Skyborn

by Sinéad O'Hart

  “D’you reckon you can give your memories to other people?” he said, the words stretching around a yawn. “Y’know. When you die or whatever. Do your memories, or your dreams maybe, sort of go up into the air an’ wait there for someone else’s head to settle into?”

  Alice gave him a quizzical look. “I’ve never thought about it,” she said. “Why do you ask?”

  Bastjan licked his lips, searching for the right way to say what was on his mind. “Mum’s box,” he finally said. “I think it’s makin’ me see things. The bracelet ’specially. It’s like it puts memories in my ’ead or somethin’. I can’t explain it.”

  Alice frowned thoughtfully. “I had a doll of my mum’s which I had to put in a drawer eventually, because I couldn’t bear to look at it. It made me sad, you know, because I had so few memories of my mother. Or my dad. All I had was this blank-eyed thing, staring at me across the room, and I was supposed to love it because it had been hers.” She stopped suddenly, as though afraid she’d shared too much. “Anyway,” she finished. “Thinking about people you’ve lost can do funny things to your brain.”

  Bastjan sighed. “Yeah. Maybe,” he said. “I’ll try gettin’ some kip, an’ we’ll see. Things always look different in the mornin’, eh? An’ listen. I’m sorry about your folks.”

  Alice gave him a smile. “Sleep well.”

  “You too,” Bastjan whispered as she climbed back into her hammock. “An’ you too an’ all, Mum,” he added, tapping the lid of the box with one finger before sliding it back into its hiding place beneath his pillow.

  “G’night, you pair,” murmured Crake, making Bastjan jump. Alice’s head popped up out of her hammock, her tousled hair barely hiding her surprised grin, and Crake chuckled.

  “Can’t keep nothin’ to yerself in this place,” Bastjan grouched, before blowing out the light.

  “What’s this slop, then?” Bastjan muttered, slipping into his seat beside Crake. In his hand he had a bowl of too-thick gruel. It looked like a grey worm curled in the bottom of the bowl and seemed about as appetizing. The atmosphere in the mess tent was subdued. There was no sound of bacon frying, no smells of kippers or toasted crumpets in the air, and the other performers sat in sullen clumps, with barely anyone attempting to make conversation.

  “The boss wasn’t jokin’ about savin’ money, I s’pose,” Crake said, poking at his own breakfast. “Here,” he whispered, leaning close. “Save some of yer bread for Alice. I don’t think she’d be too fond of this stuff.”

  Bastjan grimaced. The bread was probably the only edible part of the meal, but he slipped it into his pocket and hefted his spoon, ready to tackle the gruel. He was barely halfway through it when the flap to the mess tent was knocked aside and the ringmaster himself strode through, flanked by three of his burliest rousties. Bastjan swallowed his sticky mouthful and sat to attention.

  “Morning, folks,” Quinn greeted them. Instantly, the low buzz in the tent fell silent. “I’m here to give you all a warning. I’m about to conduct a thorough search of the campground, my friends. I’m not looking for contraband or anything of the sort—” Quinn raised his hands against the sudden flood of muttering coming from every corner of the tent and slowly it died away. “I don’t care what you’ve got hidden in your cubbyholes and stuffed inside your socks. I’m looking for something in particular and when I find it I’ll leave you in peace. All right? I simply wanted to let you know, so that nobody’s left wondering why things might be in a bit of disarray when you get back to your wagons.” Quinn nodded at his rousties, who turned and marched out of the tent.

  Someone near the door piped up with a question, and while Quinn was distracted Crake took the opportunity to lean back on his bench, pulling up the side of the mess tent with one huge hand. “Now,” he whispered to Bastjan, all the while keeping his eyes on the ringmaster. The boy was gone in a blink.

  Got to get to Alice, an’ get ’er out of sight, Bastjan told himself. An’ the box!

  Skirting the back of the mess tent, he took advantage of the rubbish heap to hide his progress, gritting his teeth against the smell, and kept his ears tuned to the sound of approaching rousties. His blood froze at the first whistle; they were talking to one another in their code, the secret language that only they understood. He muttered under his breath and kept going, breaking cover as he reached the first wagon. He crouched behind it, watching for movement – and finally he spotted the rousties. The men paused at the top of the campground before splitting up, each one going in a different direction.

  A tall roustie with close-cropped black hair looked at the wagon Bastjan was hiding behind and made a move towards it. Bastjan waited, letting the man reach the wagon’s front steps, and then he grabbed hold of the downpipe. Quickly, silently, hand over hand, he hauled himself up on to the wagon’s roof. He kept low, flattening himself against the canvas, his heart thumping against his ribs.

  Soundlessly, Bastjan inched forwards until he could look down into the wagon through its skylight. The roustie was searching the interior, shaking out pillows and cushions, feeling beneath the mattress, going through drawers. A quick glance out into the campground told him the other rousties were going over their wagons just as thoroughly.

  Bastjan took a couple of deep breaths and rolled to the edge of the wagon’s roof. He swung his body out, holding on to the gutter with his strong hands. Then he pushed away with one foot, landing lightly on the ground. He sprinted to the cover of the next wagon, stopping at its back wheel to take stock of the camp. Nothing stirred besides a skinny dog poking about near the fire.

  Before he could lose his nerve, Bastjan took off again, crouching in the mud behind the back wheel of the next wagon.

  This really is a proper goin’ over, he thought, his eyes skipping from wagon to wagon. He’s determined to find this box, an’ I can’t let ’im have it. I can’t let anyone ’ave it.

  The next wagon was Magnus Ólafsson’s, the one after that was Ana and Carmen’s. And the one after that was his and Crake’s, across a slightly wider gap. He sucked his teeth in frustration; he’d be out in the open for a dangerously long time.

  Just as he prepared to move, a roustie emerged from a wagon halfway across the camp. The man whistled and the signal was repeated as the other rousties appeared in the doorways of the wagons they’d just searched. Each man moved to the next wagon over and Bastjan waited for a few moments before bolting from his hiding place.

  He skidded and fell at the back of Magnus’s wagon, landing with a splash in a pool of muddy water. He glanced up and noticed an open window, through which he could hear a gentle snore. Magnus didn’t usually take breakfast with the others, preferring instead to sleep late. Please, he begged. Don’t wake up an’ give me away. Bastjan held his breath as Magnus’s snoring stopped. He didn’t exhale until it started again, ten long heartbeats later.

  He crept around the back of Magnus’s wagon, before sprinting across the gap to Ana and Carmen’s. He was halfway there when the rousties reappeared and Bastjan slid forwards, landing in the thick mud beside the back wheels. He scuttled beneath the sisters’ wagon, peering out from behind the front wheel, to get a proper look at the camp.

  The rousties had gathered at the fire, too far away for him to hear what they were saying to one another. They seemed to be passing something between them, a bottle, and one of the men threw back his head and laughed, loudly enough to carry to Bastjan’s ears. The boy held his breath as he thought about what to do next. He had no choice but to run, but he knew he had to time it just right. If he was seen, everything would be wasted.

  “What’s the problem?” bellowed a voice to his left. Bastjan slowly turned to look – though he’d recognized the voice straightaway. The ringmaster was coming, striding up the path that led from the mess tent. “I told you to check the boy’s wagon first and here I find you lollygagging.” The rousties stood to attention and the one holding the bottle – prob’ly stolen jus’ now from someone’s wagon, Bastjan thought
– put it behind his back in the vain hope that he wouldn’t be caught with it.

  Bastjan slowly got to his haunches. He had to move or Alice was a goner. He checked behind him, but the way was clear. Then, with one final glance at the ringmaster, who was subjecting his rousties to a tirade, Bastjan ran, keeping as low as he could. Finally, he reached the back of his own wagon.

  He leaped on to the footboard and rapped, one-two-three, on the windowpane, their code to let Alice know it was safe to open up. A second later, she pulled the curtain back, her face bright, and unlocked the window. She had his mother’s notebook in her hand and she was sprawled on Crake’s bunk. Bastjan looked in; the contents of the box were spread on Crake’s coverlet, the empty box beside them.

  “Bastjan, your mum’s book is so interesting!” Alice began eagerly, pushing open the window. “She’s talking all about—”

  “It’ll ’ave to wait till later,” Bastjan said. “C’mon. Pack up the stuff. We gotta go.”

  Alice’s smile vanished. “Go? Where?”

  “Out of ’ere. Come on! Quinn’s lookin’ for the box.”

  Alice did as she was asked without any further questions. Faintly, Bastjan heard the rousties’ whistles and his eyes widened in fear. Alice heard it too and her fingers trembled as she struggled to push the box’s contents back inside it. She slapped the lid shut and Bastjan reached in to take her hand.

  He hauled her through the window and helped her, one leg at a time, out on to the footboard, then they jumped together into the muck. Hand in hand, they made straight for the long grass behind the wagon. They trudged in as far as they could, hoping their tracks wouldn’t be noticed, and then they crouched low.

  Seconds later, the children saw the ringmaster enter the wagon. They’d closed the window behind them, but left the curtain open, and they had a clear view right through the tiny space.

  “You got everythin’?” Bastjan whispered, watching as Quinn looked around his home.

  Alice nodded. Then her eyes widened. “Wares,” she breathed. “Oh no!”

  “What? Where is ’e?”

  “Somewhere in the camp,” Alice said. “But if he smells us, he might give us away.”

  Bastjan looked back at the wagon. It shook a little as the ringmaster strode around inside. He thought of his wall of pictures and imagined the look on the ringmaster’s face when he saw it.

  “Forget about the dog,” he said. “Let’s just hope Quinn gives up quick an’ leaves my things in peace.”

  “Thanks for coming to get me,” Alice whispered, squeezing Bastjan’s hand.

  “Ain’t nothin’ to thank me for,” he said. “If you was caught, we’d all be for it. Quinn would ’ave the box, an’ I’d never see it again.”

  “I was reading about the Slipskins when you knocked on the window,” Alice said. “I was right – they are shapeshifters. Your mum said everyone on the island knew the stories. And they lived in the Silent City, but it was because they’d been forced there. Hunted and persecuted by humans.” Alice paused, taking a long breath. “Anyway. The bracelet has something to do with their shapeshifting power. Your mum didn’t know what, exactly.”

  “Fascinatin’,” Bastjan muttered. “I jus’ wonder what everyone wants with this box. The more I’m learnin’ about what’s in it, the less good it all sounds.”

  “I was thinking about that too,” Alice said. “D’you remember how your mum said that the bracelet had helped her to fly, but that she’d kept it for too long?”

  Bastjan shrugged. “Not really. But if you say so.”

  “Well, mightn’t that mean that a person who wore the bracelet got some of the Slipskin’s powers? Maybe? It’s a theory I’m working on,” she finished, her cheeks turning pink.

  Bastjan considered this. “Sounds like a reason for stealin’ it, don’t it?”

  Alice frowned. “Perhaps. Though why anyone would want—”

  “Shh!” Bastjan put a finger to his lips. Quinn strode out of the front door of the wagon and spat on the ground. He scrubbed at his forehead with one hand, his mouth tight with anger. A roustie jogged over to him, holding a wooden box in his hands.

  “Found this in Lady Z’s, sir,” he said, handing it to the ringmaster. Quinn snatched it and flipped open its flimsy catch, before stirring through its contents with a finger. Then he upended the box, scattering its contents on the ground.

  “Tat,” he said, grinding Lady Zenobia’s jewellery beneath the heel of his boot. He flung the box away. “Rubbish! This isn’t what I’m looking for. The box I want has got a fish on the lid, man. It can’t be that hard to spot.”

  “Yes, sir,” said the roustie.

  “Any luck with those books I sent you to find?” Quinn said.

  The roustie seemed visibly relieved. “Yes, sir. Left ’em in your wagon. I could get all of ’em besides one, sir.” The man fumbled in his pocket for a piece of paper, which he unfolded. “The Physio-ol-ology and Anatomy of Rare Species, Midsea and North Afrik Region, by Martin J. Widget. Bookshop fella said it would have to be ordered in.”

  “Good work.” Quinn slapped the roustie on the back. “That’s something, at least. Got to play these toffs at their own game, don’t we?”

  “Yes, sir,” said the roustie.

  Alice and Bastjan looked at one another as the men walked into the centre of camp.

  “Rare species,” Alice whispered.

  “From the Midsea. An’ North Afrik,” Bastjan continued. “In’t that where Melita is?”

  Alice nodded. “You don’t think…”

  “I dunno what to think,” Bastjan said. “Din’t even think Quinn could read, never mind a book like that. I wonder what else I’ve bin wrong about.”

  “Well, it looks like he’s doing his homework on this box,” Alice said, giving it a squeeze. “So we’ll have to try to keep one step ahead of him for as long as we can.”

  “Yeah,” Bastjan said. “An’ stay out of his way, an’ all.”

  “And what about Bauer?” Alice asked. “He’ll be back in a few weeks.”

  Bastjan glanced back at his wagon. He wondered what it might feel like to roll it out of this camp, away from everyone he had ever known. Might ’ave to roll it all the way to Melita. “I’m workin’ on that one,” he told her. “I’ll let you know when I got a plan.”

  “Look at that,” Bastjan whispered to Alice. They were sitting in Bastjan’s favourite place behind the scenes, a spot high in the rigging with a perfect view of the ring. There were sturdy planks to sit on, a handy metal bar to lean against and acres of empty space perfect for leg-swinging. They’d even smuggled up some snacks – half a bottle of warm lemonade, some squashed chocolate which still tasted fine, and a bag of roasted peanuts.

  “Look at what?” Alice replied, the words muffled through her mouthful of food. She had one hand free to feed herself peanuts; the other held Wares carefully by the collar, keeping his inquisitive nose away from the chocolate.

  “The crowd,” he said, as if it was obvious. “The place is really fillin’ up tonight.”

  “I heard there was a new headline act,” Alice said, popping in another handful of peanuts. “Some kid in a ring?” She threw Bastjan a grin. Tonight was the night he was to make his debut.

  The circus had left St Wycombe several days before, moving a few miles down the road as they gradually made their way to London. Bastjan and Nanette had been practising every moment they got and she had finally pronounced him ready to fly. Earlier that morning, someone had been dispatched to the nearest printers’ to run off some handbills and posters. Alice had one tucked into the pocket of her coat. It showed a child in a silver hoop, with eye-catching words over his head – the Skyborn Boy. As soon as she could, she was going to stick it on the wall of his wagon, right beside the pictures of the Flying Girl.

  Bastjan returned the grin. “Maybe if we start gettin’ our audience back, it’ll solve a few problems at once,” he said. “Might be no need for Bauer, that ol’ mushroom
head, to bail us out.”

  “I hope his airship runs out of steam in the middle of the ocean,” Alice said, with feeling. “And that he never comes anywhere near us again.”

  “Knowin’ our luck, he’s prob’ly in the audience somewhere,” Bastjan said darkly. “Keep yer eyes peeled.”

  Alice, alarmed, looked back out at the crowd and Bastjan took his opportunity to raid her peanut bag. He managed to grab a handful before she pulled the bag away and he crammed them into his mouth, chuckling, as he got to his feet. It was time for him to head to the performers’ area – the Runner Beans were up soon. Down below, the circus band was beginning to play and the clowns were gambolling into the ring. Ana and Carmen would be ready to go on after them, aboard their polished-pearl ponies, and then Bastjan would join the rest of his troupe for his first performance of the evening.

  “Make sure to stay out of sight, yeah?” he said. He was already on the ladder leading to the ground. “We don’t want anythin’ like yesterday to happen again.”

  Alice gave him an apologetic look. She’d taken to lying on the roof of Bastjan and Crake’s wagon during the day, just in case the ringmaster decided to spring any more no-warning searches. She’d found a good hiding place behind some of the ornate scrolling woodwork that decorated the roof’s edges, but the day before, lost in reading the notebook, she’d glanced up and noticed a roustie on the far side of the campsite look in her direction for a too-long moment. She’d quickly flopped down, throwing the blanket over her head, and when she’d looked up again the roustie was gone. But she hadn’t been able to shake the fear that she’d been seen.

  “Nobody knows I’m even up here, right? Wares and I’ll take good care of your mum’s things. Won’t we, boy?” She patted the dog and threw him a peanut, which he crunched happily.

  “See you afterwards, then,” he said, and was gone.