Maximillian Fly

by Angie Sage

  “You’re on,” I say but I don’t move, because I’m watching Mattie sticking the first of the orange balls over a pinprick hole in the wall. And then I understand what she is doing—she is blocking up the listening bugs.

  Mattie opens and closes the cabin door as if we are going out and I wait silently while she finishes sticking the four remaining bits of orange over the bugs. The last one is on the sleeping platform, right where the pillow goes. They even listen to our dreams, I think.

  Then we sit on the floor and Mattie asks me the question I am dreading. “Tomas,” she says in a low voice. “Something awful happened to him a few hours ago. I suddenly felt terrified. It just . . . it just swamped me.”

  I stare at Mattie. This is creepy.

  “Oh my days . . . Kait, it’s true, isn’t it?” Mattie whispers.

  I nod.

  “What . . . what happened to him?”

  I shake my head. I can’t find the words to tell her.

  I am saved by the shrilling of the bell for campfire assembly and its accompanying announcement: “Hey, you Lions, you Wolves, you Bears! It’s time for . . . campfire circle!” This usually makes me cringe with its happy-camping singsong voice, but for the first time ever I am glad to hear it. And for all its jollity, it is deadly serious. If you’re even a second late, it is twenty-four hours in Time-Out. As I well know.

  I’m out of the cabin before Mattie can speak, and heading for the recreation area. I rattle down the metal stairs, past the huge double doors, each emblazoned with a big silver S—which always give me the creeps—and I join Jonno and his Bears. And there we all sit, our three happy tribes of Lions, Wolves and Bears gathered around the fake gel campfire. We pretend the SilverShip has just landed on the Island, that we’ve found our village, hunted and cooked our supper and now have nothing better to do than sing stupid songs.

  Some chance.

  Chapter 24

  Nightfall

  M

  In the silence and darkness of my empty house, a wave of longing for the warmth and affection I left behind at Parminter’s farm comes over me and I cannot bear to be in this dark and lonely place a moment longer. I shall fly the night and take my chance.

  I go up to my room and light the lantern; then I unwrap the gift that my Kaitlin Drew has given me. It looks like a large silver coin, but when I turn it over I see bands of gold stripes on it. There is a buzz to it, as though a small bee is trapped inside. And now I see there is a message written on the flax paper. It is most peculiar. I shall show you.

  Dear Max,

  This is the DisK. Take it away PLEASE they will come back for it very soon!

  Sorry sorry sorry for causing you +++ trouble.

  Thank you x 1000000000s. stay safe.

  Kaitlin xxxxx

  P.S. Give DisK to curator W.E.NE. only.

  I confess I do not understand the message, but I can tell it is important and I think that maybe Parminter will understand it better.

  I now consider the teapot. I look at the gold-and-white delicacy with its chained lid and nasty little red eyes and I know that I am a fool to concern myself over such a thing, and yet I cannot bear to leave it behind. I decide to use the teapot as a carrier for this disc thing. I pull some wadding from my nest, wrap the disc in it and place it carefully in the china belly of the eagle. Then I wrap the teapot in wadding too. Its beady red eyes stare at me reproachfully until I smother its beaky little features. I place the soft bundle in a pillowcase and tie it firmly onto my belt so it will hang down out of the way in flight. And now I must go.

  With great care I ascend the ladder and push my head up through the skylight. I flip down my goggles and see the rat watching me mockingly. There is no night fog yet, for which I am grateful, as I do not think I could find my way blind to Parminter’s house. I try not to think about Night Roaches.

  Gingerly, I climb out onto the roof. “It is your house now,” I tell the rat.

  I extend my wings to their fullest and feel the lift of the air beneath me. A sudden surge of joy comes over me: I am going to Parminter’s house. I rise up into the night sky and I think how happy I am to be able to fly and to know I am going somewhere where I will be welcome. I am also happy to have seen my Kaitlin Drew for one last time and to be doing what she has asked of me. And I have Mama’s teapot too, which one day I shall give back to her.

  And then all will be well.

  T

  A worm of ice lives in my bones. Fear squats in my heart. I cannot stop thinking of Night Roaches. Of how they tow Astros back to their Roost. And how it takes many hours for Night Roaches to bite and tear through an Astro suit. But they always get there in the end. . . .

  And now, far below, I see a Roach in flight. It is heading my way. At first I think I am safe, for it looks dark but then I fear that is just because it is in shadow. And then I see the green glint of its eyes and know that it is a Night Roach. I panic. Suddenly my head is down and my feet are up and I’m going into a dive and I am terrified that this will be the end of it all. But I don’t want it to end. Not yet, not yet . . . I push my leaden legs downward, I spread my arms and at last I level out and am steady once again, floating facedown, watching the city below. I follow the steady progress of the Roach and its purposeful, businesslike flight, which gives me hope that maybe it is not a Night Roach. They fly in a different way, wheeling and gliding, searching for victims. This Roach looks to me like it is merely going home as fast as it can. It is close now and I see I am safe. Its wings have a dark, iridescent sheen and it flies steadily on, intent upon its own business.

  And so I watch the Roach, heading no doubt somewhere warm for the night, to a welcome from people who love it. I never thought I would envy a Roach, but tonight I do. As it moves smoothly across the sky, I see far below the flickering pinpoints of candlelight in attic rooms and I wish—oh, how I wish—that I was safe in a soft, warm bed.

  M

  That Astro is still up there and I pity the poor creature within. Soon the Night Roaches will be out hunting; I hope the fog comes quickly and protects it, although not before I have reached Parminter’s farm. With that thought I pick up speed, Mama’s teapot bumping angrily with every wingbeat. I take a wide detour around the Night Roach Steeple and I am relieved to see no sign of activity. And now I can see the darkness of the fields stretching out to the eastern skylon, which rises up, its tip lost in a thick white blanket. Aha! The night fog is coming down with perfect timing, for I can also see the welcoming red tin roof of Parminter’s farmhouse. I drop down into a low glide and with a feeling of happiness I land in the yard. All is quiet as I walk across the cobbles and knock softly upon the back door.

  It is opened by Parminter’s mama, who smiles at me as though she really is pleased to see me. “Maximillian!” she exclaims. “How wonderful. We were so worried for you. Come in, come in.” And she ushers me into the warm kitchen and Parminter is already on her feet and hurrying over to me. She takes my hands, which I fear are unpleasantly cold. “You are frozen,” she says. “Come and sit by the stove. Mama said it was safe for us to come in here. It’s been quiet since you left.” She smiles. “There’s no way they’ll track us here now.”

  I hope Parminter is right, but you can never tell—maybe they have gone to get reinforcements, or are planning something for tonight. But I do not want to spoil the happiness of this moment. I allow Parminter to lead me over to the old stove and I sit on the bench next to her and begin to relax. I love this kitchen. I love the old table with its fat, bobbly legs cut short, so it is good for Roach and Wingless alike. I love the rugs, the cushions, the stools and the benches and the rocking chair for Parminter’s mama. I love the warmth of the cooking stove and its little window of thick green glass that shows the soft flickering flames inside, misty and blurred like fish beneath water. And I love to look at all the pictures nailed higgledy-piggledy onto the rough plaster of the chimney.

  Upon the stove is a pot of something that smells delicious and on a pi
le of cushions in the corner Andronicus is still sleeping off the effects of Minna’s spiked sun biscuits. And now Parminter is wrapping a blanket over my wing cases, I am sipping warmed nut milk, and as my shivering slowly subsides, Parminter asks me anxiously if everything is all right. I tell her that everything is most certainly all right. That it is more all right than it has ever been in my whole life.

  Chapter 25

  The Blind Curator

  M

  Parminter is not happy to see Mama’s teapot. “Maximillian,” she says crossly. “Why must you bring your mother here?”

  I freeze. Mama is here?

  “It’s all right, Maximillian,” Parminter says gently. “I didn’t mean your mother was really here. I was talking about that awful teapot.”

  “I know it is not to everyone’s taste,” I say apologetically. “But there is more to this teapot than you think.”

  Parminter sighs. “I know that, Maximillian. There is much more to that ghastly teapot.” Then she smiles at me encouragingly, as though I have done something unexpectedly clever. “But the good thing is that at least you realize it now.”

  Once again I feel that I do not completely understand all that Parminter is saying. Very gently, I take off the little domed lid of the teapot, hold it carefully at the end of its delicate gold chain, and pull out the bundle of wadding. “You see?” I say to Parminter. “There is more to the teapot—there is this!”

  Parminter does not look impressed. “Oh,” she says.

  I peel away the wrapping, unroll the flax paper and place the DisK in her hand.

  “Oh,” she says again, but this time all the teapot irritation is gone and she is, I can tell, no longer disappointed in me. Indeed, she is looking at me with a mixture of admiration and surprise. “Maximillian,” she says, holding the DisK between her delicate fingers, which I notice have tiny, well-tended nails that shine a beautiful deep purple. “However did you get this?”

  I tell her about my terrifying experience in my poor, sealed house and Parminter listens in stunned silence. “Your mama came to the house?” she asks. “With your Escaper? But why?”

  “She was collecting a stuffed bear,” I explain.

  Parminter looks at me as if I am crazy. “A stuffed bear?”

  “She sent my Escaper upstairs to get it. It had belonged to the brother.”

  “The brother you went back for?”

  “Yes. But he was gone. There was only his bear. All alone.” I feel so sad for the bear.

  Parminter sighs. “It sounds like he did not choose to leave of his own accord. Not if he left his bear.”

  There is something about sitting by the fire with Parminter that makes me remember things. “I had a bear once,” I say. “When I was little, a man came with some books and a bear. Mama was out. I hid the books but I put the bear in my nest so it wasn’t lonely. Mama took it away.”

  “Oh, Maximillian . . . ,” Parminter murmurs, and I can tell she is thinking about whether to say something. And then she says it. “Maximillian, did you ever wonder who that man was?”

  Did I wonder? I don’t really remember now. But I do remember that day. It was misty outside. The house was cold and damp and I was feeling sad—why I cannot recall. I heard a key in the front door and I thought it was Mama, so I made myself neat and tidy in the corner of my nest room, just how she liked me to be. But I soon realized that the footsteps coming up the stairs were not Mama’s and I became very frightened. I thought that this time she really had sent someone to take me away, just as she said she would. So I closed my eyes and I waited. I heard my bedroom door open and I was waiting for the net to be thrown over me (Mama had told me exactly how they take Roaches away), when I heard my name spoken in a soft, growly kind of voice. “Maximillian?” I opened my eyes and saw a man there with shining gray eyes and a kind but sad face. He was carrying two big bags, which he put down with a little groan and then he came over to me. He knelt down beside me and stroked my head, all the while looking at me with the strangest expression. It made me feel very peculiar. In fact thinking about it still does.

  Anyway, the man told me he had brought me a set of learn-to-read books and said that it was very important to be able to read. I would have to teach myself, he said, and to keep the books a secret because Mama would not like them and it was best not to upset her. And then he said something I’ve never forgotten: “You’re a bright boy, Max. I know you can do it.” He called me a “boy,” just like Parminter’s mama calls her a “girl.” It felt good. And I liked how he called me Max too. It made me feel happy, not angry the way I feel when Minna says “Maxie.” Anyway, he showed me a secret place in my room to hide the books and he gave me the bear. And then he left.

  Oh dear.

  I really don’t want to think about this.

  I feel most peculiar and I don’t like it.

  So when Parminter nudges me and says, “Maximillian? Did you?”

  I say rather snappily, “Did I what?”

  Very patiently, Parminter repeats, “Did you—do you—ever wonder who that man was?”

  I don’t reply.

  Parminter puts her hand on top of mine and I feel a little less unsettled. “Maximillian, that man was your father. Your papa.”

  Something in my heart jumps.

  “Would you like to know about your papa?” Parminter asks gently.

  “No!” I say. And then I realize I have been impolite. “I mean, no thank you.” I say this because I know that my papa is dead. Mama told me. She came back late one evening to visit her porcelain, and then she came up to see me. She was smiling and I was afraid because Mama only smiles when she is going to hurt you. She stood in the doorway of my room and she said, “Maximillian. Even though you have shown not the slightest interest in your poor father, I thought you should know that he is dead now.” And she laughed. “Sleep well.” And she went. Naturally I did not sleep well.

  I do not tell Parminter this, because it is too hard to speak it out loud. But Parminter is very sweet. She pats my hand and changes the subject. She asks me if she can show her mama the DisK and the message and of course I agree. So she takes it to her mama, who is in the bakery making flaxseed cakes for the morning, and when they come back Parminter’s mama’s eyes are shining with excitement. She sits next to me and opens her hand to show the DisK nestling in her soft pink palm. “Maximillian,” she whispers. “Where did your Escaper get this?”

  “I don’t know for sure,” I whisper in return. “But I think she had hidden it in the bear. And she had to give the bear back, so she gave it to me to keep it safe. But I don’t know why it is so important. And who is this Wene person who is the curator?”

  “Me,” Parminter’s mama says in such a quiet voice that I cannot quite believe I heard her say it.

  “You?” I say, and then I think I have been rude and immediately apologize.

  Parminter’s mama pats my wing cases affectionately and smiles at me. “‘W.E.NE’ means the West, East and North-East skylons. You know that we have the East skylon at the very end of our long field?” she asks.

  I nod.

  “Well, I look after it. Dear Maximillian, you could not have brought this DisK to a better place. You see, I am a Blind Curator.”

  I am mortified. I had no idea that Parminter’s mama was blind. I am amazed how she is able to hide it so well. I suppose she knows her way around her own house and I guess that baking is something you can do by touch, but even so . . . my train of thought is broken by Parminter, who, as ever, seems to know what I am thinking. “Ma can see perfectly well, Maximillian,” she says briskly. “Ma, you tell him.”

  And so, for the first time ever, a Wingless one talks to me as though I am someone to whom it is worth telling an important thing. “Well, Maximillian,” says Parminter’s mama, “you know there are eight skylons around the edge of the city and each has a curator to look after it? And that the Guardian is curator for the ninth skylon on top of the Bartizan?”

  I nod
. Parminter has told me this.

  Parminter’s mama smiles and holds up the DisK so that it catches the light from the stove. “It used to be that there was a Disk Key like this for each skylon, but many years ago they were taken away and destroyed. So although we curators still maintain our skylons we have no control over them, which is why we are called blind. But now that we have this”—Parminter’s mama looks at the DisK as though she cannot quite believe it is there in her hand—“it is the Guardian who is blind. And we who can see.”

  I feel as though I too am beginning to see that there is a much bigger world outside Mama’s house than I ever realized, and that maybe even I, Maximillian Fly, large and ungainly Roach that I am, can belong in it. Now Parminter’s mama is asking me something and I understand that I too know useful things.

  “Maximillian,” she says, “your young Escaper clearly has some inside information. She is right about the curators who can be trusted, both the West and our North-East neighbors are good people. I would very much like to meet her and ask her more.”

  “You can’t,” Parminter says abruptly. “They caught her, Ma. They took her back.”

  “Now, Parmie, let Maximillian speak for himself,” her mama says gently.

  “I am happy for Parminter to speak,” I say. “This is not something I want to remember. My Kaitlin Drew will be on the SilverShip now. And soon she will be gone forever.”

  There is an odd silence and I see that Parminter and her mama are looking at me in a very strange way. Once again I have a feeling that I have done something wrong. “Did you say Kaitlin Drew?” Parminter’s mama asks.

  I am puzzled. “Yes, it is her name. Why? What is wrong?”

  “And her little brother, was his name Jonno?” Parminter’s mama says so quietly that I can hardly hear.

  “I believe so,” I say, surprised. “How do you know?”

  Parminter’s mama shakes her head. “This is so strange. The Drews used to live next door. Joanna Drew was my friend. I’ve babysat all the kids. Tomas, Kaitlin and Jonno . . .” She puts her head in her hands. “And you too, Maximillian . . . when you were tiny . . . oh dear, oh dear.”