One of the vessels in the path of the fiery hulk could not get under way fast enough. In its death frenzy the burning ship struck the other vessel amidships. ‘See, Aylwin,’ said Kieron stupidly, knowing full well that Aylwin was not there to hear, but still feeling an overwhelming need to speak. ‘The destruction multiplies. Of eleven ships, we have now accounted for five. We two poor prentices have accomplished more than could be achieved by a thousand armed men on land. Did I not offer you the chance to live for ever?’
And then the tears came. Alone in the sky, Kieron was not ashamed to weep as a child. It was a private luxury. No one would ever know. Presently, no doubt, he would drown – he knew nothing of the skill of handling a small boat far out to sea – but it was a good day on which to die, as Aylwin had already discovered.
‘Kristen, my mother,’ he sobbed, ‘Gerard, my father. I am sorry that I could not become a great painter as you required … Master Hobart, you who gave me great love, sorrow not that I forsook the brush and pigments. Mistress Fitzalan’s Leap was truly your painting. I was but an extended hand, a youthful eye … Alyx, my dear one, I would have defended you, if I could. But you, whom I loved and who are now dead, if there be an afterlife, which I being perhaps purblind, doubt, look upon what I have done … Petrina, my wife, my seed has entered your womb, and I pray that a child may be born. I hope you will remember this day with pride.’
Kieron was exhausted both in the body and in the spirit. Days and nights of hard work and hard thought, the elation he had felt while fire was being rained upon the freebooters, the sadness of Aylwin’s death – all these things had drained him of emotion. He was too tired to think clearly, too tired to act. He lay back in Mistress Fitzalan’s Revenge and closed his eyes. At the best, he thought drowsily, life was but a short journey from darkness to darkness. He had been lucky, very lucky, to know the love of fair women, to paint a great portrait, to construct a hot-air balloon and sail the skies like a god, bringing death to those who trafficked in death. Yes, he had been very lucky for a poor young man barely turned eighteen. A look of great peace came over his face as he slept.
14
Two braziers still burned; and the shark of the, sky, lightened of the greater part of its burden, continued to rise. Kieron, still profoundly asleep or unconscious, was not aware that the balloon had climbed to nearly two thousand metres above the level of the sea. It passed through a tenuous cloud layer; and dew formed upon his face and hands and hair. Then it rose once more into the gold of sunlight.
The dew made Kieron shiver, and he awoke. He awoke to find himself above gold-capped clouds, drifting, in realms of infinite beauty. He looked down at the islands of cloud. They seemed substantial enough to step upon.
He marvelled at the splendour of the sight. ‘Perhaps no man has seen this from an aerial machine for centuries,’ he said aloud. ‘Likely I am the first of the Third Men to look down upon such clouds and behold their glory. Truly, I am fulfilled.’
But the charcoals in the braziers were burning low and the rents in the balloon were releasing hot air. Kieron was granted only a minute or two of ecstasy before the balloon began to fall through the cloud layer.
He watched, fascinated, as the white mist closed about him and the moisture of the clouds caused the dying charcoals to sizzle and spit. The balloon descended slowly, as if it were reluctant to end this its final flight. The fabric, now slack, was flapping noisily, and the holes in it grew larger. Kieron gazed gloomily down at the sea. There was a light swell; but it was not enough, he thought, to swamp the boat. He looked all round for land, but could see none. Perhaps Aylwin had had the better end after all – a quick clean death. Kieron was no seaman and, despite the quietness of the water, held his prospects to be poor.
Mistress Fitzalan’s Revenge hit the water quite hard. For a moment or two, the fabric of the balloon was billowing all about him as if it intended to claim yet one more victim in its death throes. He felt hot charcoals against his legs and tried to cry out with the pain; hot linen and scorched paper pressed about his face as if to smother him.
But presently, relieved of its burden, the tattered shark of the sky tried to rise once more. Hastily, Kieron unhooked the harness ropes. Flapping noisily and self-destructively, the balloon lifted itself like a doomed beast, hovered uncertainly, then rolled over on its side and fell to the sea. Before it sank beneath the water Kieron saw once again the baleful eyes and toothy open mouth he had painted. He smiled, remembering once more the astrologer’s prediction, remembering that day long ago when all the world, it seemed, was young.
And now he was alone on a wide sea; and he had no strength and no food, and little hope. It was odd that he should have neglected to stock the vessel with food, particularly so since he had not forgotten a pair of light oars. A man could not row far on an empty belly. Perhaps he had known all along that he did not intend to row far.
He felt even more weary now that all was over. I will rest, he thought. I will close my eyes and rest and think on all that has happened, and try to make my peace. Sooner or later, the sea will receive me. And that will be the end of Kieron-head-in-the-air.
He lay down in the boat, making himself as comfortable as possible, drawing his clothes about him. The motion of the boat was gentle and soothing. It reminded him of a long-lost summer when his father had made a small hammock for him and had hung it between two apple-trees. Kieron had lain on the hammock with his eyes closed, making it sway gently, and pretending that he was a mysterious and magical lord of the air.
‘Well, for a short time I became a lord of the air,’ he murmured. ‘That much, at least, was achieved.’
15
‘Comment vous appelez-vous?’ Kieron felt a sword point at his chest. He tried to reach for his own sword, which had lain all the while by his side in the small boat. He could not find it. The sword at his chest pricked him, and he lay still, trying to gather his wits.
‘Je m’appelle Kieron. Je suis anglais.’ His small knowledge of French had been gained from the occasional matelot who bad ventured inland to Arundel. He realised that it would not stretch far.
‘Alors … Vous connaissez l’amiral mort?’
‘Oui. Je le connais.’
‘Vous êtes ami ou ennemi?’
Now there was a life or death question! Kieron did not care greatly which way it went.
‘Je suis l’ennemi d’Amiral mort. Parlez-vouz anglais?’
There was a laugh in the semi-darkness. Kieron looked away from the swaying lantern that dazzled him and saw that the sky, dominated by a bright full moon, was rich with stars. The lantern waved high above his head, but he looked past it and concentrated on the beauty of the night sky. If he were to be killed, the stroke would not be long in coming.
‘Un petit peu,’ said the stranger. ‘I speak the little English … You can stand?’
‘I think so.’
‘Bon. You will please to follow aboard my ship. You see the rope ladder?’
‘Yes.’
‘You can climb it?’
‘Yes. What about my sword?’
‘Rest easy. I have it. Come now. Your boat is made fast.’
Kieron climbed up on to the deck of what looked like a small fishing vessel. The lantern had been held almost directly above him by one of the crew. Now that he was no longer dazzled by it, and now that he had fully regained his senses, he was able to see quite clearly in the moonlight. Yes, perhaps a fishing vessel – or one of Admiral Death’s supply tenders. It was odd that the Frenchman had immediately mentioned Admiral Death …
‘You are fishermen?’
‘Comment?’
‘Fishermen. You take fish from the sea?’
‘Ah, pêcheurs!’ Again there was a laugh. ‘Yes, Monsieur Kieron, you shall say we are fishermen. It is a joke. It is good.’
Kieron glanced round him. It really was a very small vessel, carrying, perhaps, a crew of four or five at most. One man was at the wheel, one man had held the lantern, and
there was the stranger who now confronted him. He spoke with authority and carried himself with authority. Very likely, he was the master.
Kieron gazed at him in the moonlight. He was heavily bearded, but he seemed like a young man. He spoke like a young man also.
Kieron wished he had his sword in his hand. But it was in the hand of the French captain. The thought was irritating.
‘If you are going to kill me, strike now. I will not play games. The day has been good, and I am content.’
‘Monsieur Kieron. Who speaks of killing? We find you – heureusement, luckily, because Etienne sees well in the dark – we find you, I say, drifting in a small boat. You were already bound for death, monsieur.’
That was something Kieron could not answer.
‘It is we who must make the questions, monsieur. For what we know, you may be – how I say it? – un homme dangereux, un felon, un pirate, peut-être.’
‘Monsieur, I do not understand,’ said Kieron wearily. ‘My name is Kieron Joinerson and I am a man of the seigneurie of Arundel on the island of Britain. You find me adrift in a small boat because I have this day inflicted much damage on the vessels of Admiral Death. I struck at him from the air, having constructed a hot-air balloon. It is something he will remember. Now, do with me what you will.’
‘Un ballon!’ exclaimed the Frenchman excitedly. ‘Vous êtes l’homme du balloon? Magnifique! Monsieur, forgive me. I am Jean-Baptiste Girod, Capitaine of the Marie-France of Arromanches. Today I am make – make is right? – the reconnaissance of the forces of Admiral Death. We in France know that this is bad man, very bad man. We know he hold some British coast. We wish to understand his plan. Today we see marvellous thing. We stand off, you understand. But we use télescope – glass, glass! We see this thing dans le ciel. It gives feu – fire? Quatre ou cinq vaisseaux sont finis. Merveilleux! Henri, Claude, void l’homme du balloon! Aù est le vin?’
Kieron was dazed. Suddenly, men were shaking him by the hand, clapping him on the back.
‘Monsieur Kieron,’ said Captain Girod, ‘forgive me. I return the sword of a brave man. We are honoured by your presence on the Marie-France.’
Kieron took the sword. It felt good in his hand.
‘Messieurs,’ said Captain Girod, ‘je vous presente un homme de vaillance. A votre santé, Monsieur Kieron.’
Miraculously wine and glasses had appeared, brought by a fourth man from below. The Frenchmen raised their glasses and drank deep.
Then Kieron also raised his glass. ‘Monsieur le capitaine, I thank you for saving my life.’
‘Monsieur Kieron, it was – I say it right?– my pleasure. I am speak of this in years to come.’
The wine tasted good. No sooner was Kieron’s glass empty than it was refilled. He swallowed the good red wine of France and felt a tingling in his limbs.
‘Captain Girod,’ he said thickly, ‘can you set me upon the coast of Britain?’
‘Monsieur Kieron, name your destination.’ He laughed. ‘For you, my friend, I will sail the Marie-France even under the guns of l’Amiral Mort.’
Kieron smiled faintly. ‘I wish only to land two or three kilometres east of Little Hampton.’
‘Come below, monsieur, where it is warm and light. You shall drink more wine while I look at the charts … We are many kilometres from land, you see. It will take time. I do not think you may put ashore much before daylight. It will be dangereux – dangerous.’
‘I am familiar with danger.’
‘Pardon. Je suis un fou. Monsieur, come below. Rest.’
‘Captain, I would like to stay on deck a while. I would like to look at the stars.’
‘Ah, les étoiles!’ Captain Girod shook his head uncomprehendingly. ‘My ship is yours, monsieur. Excusez-moi.’
Kieron stayed on deck for a time and gazed at the night sky. Truly, it was very beautiful. Truly, he had never before realised quite how beautiful those remote points of light were in the mystery that men called the firmament.
Suddenly he began to laugh. He began to laugh because he had just discovered that he was longer indifferent to his own fate. But a short time ago, he had not cared whether he lived or died. Now he knew that he greatly wished to live. To look at the sky on other nights such as this. To construct more balloons and other machines of the air. To hold Petrina close in love and desire. To see his son grow tall … To live … To create and to remember … To suffer and take joy … To live!
He laughed loud and helplessly. Perhaps it is the wine, he told himself, feeling fire in his limbs. I am unused to French wine. But he knew it was not the wine. It was – it was … What was it? The life force! That was a good phrase. He felt he had just invented it. The life force. The force that draws flowers and crops out of the earth, that makes women beautiful and causes men – some men – to lift up their eyes to the stars.
‘Some day,’ said Kieron, gazing at Sirius, the brightest star of all, ‘my children’s children will reach out towards you. Think not, bright star, that you are beyond the reach of men.’
Again he laughed, thinking how a small French ship had found him, on a great ocean, thinking how chance had brought him back from the dead. ‘By the hammer,’ he laughed, ‘the astrologer Marcus will yet confound all disbelievers.’
Down below, as Captain Girod consulted his charts, he heard the mad bursts of laughter. He shrugged. It was known that the English had always been a little mad. Clearly this one, who had himself challenged the might of an armed fleet, was much afflicted.
16
Captain Girod was as good as his word. He took the Marie-France close in to the south coast of Britain almost exactly three kilometres east of Little Hampton. The stars were fading and the sky was turning grey as Kieron clambered over the side of the French ship and prepared to row ashore in his small boat.
‘Monsieur,’ said Captain Girod, ‘we have been honoured by your company. Please accept this small gift and remember us with affection.’ He handed Kieron a flask of eau de vie. ‘Some day, I think, our nations will again work together. You will drink to that?’
‘I will drink to that. Captain Girod, you have saved my life, but I have no gift to offer.’
‘Monsieur Kieron, we already have your gift. Merde, alors. It was formidable. Un homme du del contre les bateaux de l’Amiral Mort. Please, we shall tell our children’s children of this thing. We have your gift. Soyez tranquille. Rest easy.’
‘I beg one more favour, Captain. Give me oil. Give me the means of making fire.’
‘Pourquoi? You cannot make the attack from this small boat.’
‘No, Monsieur. I wish to burn my boat when I have landed. It has served me well. No other shall use it.’
‘Monsieur Kieron, I comprehend.’
A member of the crew brought a large bottle of oil, some waste cloth and a lighted candle-cup. Kieron stored the candle-cup carefully in his boat so that the breeze would not extinguish the flame.
‘Goodbye, Captain, and thank you. May you have a safe voyage home.’
‘Bonne chance, Monsieur. We salute your audacity. It will be remembered.’
Kieron pulled for the shore. He could only see it dimly, but it seemed to be deserted. There was little swell, but the tide was with him. As he rowed, the Marie-France swung slowly round and faded slowly like a ghost in the pre-dawn light.
By the time he had beached, the red rim of the sun had risen above the horizon. Kieron hauled his boat clear of the water. The soft sand felt good beneath his feet. He was amazed at how good it felt. But perhaps that was because he had not expected to walk on dry land again.
He looked along the shore both ways. It was totally deserted. He sat down for a while, picking up handfuls of sand and letting it trickle between his fingers. A sense of desolation grew oddly upon him. He felt that he was the last man alive.
After a time, his mind returned to practicalities. The candle-cup was still burning. He made a small pile of the waste cloth he had been given, then he searched for fragme
nts of flotsam. He found a few splintered pieces of ships’ timber, not large, but enough to make a small bonfire with the waste cloth. He poured oil over it and placed the candle-cup beneath a strip of the soaked rag. The flames leaped high. For a moment or two he stood warming himself, realising that he had felt very cold.
Then he recollected the purpose of the bonfire. He turned Mistress Fitzalan’s Revenge upside down and kicked repeatedly at the thin strips of wood until they were stove in. Then he lifted the wreckage of the boat and let it fall upon the bonfire.
Sparks rose mightily. The wet timbers sizzled and crackled and steamed and smoked. Finally, they burst into flame; and Mistress Fitzalan’s Revenge was at last consumed by the very element she had carried to destroy the vessels of Admiral Death.
Kieron waited until all the wood of the small boat had been reduced to embers. By which time, the sun was well clear of the horizon. He looked at the glowing ashes and the fragments of charred wood. Soon the incoming tide would reach them, and all traces of the boat would be washed away for ever … This, too, had been a funeral pyre.
Now it was time to return to the living. The sky was blue and it was going to be another fine day. Kieron judged it time to strike quickly inland, lest he encounter any of the freebooters abroad early. He gazed westward, along the beach and out to sea; but he could see no sign of them or their vessels. Which was of no great significance, since the coast curved, and Little Hampton was out of sight.
Kieron left the shore and took to the fields and moorland, passing near the ruins of several abandoned cottages. There was still the smell of smoke and death about them. No doubt they had recently suffered the ministrations of the freebooters.
Although it would have been easier to head directly for Arundel, Kieron judged this not to be a wise course. After the onslaught from the air, Admiral Death may well have decided to march inland, exacting retribution from any who had been so bold as to attempt to reoccupy their damaged towns and villages. Better by far to make a wearisome detour through fields and woodland, perhaps eventually coming to the Misery from the east or the north.
Cloud Walker, All Fools' Day, Far Sunset Page 17
