According to Bruno, the ideal form of an aerial machine would be obtained by combining all that was vital in the wing pattern of a gliding bird with a streamlined body derived from the shape of one of the fast swimming fishes. He had even persuaded Kieron to spend half a day by the banks of the Arun, watching trout glide through the water, controlling their movements with a flicker of the tail.
So the design of the fourth and fifth sailplanes had been changed according to Bruno’s requirements for streamed lines. The fourth sailplane had risen well from the beach, but had proved impossible to control. After a flight of perhaps two hundred metres, it had buried its fish-nose in the sand and had thrown Kieron head over heels through the air to land most painfully upon his back.
But, with Bruno’s assistance, he had made the best heavier-than-air flight so far. Together, they laboured on the design of the fifth sailplane. Longer, more slender wings. Smoother, streamed lines. A fish-tail, which could be moved a little from side to side by the aeronaut pulling ropes.
This one flew almost a kilometre, till the fabric was ripped from one of its wings and once more Kieron broke a limb.
The sixth sailplane was an even more ambitious version of the fifth. It was almost entirely Bruno’s own design. Besides a moving tail-fin, he had devised thin, moveable flaps on the wings, and had so arranged matters that the aeronaut could control the movements of the wing-flaps or tail-fin by pushing and pulling wooden bars.
It was a beautiful machine, long tapering wings; slender rounded body. Sleek as a fish, light as a great bird. Bruno pleaded to be allowed to make the first flight. The other apprentices were awed by his temerity. Hitherto, the Cloud Walker had always been the first.
But, thought Kieron, why should not Bruno enjoy his own triumph if, indeed, there were a triumph to enjoy?
So, on a bright morning, Bruno sat in the tiny aeronaut’s basket built between the wings, tested his controls, glanced nervously back at the small tail-wings and the tail-fin, upon the design of which he had lavished much thought and care, smiled at Kieron, and gave the signal to the horsemen who would draw the sailplane on its wooden wheels along the beach, until it gained enough speed to rise.
The sailplane rose from the beach much faster than Kieron had anticipated. It rose beautifully, smoothly, confidently, the rope that held it to the horses dropping cleanly from the iron hook in the machine’s nose. Bruno seemed to know instinctively how to handle the sailplane. It was more than fifty metres high when a sudden gust of wind seemed to snatch at it with nimble fingers and fling it aloft. The sudden lift caught Bruno unawares, he was thrown out of his small basket; and, with a long despairing cry, he fell to earth, being killed instantly.
Now as Kieron sat in the cage of the seventh sailplane – substantially the same as Bruno’s design but with larger tailplanes and with straps to fasten the aeronaut to his machine – he thought of the heavier-than-air machines that had failed and also of the brilliant young man who had given his life in the struggle to reconquer the air. Bruno had looked somewhat as Aylwin had looked many years ago; though Bruno’s wits were much sharper than Aylwin’s had been, and his passions were much stronger.
I have killed many enemies and only two friends, mused Kieron as he sat in his aeronaut’s cage. I have been lucky.
The wind was good. The men on horseback seventy metres ahead of the sailplane, looked round expectantly, awaiting the signal. Let them wait, let them mutter and curse, thought Kieron complacently. The wind will get better.
His mind turned to his other apprentices … To Lachlan of Edinburgh, who had marched south with a tattered fragment of a book containing the precious knowledge of how to prepare a gas that was lighter than air. Lachlan swore that one day he would produce this gas in such quantities as to raise many balloons and allow them to remain aloft for ever … To Torben, who had come from Norwich, determined to learn about hot-air balloons, and then determined to construct better ones than the Cloud Walker had made. He had succeeded, too. Torben of the quiet ways, the small voice and the great ambition. He had even constructed a hot-air balloon that had carried three men across the sea to the Nether Lands … And then there was Levis of Colchester – Levis, the wild one, who made his own black powder and designed his own rockets and fired them into the sky as if he were taking part in a religious ceremony. Levis had already blown three fingers off one hand and made himself blind in an eye by premature explosions; and his aerial rockets, though spectacular, leaving trails of smoke and fire across the sky, were fit only for use as weapons to terrify and confound the enemy. Though, so far, the Free Seigneurie had encountered no other enemy, being perhaps too powerful, too resolute, and possessing many ingenious minds. Levis, the dreamer, disliked his rockets being taken for weapons. He dreamed always of a rocket that would one day reach out towards the stars …
Kieron smiled, thinking of these young men and others. People called them, affectionately, the Cloud Walker’s Fledglings. But would not such fledglings one day command the skies?
The sailplane quivered. The wind had strengthened. Boys holding the wing-tips shivered. The waiting men on horseback swore at their restive mounts and glanced frequently at Kieron; but none was brave enough to question the judgment of the Cloud Walker.
Kieron sighed, gave a last look around him, and raised his hand. Perhaps he would die, as Bruno had done. Perhaps not. But this day belonged to Bruno himself. Whatever happened, others would continue the work.
The horsemen saw the raised hand. The sailplane lurched forward, bouncing somewhat over uneven patches of sand. Once the left wing-tip came down nearly touching. That would have brought disaster. But Kieron moved a wing-flap and the sailplane righted itself. As the horsemen gathered speed, the machine became more stable. Kieron saw sand and sea rushing past him. Then suddenly there was no more bumping. Majestically, steeply, the sailplane rose. Not too steep, not too steep, thought Kieron, easing his tail-flap to turn a little from the wind. The sailplane began to swing smoothly in a wide arc. Kieron glanced down and saw that he must be fifty, perhaps sixty metres above the ground. He felt a slight jerk as the tow rope disengaged smoothly from its hook.
‘Bruno,’ he said aloud into the wind, ‘we are airborne. You are right, boy, this is better than balloons. With craft such as these, we shall not drift with the wind. We shall truly sail the sky.’
He brought the sailplane round in a great circle, knowing that he was already losing height and that he must endeavour to land smoothly on the beach. As the wings swung, he glimpsed the seigneurie of Arundel – a toy castle and a toy town in the morning sunlight. He thought of Petrina and his sons – and then the castle was lost to view, and he concentrated anxiously on the problems of flight.
He had practised the wing controls on models and with the sailplane tethered in a high wind. He had the feel of his craft. It seemed even to be an extension of his own body.
Slowly, patiently, he eased the descending sailplane until it pointed along the beach, its tail and nose at the right attitude. Then he centred his controls.
Down below the horsemen sat like statues. If they did not move he would crash into them. They scattered – one man falling from his mount and being dragged somewhat by it.
The air whistled about Kieron’s face. The sea and the shore seemed to rush towards him. There was a sickening bump as the wheels hit the sand, then the sailplane bounced a few metres into the air once more and came down sedately. As the speed lessened, one wing-tip touched the sand; and the sailplane swung violently round. But for his harness, Kieron would have been thrown out with some force. That was one important thing that had been learned from the death of Bruno.
The machine had stopped and all was well. Men and boys were running towards it. For a moment or two, he sat in silence, wishing that Bruno were with him.
‘We have done it,’ he said softly. ‘Bruno, we have done it. We have flown more than a kilometre in a heavier-than-air machine. This is the beginning.’
Suddenly he
was aware of shouts, exclamations, cheers. And the world was about him once more.
POSTSCRIPTUM
Kieron leaned back in his wheeled chair, knowing that he would rise from it no more, and was content. They had brought doctors to tend him and fuss about him; doctors who said that he must have no more excitement, that he must rest a while. He knew better than the doctors. He knew that soon he would rest eternally. He was content.
It was late spring. He leaned back in his chair in the castle rose garden, and sniffed the sweet scents that drifted to him on a light breeze. There was a bed of damask roses, gloriously golden in colour. A master gardener in France had bred the rose and, seeking to please the Cloud Walker, had called it Madame Petrina. There was also a bed of tiny white roses, bred by the castle’s own master gardener and called simply Alyx.
Between the small white roses of Alyx and the full golden roses of Madame Petrina, Kieron, Seigneur of Arundel by consent of the people, First Holder of the Eagle’s Wings by unanimous vote of the International Guild of Aeronauts, sat contentedly and remembered all that an old man should remember.
Kentigern was long dead. Kentigern who had been a good seigneur and a true friend for more than thirty years. Petrina was dead – dear warm Petrina. She had been dead how long? Not long. He could still feel the pain. Two of her sons also. The first – inevitably called Marcus – burned to death on his first voyage as navigator of a hydrogen airship. And the second, Aylwin, had died when his sailplane had been caught in a storm. Kieron was glad that hydrogen airships were finished. They were too dangerous. They had destroyed many good men. Now helium was the great lifter. He was glad also that the Germans and the French and the Americans and the Japanese were developing petroleum engines to power the sailplanes.
But such discoveries and inventions had come too late to save two of his sons. Not too late to save Jason, though. Jason was master of electrics on a helium-lifted dirigible capable of carrying two hundred people. Jason was safely airborne, flying about the world to places like Tokyo, Lima, New York, Johannesburg with all the assurance and confidence of a generation that accepted mastery of the air.
A great shadow passed over the rose garden. Without looking up, Kieron knew what it was. It was the daily, helium-filled airship from London to Rome. It always came over at this time. You could set a clock by it. Its propellers were powered by steam engines. Perhaps in a few years the petroleum engines would drive the great airships also.
Kieron fingered the red and white ribbon that hung round his neck and the Eagle’s Wings, worked in iron from a meteorite, that was suspended from it. He was proud of the Eagle’s Wings. They had been given to him by men of many nations.
The International Guild of Aeronauts had its meeting place in the city of Geneva in Switzerland. Kieron had never been further abroad from the seigneurie of Arundel than the Marie-France had carried him. But he knew where Switzerland was. He had looked at the maps.
Once, long ago, the newly-formed Guild of Aeronauts had sent men to him, he being the first one to reconquer the air, asking him to set down the articles of their Guild.
He had thought the matter over and had been able to define only one article. He had written it for them in his own poor hand.
‘The clouds and the winds are free, passing over all countries, belonging to all men. Let no man take to the skies with malice in his heart or hatred of his fellow men. On earth there are frontiers, in the sky there are none. Let those who have the good fortune to become airborne remember that the blood of all men is of one colour.’
It was the first and only article required by the International Guild of Aeronauts. Any who wished to fly for other purposes than peaceful commerce were denied the lore of flight, the facilities of the airborne.
Recently, the Guild had requested Kieron to visit Geneva to receive the Eagle’s Wings. Being old, he replied that he no longer felt equal to the journey, but he thanked them for their kindness, none the less.
If the Cloud Walker was unable to visit Geneva, the International Guild of Aeronauts was not unable to visit Arundel. They came, two thousand of them, in ten helium airships. They came, bearing gifts, speaking many languages.
There were Indians, Africans, Frenchmen, Germans, Russians, Americans, Chinese and many nationalities of which Kieron had not even heard. The numbers swelled as men journeyed from all parts of Britain.
In the end, four thousand men stood with bared heads in pouring rain, while the Cloud Walker sat in his wheeled chair under canvas and listened to speeches in many languages.
He understood from the British and American speeches what all these young men were saying. He was overwhelmed by their honour. The Cloud Walker had become more than a man: he had become a symbol.
When he had his first weakness of the heart, the doctors whisked him away from the conference and prescribed complete rest.
So now here he was in the rose garden, luxuriating in the scent of Madame Petrina, gazing with the fondness of memory at the small white roses called Alyx.
Kieron Joinerson, no longer known by that name, but known simply as Seigneur Kieron or the Cloud Walker, was content.
The Rome dirigible had passed over the rose garden. Somewhere above the Pacific Ocean, heading for Japan, Jason, son of Kieron and Petrina, was attending to his duties.
A doctor came from the castle to take one of his periodic checks on his illustrious patient. As he approached the wheeled chair, he heard a great sigh. Then he saw the body slacken.
The Cloud Walker was seventy-eight years old. In his last moments he had remembered many things. The sound of bees in childhood, the thin voice of a master painter, Mistress Fitzalan’s Leap, the touch of Petrina, the first cry of a first child.
And he remembered Aylwin also, and the shark of the sky, and Capitaine Girod, and Kentigern, and Bruno, with his obsession of streamed lines. And he remembered the floating dandelion seeds, the whirling leaves of autumn, and all the butterflies of childhood.
Whatever, as the doctor confirmed, he died peacefully. The Cloud Walker had believed only that life was for the living. But who shall say that his spirit has not reached out to the stars?
ALL FOOLS’ DAY
ONE
7 July 1971. Two-thirty a.m. The air warm, clear patches of sky loaded with stars, and the Thames rippling quietly through the subdued noises of London like a jet and silver snake.
Two-thirty a.m. A car whispering sweetly, as cars do in the moist hours of darkness. A car, a man and a woman, routed for Chelsea from Kingston. A man and a woman journeying from the good life to the good life. A man with a bellyful of misery and loneliness and some precious dregs of self-respect – driving in top gear to a centrally-heated, sound-proofed limbo with an original Picasso and the latest Scandinavian furniture …
Matthew Greville, aged twenty-seven, ex-human being and adman of this city had been drunk and was now sober. As he drove, he glanced occasionally at his wife, Pauline, wondering if such sobriety could be contagious. Evidently not.
Where did sobriety begin and intoxication end? Perhaps it began about eight miles back with a cat. The cat was black, fat, old and – as Pauline had remarked with comfortable assurance – obviously filled with the death-wish. It had come streaking across the road like a wild thing in pursuit of sex, rats or possibly nothing more substantial than visions.
There had been a moment of choice when Greville could have put on the brakes and sent up a hurried prayer to the Cats’ God. He had had the time and he wanted to stamp on the brake pedal. The odd thing was that his foot wouldn’t move.
The cat passed under the car. There was a bump. Finally, Greville managed to move his foot. The car screeched reproachfully to a stop.
‘What, may I ask, is this in aid of?’ said Pauline gently.
‘I hit a cat.’
‘So?’
‘So I’d better see whether the poor wretch is dead.’
‘There are too many cats,’ remarked Pauline. ‘Does it matter? I’m rat
her tired.’
‘There are too many cats,’ agreed Greville, ‘but oddly it matters, and I’m tired, too.’
‘Darling, don’t be lugubrious. It was such a nice party. I’m not in the mood for suicidal cats.’
Greville was suddenly disgusted – with himself. ‘I won’t be a minute.’ He got out of the car and slammed the door.
He found the cat about thirty yards back. It was not dead. It had rolled into the gutter and its back was horribly twisted, but there was no sign of blood.
‘Die, please die,’ murmured Greville. Ashamed, he knelt down and stroked the cat’s head. It shuddered a little, then nuzzled him, leaving blood upon his hands. It seemed pathetically grateful for his attention.
‘Pussy, please, please die,’ he coaxed.
But the cat clung obstinately to life. Then the pain came, bringing with it thin, bubbling screams.
Greville could stand it no longer. He eased his hand under the animal and suddenly lifted it up. There was a final cry of anguish before the edge of his other hand came down with all the strength he could muster. The force of the blow took the cat from his grasp and returned it heavily to the gutter. But its neck was broken, and after one or two twitches there was only stillness.
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