin gazed up, white-faced. ‘You have all that I ever wanted,’ he sobbed. ‘And yet you play like a child!’
Suddenly Kieron understood. ‘You wanted to paint?’
‘Yes! Ludd’s death, I wanted to paint. But I shall only ever grind corn.’
‘And you desire to be wed with Petrina?’
Aylwin grimaced. ‘Be amused. You know I am contracted to Joan.’
Kieron said simply: ‘Forgive me. I did not know the forces.’
‘You did not know the forces?’ Aylwin looked at him uncomprehendingly.
‘I did not know the forces that drove you to cut the cord … There is nothing we can do about Petrina. I will wed with her. I love her. But, perhaps, there is something we can do about the other …’
‘There is nothing to be done about it,’ said Aylwin. ‘A miller does not paint, a miller’s apprentice does not paint. That is all there is to it.’
Kieron smiled. ‘There is a law against it? Seigneur Fitzalan has proclaimed that all millers who daub canvas shall be put to death?’
Aylwin said: ‘You mock me … Besides, who would instruct me? Who would give me canvas and paint?’
‘I would.’
Aylwin’s mouth fell open. He did not speak for fully a minute. ‘You would! Why?’
Cloud Walker, All Fools' Day, Far Sunset Page 3
