The Lightning Key (Wednesday Tales (Quality))

by Jon Berkeley

  “My hic-turn, I think,” said Tenniel, taking the levers from Miles. “It’s time you had a break, boy. You were hic-falling asleep there.”

  “Thanks,” said Miles. He felt groggy as he vacated the pilot’s seat, and his legs almost buckled beneath him. He had never felt so exhaused in his life, and within moments of strapping himself into the copilot’s chair he sank into a confused, roller-coaster sleep.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  STARS AND SNOWFLAKES

  Miles Wednesday, far-eyed and fog-brained, was jerked from his sleep by a shout. “Man the controls, Mr. Wednesday,” yelled Tenniel. Behind him Miles heard the engine coughing like a sick patient. He struggled from his chair and his dreams, and grabbed the levers while the Hiccup Man darted across the lurching platform to the final fuel tank. “Just a hic-switchover,” he called. “Caught me napping. Normal service will-hic resume in a moment.”

  The Runaway Cloud was losing height rapidly. A sliver of moon cast a feeble light, but it was hard to make out what lay below. “Where are we?” shouted Miles into the rushing wind.

  “Approaching our target, I hope,” said Tenniel, twisting open the valve on the fuel tank. The engine shuddered back to life and the screw began to spin again. The Hiccup Man sat back and wiped his brow with his sleeve. “That was a close one!” He turned to Miles. “We’ve been keeping just east of the mountains, and we’ve descended to about three hundred feet. Baltinglass said we’d be able to see Hell’s Teeth, but it’s pretty dark, and I think—”

  He was interrupted by a loud bang from the motor. It stopped dead, leaving a silence that was more frightening than any noise you can imagine. The contraption began to fall again. Baltinglass woke with a start, and Little’s humming became distinctly audible. Tenniel flicked on a torch and shone it at the fuel container.

  “What’s happening?” shouted Miles. The levers had gone dead in his hands, and the great canvas wings angled upward as they fell. He reached into his pocket and grasped Tangerine tightly.

  Tenniel’s torch picked out a glistening slick on the underside of the fuel tank. “I think I see the problem,” he shouted. “This hic-tank has sprung a leak. There’s nothing in it after all.”

  “That’s it for us, then,” shouted Baltinglass. “I knew I should have packed those parachutes.”

  “Switch to manual!” called Tenniel, ignoring him. He yanked out a pair of foldaway cranks from inside the contraption’s frame and began to turn one of them frantically. Miles grabbed the other and hauled on it for all he was worth. With the engine dead, the handle bore the entire weight of two of the wings, and it took all his strength to turn it once, twice, his feet lifting off the platform with the effort. The wings began to beat ponderously, and the rate of their fall slowed. The dark mass of the ground was still rising to meet them, but it was hard to tell how soon they would land, or on what kind of terrain.

  “Brace yourselves,” panted Tenniel. The ground was suddenly near, a clutter of black shapes rushing up at them. Miles clenched his teeth and cranked harder. He had a blurred impression of slanting in toward trees or rocks; then everything was confusion. A tall shape loomed, a scatter of tiny figures fanned out in the blackness, something whipped past his face; then the world somersaulted with a splintering crash and a jolt of pain, and for a while there was . . .

  . . . nothing. Stars and snowflakes mingled at the corners of his vision, and Miles came to his senses slowly. His ribs ached and he felt like he had been worked over with a steak mallet.

  “Miles?” said Little. She was kneeling beside him in the long grass.

  “Are you okay?” said Miles.

  Little nodded. “I’m used to landing,” she said. She leaned forward. “Miles, Baltinglass needs your help.”

  Miles got gingerly to his feet. By the faint light of the moon he could just make out the explorer lying in the twisted wreckage of the flying machine. Tenniel was bending over him, hiccuping and fluttering his hands in a nervous way. He was more used to repairing machines than human bodies, and he moved aside with relief when Miles and Little approached.

  “That you, Master Miles?” said the old man.

  “It’s me,” said Miles. “Are you hurt?”

  “My leg,” said Baltinglass. “Not the one you fixed a few months back—I could kick my way through”—he paused to gather his breath—“through a barn door with that one, but the other one has snapped like a twig. Needs a splint, boy. Do you know how to make a splint?”

  Miles forced himself to look down at Baltinglass’s leg. It was stretched out straight enough, but his foot was at a strange angle, and it made Miles giddy just to look at it. He reached out toward the old man’s leg, but he was still dazed from the crash and he felt as though he would faint before he could achieve anything.

  “I don’t know if I can do this,” he muttered to Little.

  “Use the Egg,” she whispered. “Your grandmother said it helps to focus your power.”

  Miles looked at her, glad to distract himself from the broken leg for a moment. “She told me that. Were you listening at the door?”

  “Of course,” said Little. “That’s what doors are for, isn’t it? So people can’t see you listening.”

  Miles took Tangerine from his pocket. The small bear had survived the crash intact, having nothing much to break. Miles held him to his chest and reached out for Baltinglass’s leg. “This might hurt,” he said. He gripped the old man’s foot, feeling as if he were in a country without maps and wondering what exactly had triggered his healing powers when he had used them before. He closed his eyes and pictured the Tiger’s Egg that nestled inside Tangerine’s head. Now that he knew what it looked like he could see the deep amber stripes and the way they seemed to glow softly with a light of their own. He could hear a wordless echo of the tiger’s deep voice as though it lived in the Egg all the time, just waiting for someone to listen for it. The closer he listened, the more distant his surroundings became. The sound of the wind faded into the distance, and he felt light and cold to the very tips of . . .

  “Well done,” said Little, and the feeling dissipated in an instant, just as he felt it was gathering strength. He opened his eyes, feeling slightly irritated. A rumble of thunder sounded in the distance, and in the back of his mind he wondered if Silverpoint was on his way back with another storm to cover them.

  Baltinglass was sitting up, rubbing his leg and looking a great deal happier. “By the trunkless legs of Ozymandias, you’ve done it again, Master Miles,” he said. “That’s some party trick you’ve—”

  He was interrupted by another panicked shout from Tenniel. “Tiger!” yelled the inventor, who was undoubtedly seeing more excitement in a few short days than he had in the previous forty years. Miles looked around to see the tiger standing close beside him, his pelt dull and his ribs heaving with labored breathing. He was looking at Miles with a weary expression. “Here we are, then,” he said.

  “Hold him off, Master Miles,” called Baltinglass of Araby. “I’ll get me pistol, soon as I can find the blasted thing.”

  “No, you won’t,” said Miles with an effort. “It’s all right.”

  “Because you say so?” rumbled the tiger. “How do you know I wouldn’t prefer the bullet?”

  “It’s all right,” said Miles again. He tried to find a way to explain what he wanted to say. “You’re with me now. There’ll be no more of—”

  “With you, with them,” said the tiger, settling himself down in the grass with slow, painful movements. “Somewhere, nowhere. There are things going on that I don’t understand, but I know it’s no kind of life for a tiger.”

  “I won’t be asking for your help again,” said Miles, a lump forming in his throat.

  “I seem to remember you saying that before,” said the tiger.

  “I can stand on my own two feet now,” said Miles. “You’ve taught me to do that.”

  “You have had the benefit of my wisdom on many occasions,” agreed the tiger, and som
e of the old spirit came back into his voice. “We’ve had some entertaining jaunts.”

  “I wouldn’t be here at all if it weren’t for you,” said Miles with feeling. He was not sure if the tiger would know what he meant. He wasn’t sure he knew himself.

  The tiger held his eye for a long time. “What now?” he said. “Now that you can stand on your own two feet?”

  “I have to bring my father back.”

  “You mean that beast you keep at the orphanage?” said the tiger.

  “I think I may be able to cure him,” said Miles. He could not meet Varippuli’s eye as he said this, knowing that it might cost the magnificent tiger his life.

  “You are a stubborn boy, Miles,” said the tiger, “but a good heart and a quick mind make a virtue out of stubbornness. Your father never took the easy path, and I suspect you will do what is necessary, however hard it might seem.”

  Miles turned the tiger’s words over in his head. It seemed as though Varippuli understood on some level that Barty Fumble’s life was inextricably tied with his own, and it was almost as if he were excusing Miles for what was to come. A match flared nearby as Baltinglass lit his pipe. There was a growing murmur beyond him in the darkness too, a sort of agitated sound that Miles could not identify, but his head was already overflowing with confused thoughts, and he paid it no attention.

  He concentrated with difficulty on what he had to do. He could do nothing to make Lady Partridge or Nura arrive any sooner, nor to delay the Sleep Angels in their search, but at least he could try to free the Tiger’s Egg from the bounds of his mother’s promise, while he waited to see which of them reached him first. “Little,” he said, “I need you to fetch the Fir Bolg. See if you can find Fuat, daughter of Anust, and tell her I’ve come to fulfill Celeste’s promise.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  THE LIGHTNING KEY

  The Fir Bolg, night-dwelling and cave-pelted, crept slowly inward through the long grass, closing a circle that had pinged outward from the falling sky machine like grease from a drop of detergent. They had planned to take advantage of a dark and cloudy night for a major rabbit hunt to stock their winter larder, but they had hardly emerged from their caves when they were rudely interrupted by a bat-winged monster crashing right into their midst.

  The Fir Bolg were angry, and they bristled with spears. Their keen eyes could see four people among the wreckage. Two of them sat in the grass, one plainly hurt. The Fir Bolg were pleased about that. Two others stumbled about collecting the machine’s broken bones. They probably planned to make spears of them, and that would have to be prevented.

  The Fir Bolg crept closer, waiting for a decision to make itself. They had no leaders, but their number included many agile minds, and when those minds sparked together it was a sure thing that something would happen. What that something would be was never easy to predict, but it was those little surprises that put meat on the bones of life.

  A surprise came soon enough, but it was not one of the Fir Bolg’s making. A tiger appeared, bold as the moon, and sat himself down to discourse with the people who had tumbled from the machine. He did not behave as tigers were supposed to. There was no roaring, and none of the people present disappeared down his throat.

  “The Pookahs are abroad tonight,” whispered Fuat, daughter of Anust, daughter of Etar, to all those who could hear. “I feel them in my waters, but they have brought with them trickier tricks than usual. A bat made of wood and iron, and a tiger with no appetite are strange things whatever way you toast them.”

  “It’s likely that we’ll never have a hunt without this vexation,” whispered a small man whose hair was festooned with brass beads that rattled as he moved.

  “It’s true,” said Fuat, “but you can aim a spear at a tiger and not at a Pookah, and that may be the weakness in their plan.”

  The other man took this as an invitation to display his skills with a spear, and he drew back his arm to take aim at the tiger. Before he could throw his spear, however, a light flared in the small circle of wreckage, causing him to drop the weapon and screw his eyes shut. The other Fir Bolg flinched too, and covered their eyes. The light was still a curse to them, and this had been the main topic under discussion before the interruption had fallen out of the sky. Where was the boy who bore the promise? Where was the son of Celeste, who had escaped them without returning the Tiger’s Egg or lifting from them the burden of the darkness?

  Fuat, daughter of Anust, tilted her head to one side and regarded the tiger as the painful burst of light faded. There was a lesson in the animal’s strange behavior, and she would shake it out like a dog shaking a rat. If the tiger was not eating the people, then the people had power over the tiger, and that could mean only one thing. She stood up from her crouched position and raised above her head the switch that she always carried. “Tawn tUv Reevoch onsho,” she cried. “The Tiger’s Egg is here!”

  Baltinglass of Araby, dread-cold and ground-rattled, sat in the long grass and held a match to his pipe. It might be the last smoke he would ever have, and his hand shook as he lit the tobacco. He had always been a great believer in looking on the bright side, but for the first time since his blindness he was finding it hard to remember what a bright side looked like. The boy would be all right, he told himself, and with luck that banana-smelling beast would somehow turn back into his father. The girl had charm enough to open any door she chose, and Tenniel no longer stalked accusingly through his nightmares. All in all things seemed poised to work out for the best, at least for everyone else.

  “And for me?” he muttered under his breath. “‘Power grows from two to three.’ Better to go out in a blaze of fire, Baltinglass. Fading away in a hospital cot is not for the likes of you.”

  “Did you say something?” said Miles, but before Baltinglass could answer, a shout like a crow’s call pierced the darkness. The shadows erupted and a host of small, hairy figures surrounded them, jabbering loudly and pointing sharp sticks in their direction. The tiger leaped to his feet with a roar and swung to face their ambushers. Miles slipped Tangerine into his pocket and shouted, “Down!” at Varippuli. It was hardly the most dignified command you could give a tiger, but he was too flustered to think of anything better, and it worked nonetheless.

  The nearest Fir Bolg shrank back quickly, but the tiger did not attack, merely gave another loud roar as a warning to any of the little men who might feel inclined to try their luck. Baltinglass of Araby, meanwhile, had leaped to his feet and was brandishing his swordstick in the other direction, although Miles was relieved to see that he did not seem to have located his pistol.

  “It’s all right; I know them,” said Miles. He was not at all sure it was all right, but it seemed that one of his principal jobs as expedition leader was to try to stop fights from breaking out at every available opportunity.

  A tiny tattooed woman stepped forward and peered closely at him. “You are Celeste’s boy,” she said. “Fuat remembers you, and the promise your mother made . . . and your own tricky escape, which impressed us greatly but angered us too.”

  “That’s what I wanted to talk to you about,” said Miles, feeling slightly flustered now that he was faced with Fuat herself. A fat raindrop landed smack in the middle of his forehead, and another on his arm.

  “Did you bring the answer your mother was seeking?” asked Fuat. “Can you fulfill her promise to the Fir Bolg?”

  “I hope so,” said Miles. Some of the Fir Bolg had begun to chant in the surrounding darkness, banging their spear butts on the turf. Distant lightning flickered, and the prospect that the storm might move closer only made them more agitated.

  “Someone’s coming!” said Little, just as Miles reached into his pocket for Tangerine. He turned to see a pair of dim yellow headlights bouncing across the field toward them. Miles could see the dark outline of a van behind the headlights, but to his surprise it looked far larger than the old police van he had been expecting to see. It turned slightly as it skidded to a halt, and
the Fir Bolg broke into an angry clamor as the headlights raked across them. With a jolt of fear Miles caught a glimpse of curling circus decorations painted on the side of the van. It must be the Great Cortado’s van, but was Nura in it, and was she alone? He forgot all about the Fir Bolg, and held his breath as he waited to see who would emerge from the van.

  The Fir Bolg’s chanting grew louder and the rain began to pelt down, lit up in slanted circles by the dim headlights. The van doors opened and slammed, and three figures ran toward them. Miles frowned in puzzlement. They looked too sprightly for Tau-Tau, too small to be Nura, and too curly for the Great Cortado. With a wave of relief Miles recognized them as the Bolsillo brothers, though they were the last people he had been expecting to see.

  “What are you doing here?” he shouted over the rain and the chanting.

  “We heard you were having a spot of trouble,” said Fabio, as though he were a roadside mechanic.

  “We were just sitting down to breakfast when Silverpoint showed up,” said Gila.

  “We had to eat it in the van,” said Umor.

  “I lost half of mine out of the window when we went over a bump,” said Gila.

  “Anyway, we’ve brought The Null,” said Fabio.

  “And Lady Partridge,” said Umor.

  “You owe me two rashers,” said Gila.

  Fuat gave Fabio’s wrist a flick with her switch. “You have brought light with you, lah-far,” she said sharply, her head turned away from the feeble headlights.

  “Sorry!” said Fabio. “Gila, turn off the lights.”

  Gila ran back to switch off the van lights, and Fabio smiled broadly at the assembled Fir Bolg, who had stopped chanting for a moment but were not looking any happier.