Skyborn

by Sinéad O'Hart

  He glanced at the bracelet, which he’d left lying on his bed, and picked it up again. Letting the woven hair thread through his fingers, he began to wonder how something which might have belonged to the creature in the picture, whoever or whatever it was, had ended up among his mother’s things. A few moments later, a thudding, bright-red pain began behind his eyes and his head filled with a sound like distant screaming, the agony in it so palpable that it made his heart race and his skin pucker into gooseflesh. The stink of burning filled his nostrils and he was overcome with fear and the desperate need to run…

  He grimaced, his eyes closing of their own accord, and fumbled the bracelet back into the box. Almost instantly, everything ebbed away. As his pulse began to slow, Bastjan opened his eyes and stared at the bracelet. Memories? His brain thudded at the impossible thought. Did that thing put memories in my ’ead, memories that ain’t mine?

  A gentle knock sounded on the door. Before he could hide his mother’s belongings, the top half of the door was pulled open a crack and Crake peered through.

  “All well, lad?” he asked.

  Bastjan hesitated, wondering when – or how – to start telling Crake what he’d just experienced, but the strongman was distracted. Crake glanced over his shoulder, looking troubled, and then met Bastjan’s eye.

  “We need you at the tent. The boss has called a gatherin’.” Crake sighed. “And he has a head on him like a hammer, so you’d better hurry.”

  Bastjan simply nodded. Ain’t no point tryin’ to talk about somethin’ that don’t make no sense, anyway. He quickly gathered up his mother’s treasures and replaced the box, his lips pressed tight with worry. I’m comin’ back fer you before Quinn sends me away, he told it, before settling the pillow over it once more. Then, together, he and Crake slipped out into the evening.

  “This isn’t right!” a voice was calling as Bastjan and Crake entered the big top. It belonged to Zenobia, her tattoos mostly covered by her shawl, and her dyed red hair hidden beneath a headwrap. “You can’t cancel shows, Mr Quinn! It brings bad luck!”

  There was a rumble of agreement among the performers. Magnus Ólafsson was pacing along the back of the crowd. Ana and Carmen sat at the front, their faces twin pictures of concern. Gustav and Lily were perched on a pile of straw, looking thunderous. Nanette sat on the ground beside them and Jericho stood with his arms folded, glowering at the ringmaster. Christabel, the dog trainer, perched on a haybale nearby, looking awkward without the cloud of wagging tails that normally surrounded her. The other members of the Runner Beans were dotted between the adults, their attention mostly elsewhere.

  “I’ve got to tell you, Lady Z, if you think we don’t already have bad luck around here, you’ve not been paying attention,” the ringmaster replied. “I hope to change that bad luck, but I need you all behind me to do that.”

  “You don’t come from performing people,” said Atwood, a fire juggler. His son Clement stood beside him, holding a still-smoking firestick from their act. “With respect, Mr Quinn, we do. My father, Solomon Ebele, inherited his flying circus from his mother Ihuoma, an’ he was its ringmaster until the storm that brought down his fleet of airships in the Gulf of Guinea. I served under him nearly twenty years.” Atwood paused for a moment before continuing. “We have traditions, sir – customs. Asking us to break faith with them is like asking us to leave some of our family behind. It’s too much.”

  The ringmaster stared around at his troupe, sucking hard on his teeth as he took them all in. “Tradition, you say,” he began. “Customs.” He met Atwood’s eye and the fire juggler looked away. “I’ll give you customs, my friends. Or, rather, things you might be accustomed to. Like eating. And working. And gettin’ paid for your work.” He reached into the pocket of his waistcoat and drew out a piece of paper.

  “This here’s a letter,” he announced, “which I had the good fortune of receiving earlier this evening in Oxford. It’s no joke, trying to maintain correspondence with your friends and relations while you’re on the road in this line of work, as I’m sure I don’t have to tell any of you. But Oxford is one place where mail is held for me, and whenever I’m within travelling distance of that fine place I go and collect it. This letter concerns all of you, so listen up.” Quinn shook the letter open and held it at arm’s length. He cleared his throat and began to read.

  “My dear sir, et cetera, et cetera, I write in connection with your circus, of which I have heard some concerning reports of late, and to make inquiries after one of your former employees. I hope you will indulge me a question or two. I, like all who admired her, was very sad to hear of the loss of your star performer, Miss Ester Manduca—” at this, Bastjan stiffened. Crake placed one warm, heavy hand on his shoulder as Quinn continued speaking.

  “It pains me that your fine establishment has suffered such a downturn since her demise. In order to secure not only the future of the Quinn Family Circus, but also the individual futures of each and every artist and worker relying upon you, I am willing to forward you the sum of— Well,” Quinn said, breaking off and looking back up at his troupe. “The finer ins and outs of it won’t interest you.” He paused as he folded the letter again and tucked it back into his pocket. “Suffice it to say, this gentleman has offered to save our hides. He’s investing significant funds, in exchange for one or two favours on our end. One of those favours is our immediate departure for St Wycombe. So we leave tonight. I’ve telegrammed ahead. It’s all arranged.”

  There was a moment’s pause and then the tent erupted with noise.

  “What favours?” Crake bellowed. He wasn’t the only one asking that question. Bastjan looked around at his fellow performers, the fear and uncertainty on their faces making him nervous. He’d always assumed the circus would just be – that it would run and run forever. But now it seemed that things weren’t as solid as he’d thought.

  Quinn called for attention, his arms raised in an attempt to quell the noise. Eventually, the crowd began to settle, but the ringmaster waited until there was perfect silence before he spoke again.

  “You talked to me earlier about tradition,” he began, his voice low and dangerous, like something preparing to pounce. “You spoke about customs. I’m here trying to save the roof over your heads – over all your heads – and this is how you greet me on my return? What about the custom of respectin’ your ringmaster, eh? The tradition of followin’ his lead, pullin’ together as a team?”

  He stopped, rubbing his sweaty face with one broad hand. “I need all of you in your wagons by nightfall, an’ on the road by midnight. Our sponsor has a business trip overseas comin’ up in the next few days and he wants to see us in action before he sets off. So we’re goin’ to meet him in a place that suits him, which happens to be St Wycombe. And here’s the rest of it.” He relaxed his stance, folding his arms. “In order to mark this new era in the history of our circus, we’ll hold a Grand Parade when we reach the town, to announce our arrival in style. Just like the good old days.” He fixed a mirthless smile on his face, his lips drawn thin. “Perhaps that’ll be traditional enough for you.”

  Surprised murmuring greeted this pronouncement, and the ringmaster rolled his shoulders and began to pace back and forth as he waited for the troupe to finish their discussions.

  “What’s a Grand Parade?” Bastjan whispered to Crake.

  “We haven’t done one in years – not since you were tiny and your mother’s act was new, if I’m rememberin’ right,” the strongman replied. “As he says, they’re another performin’ tradition – you’d announce your arrival with a parade, maybe, or if you had a particularly impressive headline act you’d put one on to get the crowds in.” Crake paused. “But tradition also says that whatever happens durin’ the parade dictates the fortunes of the circus – so if somethin’ goes wrong, then the circus is doomed.”

  “But if everythin’ goes well, then it’s good news?” Bastjan said.

  Crake raised his eyebrows. “Somehow, nobody ever looks
at it that way.”

  “We accept,” Zenobia finally said, in a clear voice, straightening her shoulders and standing tall. “And we thank you for respecting the ways of the performing people, Mr Quinn. We’ll do a Grand Parade, in the hope that it will bring good luck to all of us.”

  “But one thing,” rumbled Atwood. “Who is this mysterious benefactor, sir? And what else does he want in return for his money?”

  “His name’s Bauer,” the ringmaster replied. “And if you want to keep yourself and your family warm and fed, that’s all you need to know about him, Atwood. As to what he wants in return for his money?” The ringmaster looked away and Bastjan flinched. He was sure that Quinn’s eyes had fallen on him, gimlet-sharp, for a too-long moment, before returning to Atwood. “That’s for me to worry about.”

  Bastjan watched as Quinn turned to speak to someone else. He was sure he hadn’t imagined the strange look the ringmaster had given him a moment before – and he couldn’t shake his fear that Quinn was trying to find a way to make good on his threat to leave him behind. Whatever you’re plannin’, he thought, you can forget it. I’m goin’ to become the most amazin’ high-wire act ever and then you’ll never be able to be rid o’ me. Something inside him roared as the ringmaster walked away into the shadows. This is my circus, Cyrus Quinn – an’ you ain’t takin’ it from me!

  In the shadows of a coal-dark railway tunnel, it was a quarter past midnight – and someone was wide awake.

  Or two someones, if you counted the dog.

  “Come on, Wares,” came a whisper. Wares the dog, his tongue hanging out at a jaunty angle, trotted along after the young girl who’d spoken. Both of them kept well away from the tracks as they walked, because – as the girl had learned quickly on joining the gang she was now attempting to flee – nobody lasted long in the Tunnellers if they couldn’t keep clear of the rails. As she hurried along, the girl found herself glad of Wares’s company even if, technically, he wasn’t her dog. He belonged to everyone and no one, having followed one of the other kids back to the tunnels one evening after a day spent singing for pennies on a street corner. Mrs Palmer, the woman who ran the gang, had never liked him; he’d been given his name, Wares, because Mrs P kept asking “Where’s the dog?” if she was in the mood to kick something. So, the girl supposed, it was no great surprise that the little dog would take the first chance he got to leave it all behind – though she hoped he wouldn’t abandon her as readily as he’d turned his tail on the Tunnellers.

  The girl was carrying a stolen lamp, along with several other things she’d lifted from Mrs Palmer’s private stash, way back in the dark tunnel. She wished she could stop for a moment and light it, but she was too close to the gang’s hideout. Instead, she was relying on the occasional faint gaslight on the tunnel wall to keep her from twisting her ankle. At least at this hour there were no trains to contend with – but there was an ever-present risk of railway workers doing who-knew-what in the quiet after-hours.

  “Come on, Alice,” the girl muttered to herself, shaking away the shadows. “Don’t tell me you’re afraid of the dark.”

  Alice knew she couldn’t risk being caught. Not only because it would land her right back at her grandfather’s door, but also because it would endanger all the children she’d left behind, sleeping in a side-chamber, huddled around the gang’s only other light. Mrs Palmer herself was out for the night, something so rare that Alice had never known it to happen before in all her months as part of the gang. If what the others said was true, Mrs P wouldn’t return until late the next morning, probably the worse for wear after a night spent drinking with others of her ilk. Alice was hopeful she’d be gone long before the woman even noticed her absence.

  Alice shuddered, blinking hard in the darkness to drive the image of Mrs P’s chalk-white face from her mind. Mrs P, when she was in the mood for it, doted on some of the children, particularly the younger ones, allowing them to call her ‘mother’. Then, when her mood turned, as it inevitably did, she’d beat those same children for daring to show her affection. It hadn’t taken Alice long to realize a burning hatred for her and she’d been plotting escape ever since. But for so many of the other children in the gang, right beside Mrs P was where they wanted to be – they’d never known anything else.

  As to what she planned to do when she reached the tunnel’s end, Alice had no idea. It would be better, she reasoned, to stay away from the trains. The Tunnellers lived and worked along the railway, begging and singing and doing odd jobs for pence, as well as picking the occasional pocket, all the way between Oxford and Paddington station in London. Alice hoped that by steering clear of the tracks she’d stay out of their way for long enough to be forgotten about.

  But she’s not going to forget a girl who steals. Alice slipped her hand into her secret pocket and ran a fingertip over its contents – some old costume jewellery, a fistful of largely worthless coins, and a large gold ring, a memento from a long-ago wedding, possibly even Mrs Palmer’s own, though Alice had never heard any mention of a Mr Palmer. Alice was planning to pawn the ring at her first opportunity, hoping Mrs Palmer had treasured it for a reason. It’ll be enough to get me started. But, Alice realized, also enough to put Mrs Palmer on her trail. One thing Mrs P couldn’t abide was thievery, but only when someone was stealing from her. Stealing things from other people was how the Tunnellers kept food in their own bellies, and grog in Mrs Palmer’s.

  “And that’s not even considering how I’m going to feed you,” Alice whispered to Wares. He trotted along ahead of her, sniffing at anything that was remotely suspicious-looking, damp, or furry with mould, and cocking his leg against the tunnel wall every few hundred yards. For the first time in too long, Alice felt the beginnings of a grin tickling her face as she watched him.

  Up ahead, the tunnel was coming to an end. Her lungs ached for fresh air and her eyes for the light of the lamp. She picked up her pace, hoping not to trip – not now, not in the last few feet before freedom – and then she was out.

  She fell to her knees, placing the lamp on the ground, and dug her fingers through the gravel by the track as she breathed. Wares licked her cheek. She picked the wriggling dog up in one arm and got to her feet. Well, Grandfather, she thought. What do you think of me now? Part of her almost wished he were here, just so she could see his face, but she knew there was no chance of that. Alice had run to the tunnels because she knew her grandfather would never, could never, think of looking for her there.

  Beside her rose the embankment next to the railway line. She let Wares make his own way up and she scrambled after him, grabbing handfuls of grass to pull herself to the top. She took stock of her surroundings. There was a wide road, with tall, dark-windowed houses on the far side. The pavement running along in front of the houses was dotted with gaslights. Oxford and her grandfather’s house, with its quiet, polished corridors, its locked doors and its frowning disapproval, was to her right; to her left lay the unknown. So, Alice told herself, that only leaves me with one choice. She looked down the dark empty road to her left, wondering how far she could get on foot before daybreak.

  Suddenly, Wares began to growl.

  “Shush, silly,” Alice whispered, but the dog ignored her. He was looking towards the city, his body poised to attack – and then Alice saw what the dog had smelled. Something’s coming!

  She dropped to the ground, scrambling down a few feet to hang precariously off the top of the embankment. In her haste she dropped the lamp; it rolled to the bottom and landed with a smash beside the railway line. Wares gave a sharp bark. Alice looked back towards the road and her mouth dropped open in surprise. She pulled Wares close as they watched.

  Horses, some wearing plumes, pulling the biggest and most impressive carriages and wagons she’d ever seen – and there were so many of them. They kept coming, the caravan of wagons continuing for what felt like miles.

  Finally, like a smoke-puffing dragon, a huge steam engine brought up the rear of the procession. It was pull
ing a long trailer with high sides, and as it passed, Alice read the words Quinn Family Circus painted on it in letters three-feet tall. It lumbered slowly along after the rest of the procession, and Alice’s pulse quickened. The trailer was moving slowly enough for her to catch up with it – if she was brave enough.

  With Wares at her heels, she pulled herself up on to the road just as the steam engine passed by. The trailer might have had high sides, but it was open at the back, and sticking out were several huge rolls of canvas and tarpaulin, some with wide red stripes. The big top! Alice marvelled at it, her eyes wide. Grandfather had brought her to the circus once, years before, back when she still thought he loved her, but she pushed that memory away.

  Her eye was caught by a light coming on in the window of one of the tall houses on the far side of the road. Perhaps a child had woken in the night, disturbed by the sound of the passing circus. The curtain in the window twitched, and Alice realized someone was about to look out into the night. That someone might also see her. She was a good way from her grandfather’s house, but he knew everyone – and she doubted there was a single soul in the whole city who’d forget her face. I can’t take the chance they might recognize me, she told herself. Go, now!

  Alice hurried after the slow-moving trailer and lifted Wares on to it. Then, using a strap attached to one of the canvas rolls, she hauled herself up, finding a place to hide among the pieces of the downed big top. And as they rolled away from the only life she’d ever known – first with her grandfather, and then with Mrs P – Alice breathed a huge sigh of relief.

  The order for pegs-up had come just before midnight, as the ringmaster had instructed, and the circus convoy rolled through Oxford and away. Bastjan kneeled on Crake’s bunk, his elbows on the window ledge and his chin resting in his palms, and watched their slow progress through the open window.