Novel - Airman

by Eoin Colfer

  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 around. “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 maneuver 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 onto 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 demeanor changed. He stood taller and felt capable of 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 saber, 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 toward 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 pummeled 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 farther from the 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 altitude 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 farthest 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 favorite,” 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 favors my beloved saber, 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, ’cause 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 is 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 saber. “God preserve us,” he breathed, crossing himself with his weaponless hand. “A man with wi
ngs.”

  “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 lense of his goggles. He reacted quickly, ditching the glider with two yanks on the harness belts, then spinning toward 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.

  Conor threaded his arms through the straps then rolled both shoulders into the harness, cinched it tight, and ran for the nearest stairwell. His wingtips scraped the walls on both sides, and he chided himself for not binding them in leather. The stairwell funnelled wind from above and it rattled his wings, pushing him down, but Conor struggled against it, forcing his way headfirst to the top step.

  The gunshot had woken every guard in the billet, and they converged on the stairwell in ragged formation, clutching at rifles and trousers, shaking dreams from their heads. The sight of Conor had half of them convinced that they still slept.

  One loosed a shot, but it was wild and high. The rest stared stupidly, mindless of each other until they tangled and fell in a bundle. Conor took advantage of the confusion to mount the parapet and leap into the sky, catching as much air as he could. A wind, he prayed. One tiny draft.

  Jupiter heard his prayer and sent a gift. An uplifting breath that filled his wings and threw him high above the heads of the watching guards. They scowled and screamed and stared in silence. Two thought to aim their weapons, but the one who might have hit the target was accidentally shot by the other, who pulled his trigger too early. In the blink of a crow’s eye, the airman had disappeared into the night: swallowed by black, like a stone sinking in the night sea.

  For a long moment, nobody on the wall uttered a syllable. Then they began to jabber furiously, each man telling his own version of what he had seen. Even the wounded man gabbed with the rest, mindless of the blood pooling at his foot. This was a story they would tell many times, and it needed to be made solid now. Wrap words around the bone, before daylight made the whole thing seem unlikely.

  It was an airman, they decided. The Airman. Hadn’t there been a whisper of something like this on Great Saltee? We saw the Airman. Seven feet tall with fiery, circular eyes. The story was started. The word was spreading.

  Word spreading is not what a man wants when he is a smuggler and a thief.

  Conor rode the fair wind to Great Saltee, heart pounding in his chest. His blood was up, and he knew that was dangerous. A man takes risks when the battle fever controls him, Victor had once told him. I have seen too many clever men die stupidly.

  Be calm. Calm. There was no time for calm. The air grew suddenly choppy, and Conor was forced to wrestle with his craft simply to stay aloft. Great Saltee loomed below him, as though the earth had revolved to meet him. Conor pointed the glider’s nose down, holding it there against the tug of air resistance. Wind tugged at his goggles and poked fingers through the bullet hole in his wing.

  On a night like this one, Conor could almost believe that men were not supposed to fly. He came down at a sharp angle, too fast and too steep. I will be lucky if my ankles survive this, he thought, gritting his teeth against the impact.

  Though his vision was impaired by a scratched lense and whirling elements, Conor saw the skiff on Sebber Bridge, and he also spotted the men lying in wait for him behind the ridge. Snakes in the grass, he thought without a shred of fear, utterly ready for a fight. He shifted left on the steering bar in order to come down in their midst. May as well have a soft landing.

  Rosy was attempting to run when Conor crashed into him, driving both boots into the man’s shoulders. He heard something snap, and the man rolled, howling, down the rocky slope. The rest jumped to their feet and ranged about him in a ragged circle. None attacked, sizing up their opponent.

  These men cannot understand the principles of my rig, thought Conor. Therefore I am a ghost, or a creature. That will not last long. Soon enough they will see for themselves that my wings are fabric and my chest heaves with exertion. Then they will shoot me dead.

  Or perhaps not. No guns were drawn yet, though there were plenty of blades.

  Of course. There will be no gunplay here. The reports would bring the Wall Watch down on us, and these brigands are not here to arrest me.

  One of the five remaining men stepped forward a pace, brandishing an ice pick.

  “Gibbus de dymon,” he said, then removed the dagger from his mouth and spat. “I said give us the diamonds, Airman.”

  Diamonds. The dropped pouch! He had left a trail. “Billtoe,” growled Conor, his voice coarsened by deep hatred.

  The prison guard quailed. “Who are you? Why me personally? I never wronged no parlayvoo.”

  Billtoe will be first to fall, thought Conor. At least I will have that. His hands flashed to twin scabbards at his hips, drawing two battle sabers.

  “En garde,” he said, and lunged forward. A breeze caught the glider, elongating his stride, and Billtoe, who had thought himself at a safe distance, was suddenly face-to-face with the Airman.

  He tried a trusted move, employed in a dozen bar fights, a sly dig with his ice pick, only to find the weapon batted aside.

  “Shame on you, monsieur,” said the Airman. “Bringing a kitchen tool to a swordfight.”

  Conor slashed down and out, his blade biting deep into Billtoe’s thigh. The guard squealed and grabbed the wound. He was no longer a threat. Both hands would be employed trying to keep the blood inside his leg.

  Even now I do not wish to kill him, Conor realized. There is only one man I could kill.

  He heard a rustling behind him as two men advanced. They are too cautious. The strange uniform scares them. A fortuitous breeze snapped his wings, and Conor added to its force by leaping directly upward. The two men passed below, and the Airman descended on them with boots and blades. Both were soon dispatched. Neither dead, but certainly nursing a reluctance to participate in moonlight ambushes.

  Two men left. One was quaking, and the other was circling warily, biding his time, watching for weakness. It was Pike, and he did not seem inclined to retreat.

  “You go ahead, matey,” he said, propelling his comrade toward Conor. The unfortunate man had barely time to squeak before Conor knocked him senseless with a casual blow with the saber’s guard.

  “Jus’ you and me, Airman,” said Pike, sporting a careless grin. He studied Conor, took in the stance and the muscle and the weapons dangling from fist and belt. “To hell with this,
” he said, reaching for his pistol. “I’ll take my chances with the Wall Watch.”

  Conor drew faster, exchanging the sword in his right hand for a revolver. “The guards can hear my shot or none, monsieur. The choice is yours.”

  Pike was already committed to his action, so Conor buzzed a shot past his ear to regain his attention. The guard fell to his knees, temporarily deafened, gun tumbling from his fingers. “A warning shot. The next one will put a hole in you.”

  It was useless to speak. Pike could not hear, and combed the grass with his fingers till he found his weapon.

  “Drop that pistol,” said Conor. “I have the advantage over you.”

  But Pike could not or would not hear and lifted the barrel, his intention clear. Conor shot him in the shoulder, the copper-jacketed slug bowling the guard diagonally over the ridge, screeching like a barn owl.

  Gunshot and screeching, and at night too. Noises certain to attract the attention of the Wall Watch. Conor jumped over the ridge, squatting behind it. On the Wall above, three lights were extinguished. This was protocol. At the first sign of disturbance, the guards plunged themselves into darkness to avoid becoming targets. Next half a dozen flares came arcing over the Wall, painting the bay with harsh red light.

  It was time to leave. Quickly now, before the flares dipped low enough to light the skiff. Conor collapsed his wings and ran, doubled over, to the small boat. There was no time for careful folding of the glider, and several of the craft’s ribs snapped as he shoved it under the seat.

  No matter. Wooden ribs by the stack in the tower. My own ribs are more difficult to replace should they be splintered by gunshot.

  He pushed hard into the gunwale, scraping the keel across the stone and sand until the water took its weight. Shouts behind him now as guards poured from a fortified gateway, hurrying along the coast path. Some on horseback. The baying of hunting dogs echoed across the flat sea.

  Dogs! The Watch wasted no time leashing their hounds.

  Conor leaped into the skiff, his momentum pushing it to sea and safety. He tugged the mast from its bracket, laying it flat across the planks. Less of a profile from shore. Cold water splashed over the prow, spattering his face, and he was glad of it. He could hear his heart beat in his ears like great hollow drums in the distance.