Skyborn

by Sinéad O'Hart

  “Not so fast, lad,” came a voice, and Bastjan looked up. Crake’s shaggy head appeared over the boundary wall. Bastjan didn’t have enough breath to speak, but he reached for Crake’s arms as the man stretched to catch him. “I’ve got ya.” Crake hauled the quivering boy over the wall and on to a patch of grass beside the road. Bastjan felt Wares’s warm tongue licking his grubby cheeks, and tried to give the dog a pat.

  “Alice,” Bastjan gasped, forcing air into his chest. “Whoop. We gotta go back an’ get ’er.”

  “Don’t you worry,” Crake muttered, picking Bastjan up and slinging him over the horse, Wares beside him. The horse was snorting and rolling her eyes, disturbed by the barking and shouting from the farmyard. Crake leaped into the saddle behind Bastjan and urged the horse into a canter, and then a gallop.

  “No!” Bastjan said as they set off down the road – away from the farm. “Crake, we can’t leave ’er!”

  “I amn’t leavin’ that child anywhere,” Crake said, bringing the horse into a tight turn as they reached the oak tree. “Now,” he whispered, once they were facing the farm once more. “Come on, girl. Let’s fly.”

  They galloped up the road and between the gateposts. Bastjan flattened himself against the horse’s neck, keeping one arm round Wares’s trembling body. At a wordless command from Crake, the horse sailed over the locked gate and landed heavily, skidding a little on the farmyard cobbles. She reared slightly at a new obstacle – a herd of cows, their udders heavy and ready for milking.

  “Hyah!” Crake said, urging the horse forwards. She picked her way between the cattle, turning her head nervously from side to side. The cows moved away, surging to the far side of the farmyard, their desperate mooing intensifying.

  “Come on, lad,” Crake said, sliding off the horse’s back. He reached up to help Bastjan and Wares down, and then all three were running towards the milking parlour. Bastjan’s breaths began to twist again as he saw the door standing open, the heavy wooden bar which kept it locked thrown carelessly on the ground. He stared into the gloom, his heart thudding.

  “Alice!” he shouted. “Alice!”

  “So that’s ’er name, is it,” came a voice. A lantern flared into life and Mythen stepped forward, holding it high. “She wouldn’t tell me what she were called, despite my askin’ nicely.”

  Mythen’s other hand came into view. He was holding Alice by the arm, and her face was pinched and pale. She looked at Bastjan and Crake with tear-filled eyes.

  “Let these children go,” Crake rumbled, his huge hands open as he took a step towards the farmer. “An’ we’ll hear no more about this.”

  “No more about it?” Mythen spat. He dragged Alice through the milking parlour door and out into the yard. “You’re all a bunch of thievin’ louts! I’ll ’ave the lot of you strung up for this, you mark my words. Elspeth!” he shouted. “Bring my rifle!”

  Crake’s open hands turned into fists. Alice looked at Bastjan, both of them fearful.

  From the farmhouse, a voice was heard. “Ivor!” it called. “Ivor Mythen, that is enough!” The door of the farmhouse opened, spilling light across the cobbles of the farmyard.

  Farmer Mythen faltered. Mrs Mythen, holding a long-barrelled gun and with some sort of bundle beneath her other arm, strode down the garden path and through the gate, not stopping until she stood in front of her husband. She waved the gun menacingly at the air in front of his chest and he took a step back.

  “Let that girl go,” the woman said. “Let ’er go, Ivor.”

  Mythen threw Alice away from him and she almost landed in the gutter. Bastjan hurried to help her up.

  “Elspeth, what on earth—” the farmer sputtered, as Alice and Bastjan carefully made their way towards Crake.

  “Get into that house, you,” Mrs Mythen growled at her husband, jabbing at the air with the gun. “An’ leave these people to their business.”

  “But they’re stealin’!” the farmer said, almost petulantly.

  “An’ what do you think you did, buyin’ that child?” his wife retorted. “You’ve been takin’ children from their rightful places long enough. Every child you’ve brought here has had people who loved ’em, just like I loved our lad!” Mrs Mythen’s words stumbled and she let out a sob. “This is just the first time that someone has come lookin’ for one of ’em. And let me tell you one more thing, Ivor.”

  She took a step closer, the gun steady, and Farmer Mythen took a step back. “Just because our Joe ran away – ran away from you – doesn’t mean you can take other people’s sons away from them. You stole that boy from his family, an’ now they’re takin’ him back.”

  The farmer stood, stunned, as his wife turned to Crake and the children. She lowered the weapon and took the bundle from beneath her arm, pressing it against Bastjan’s chest. He looked down as he took the bundle into his arms; it was a cloth bag, its top flap open to reveal dry clothes. They smelled clean.

  “Be off with the lot of you,” Mrs Mythen said. Her eyes glittered with tears. “Quickly, so the cows don’t get out. Don’t forget that sorry-lookin’ horse, an’ I hope I never see hide nor hair of any of you again.”

  “Thank you,” Bastjan said, nodding at Mrs Mythen, and she nodded back.

  “Goodbye, our Joe,” she whispered. “An’ good luck.”

  Under cover of darkness, Crake, Alice, Wares and Bastjan made their way back to the circus camp. They needed a fresh horse and somewhere to get Bastjan warm and dry. It was near midnight by the time they rode into the campground; Jericho, Lady Z, and Gustav and Lily were dotted around the campfire, passing a bottle around along with their stories of the circus in its heyday. They were all glad to see Bastjan’s safe return, but when they learned the boy wasn’t staying, a despondent mood settled over the site once more. Even Lady Z’s tattoos seemed subdued. One by one they peeled off to their wagons, leaving Crake and the children alone.

  A pot was found, filled with water and heated over the campfire, and Alice, Crake and Bastjan washed until the stink of the farmyard was almost gone. Bastjan pulled the clean, dry clothes from the bag Mrs Mythen had given him and found, tucked at the bottom, a paper-wrapped parcel of food and a small amount of money in a purse.

  “Soon as we can get a fresh horse, we should get movin’,” he said, as they shared out the food. “We got to get to London, quick as we can. I ain’t lettin’ Quinn leave with my mum’s box, no matter what.” The fire licked the night air silently for a moment or two as a thoughtful hush fell over the group.

  Then Alice spoke, her voice quiet. “I know the quickest way to get to London,” she said. “The train.”

  Crake brightened. “There’s an idea! St Wycombe station ain’t too far. An’ I’m sure we’ll find a line that goes to the city.”

  “We will,” said Alice, who already knew exactly which train, and from what platform. Chances are, the place will be bristling with Tunnellers. And when we get to London, there’ll be no chance of avoiding them – or Mrs P. She shuddered. Mrs Palmer, Alice knew, would be in the city. Everythin’ washes up in London eventually, she’d often said, and Alice was sure that’s where the search for her would be focused. But London’s a big place, Alice told herself, pushing away her fears.

  Crake gave her a thoughtful look. “How d’you know so much about the trains, girleen?”

  Alice sighed, staring at the fire. “I told you already about Mrs Palmer,” she said, and the others sat in silence, waiting for her to be ready to continue. “Well, she runs a gang. I was part of it, for a while, after I—” Alice paused, swallowing hard. “After I left my grandfather’s house. I fell in with Mrs P and the kids she collects. They call themselves the Tunnellers.”

  “The Tunnellers?” Bastjan repeated.

  “They live in the train tunnels. On the platforms, they beg and pickpocket and the like, and they ride the trains, hoping to pick up whatever they can.”

  “Why’d you leave your grandfather’s house?” Bastjan asked, and Crake gave a ru
mble from his spot beside the fire.

  “Sounds a bit like none of our business, lad,” the man said. “All I’m concerned with is whether you’ll be safe, girleen, if we go by train.” He sat forwards, his face lit up by the flames. “You said before that this Mrs P was after you. Will they be lookin’ for you too, these Tunnellers?”

  Alice shrugged. “Probably,” she said. “But we’ve got no choice really.” She paused, thinking. “We don’t know how long we’ve got – Quinn might leave any minute. So the first train’s our best bet.” She drew her knees up and looked at the others, barely suppressing a yawn. “We’ll just have to hope Ana and Carmen can delay him long enough for us to make it.” Her yawn finally broke through. As frightening as it was to think of going near the trains again, Alice was glad they’d have time for a few hours’ rest.

  Crake got to his feet. “Right. I’m goin’ to talk to ol’ Jericho, try to beat him at one last game o’ cards. You pair huddle up an’ get some sleep. Leave me the best bunk, won’t ye?” He nodded towards Ana and Carmen’s wagon as he spoke. They were going to borrow it, knowing the sisters wouldn’t mind, for the rest of this short night.

  “We’ll be goin’ before sunup,” Bastjan warned as Crake lumbered away. “Not too much whiskey, right?”

  Crake saluted with a smile and disappeared into the shadows as the children left the fireside for the cool darkness of the sisters’ wagon. They curled up on the creaky bunk, Wares tucked at their feet, and Bastjan was asleep as soon as his eyes closed.

  By dawn, they were almost ready to leave. Only Jericho woke to see them off. Crake prepared a quick breakfast by the campfire and they ate hungrily, Wares happily whuffling down whatever scraps he was thrown.

  “Man, oh man,” Jericho muttered, holding his hands to the flames. “I’m feelin’ like I ain’t fit for nothin’ but Ducrow’s Acre this mornin’.”

  Crake chuckled, and Alice asked, “What’s that?”

  Bastjan swallowed before answering. “Circus graveyard,” he told her. “Where ringmasters an’ star performers go.” He spooned in another mouthful of beans. “My mum’s there,” he continued indistinctly. “I ain’t never seen it, but I will, one day.”

  “You will, son,” Jericho said. “Bet on it. Now.” The acrobat got to his feet, stretching his muscles. “I got my wagon ready. Y’all comin’?”

  Bastjan and Alice made ready to leave. Alice clucked her tongue at Wares and he came to her heel. As she straightened up, she tucked her hair behind her ear and Bastjan frowned. Something about her face wasn’t right.

  “Yer firemark,” he said, his eyes wide.

  Alice blushed. “I borrowed some make-up from Carmen and Ana to cover it,” she said. “The less notice we draw, the better, I thought.”

  “Come on, you pair!” Crake called. They turned to see him already aboard Jericho’s wagon, leaning out the half-door, and they hurried to catch up. Wares raced ahead, scrambling gleefully up the wooden steps.

  As they pulled out of camp, Alice’s ears pricked up. A voice was singing – and soon that voice was joined by others. Jericho pulled to a halt, and Bastjan, Crake and Alice climbed down to look back at the campground. In the pink morning light, all the wagon doors were open, with people standing in each one.

  Alice looked up at Crake. Thick tears spilled down the man’s cheeks as he raised a hand to his family, and every hand waved back.

  “What are they singing?” Alice asked Bastjan as they climbed back into the wagon.

  Bastjan wiped his own cheeks. “The Lowerin’,” he replied. “We sing it when the tent is put down for the last time, or when one of us … when one of us dies. It’s a farewell.”

  “You’ll see them again,” Alice said, slipping an arm round his narrow shoulders. “It’s not goodbye. Not forever.” Bastjan nodded, but he turned to look through the wagon’s back window. His gaze stayed on the camp, and the blackened remnants of his own wagon, until it vanished behind a turn in the road.

  They sat in silence for the rest of the journey. Before too long, they reached the outskirts of St Wycombe and Jericho pulled his wagon to a stop by the side of the road. At the end stood an impressive red-brick building – the station.

  “Got to leave you here,” the acrobat said. “I wish you luck. An’ a quick journey home again.” He reached out for Crake’s hand and the two men hugged briefly. Bastjan and Alice climbed down, waving to Jericho as he turned his wagon back towards the camp.

  They set off, watching the red-brick building grow larger with every step. It had arches all along its front façade, topped with a statue of a figure in a helmet, bearing a shield. People streamed in and out despite the early hour.

  “If you see me running,” Alice said suddenly, “don’t follow me.”

  “What?” Bastjan turned to her. “Why not?”

  “Because I don’t want anyone to know you’re with me. None of the Tunnellers, I mean.”

  Crake put a hand on each child’s shoulder as they walked beneath an archway into the station. “We’re not splittin’ up now, girleen. Wherever you go, we’re with you.”

  Inside, the station was a whirl of activity. It reminded Bastjan of opening night in a new place, with the same sense of busy urgency. People bustled to and fro, some with rolled-up newspapers or furled umbrellas beneath their arms; ladies sat on long benches surrounded by bags and children. Whistles and clouds of steam from the chuffing, patient engines, resting at their platforms like sleeping beasts, filled the air. Gaudy advertisements, their words meaningless to Bastjan, assaulted the eye and the scent of food was everywhere.

  Alice and Bastjan hid beside a newspaper stand as Crake bought their tickets, using the money Mrs Mythen had put in Bastjan’s bag. That same bag was now over Alice’s shoulder, and beneath the flap, barely visible, were Wares’s bright eyes and curious nose.

  “Hey. Look,” Bastjan whispered. He nudged Alice in the ribs and she pulled her gaze away from Crake. “Don’t he look familiar?” Bastjan pointed at a newspaper, displayed on the stand. On its front page was a face, strangely pale, with sideways-slicked hair.

  “Bauer,” Alice breathed, scanning the newspaper article. “Eccentric millionaire … business interests in Antarctica… Someone from a rival firm had an accident, it says. They worked with something called the Order of the White Flower… Frédéric Blancheflour? He died, it seems. Bauer’s researching the ice cap, but—”

  The paper was whipped up so suddenly that Alice took a step back.

  “This ain’t a library,” the newspaper vendor growled at them, before handing the paper over to a customer.

  As the customer walked away, he flipped his paper fully open – and something else caught Bastjan and Alice’s eyes. Another familiar face, this one with a birthmark on her cheek.

  “Was that you?” Bastjan whispered. He turned to Alice. Her mouth was hanging open in shock.

  She glanced at him and snapped her mouth shut. “Forget about it,” she muttered.

  “Nanette said somethin’ about your grandad,” Bastjan said, trying to recall. “He’s lookin’ for you, or somethin’.”

  “He’s got a reward out for me,” Alice said, more sharply than she intended. “I suppose you’ll be handing me in, then.”

  Bastjan blinked at her. “Is that what you think?” he said. “You think we’d jus’… give you up?”

  Alice went to answer, but stopped as Crake reappeared, clutching their tickets. Wares poked his head out of the bag, licking the strongman’s fingers. “I forgot to pay passage for you, young fella,” Crake said. “So keep yer head down.”

  “Might be good advice fer all of us,” Bastjan said darkly.

  “Let’s go,” Alice said, in a clipped tone. “We need to get to the far-side platform for the London-bound train.”

  The children walked out into the concourse. “Did I miss somethin’?” Crake said, hurrying after them. “What’s goin’ on with youse pair?”

  “Nothing,” Alice said, scanning the cro
wd.

  “Right, so,” Crake huffed.

  Bastjan and Crake followed Alice to an archway set into the wall, and they joined the stream of people making their way down a flight of stairs into a tunnel. The darkness was lifted by gaslights and somewhere, someone was playing a penny whistle.

  Just as they saw the tunnel’s end, and the steps leading upwards into daylight, the melody changed. Bastjan looked around – the whistler had to be nearby, but he could see no sign of them.

  “Come on,” Alice muttered, rushing up the steps two at a time. Beneath her make-up, her face was bone-white. “Hey – hold on!” Bastjan said, hurrying after her. Crake lumbered up behind him.

  At the top lay another platform with a train sitting at it, sleek and black and polished to perfection, its brass fittings gleaming in the light pouring through the skylights overhead. Bastjan could just make out Alice’s back as she hurried away through the crowd. Then he saw two other children – one a pale girl with short brown hair, the other a tall dark-skinned boy in a top hat – follow her, suspiciously quickly.

  “This way, Crake,” Bastjan said, pulling at the strongman’s sleeve.

  The train whistle sounded, and as a cloud of steam cleared, he saw Alice’s urgent face. She stood beside an open carriage door, pointing, before slipping up into the train. Crake and Bastjan scurried down the platform towards it.

  As Crake hauled himself up the step into the carriage, Bastjan looked at the door to the next carriage down. He stared as the girl with short hair, her wary eyes watching the crowd, vanished inside, followed by the boy in the top hat.

  “Alice’s bein’ followed,” Bastjan said as soon as he and Crake were aboard the train. “Some kids from the platform. They’re in the next carriage.”

  Crake whuffed. “I’m sure it’s grand, lad,” he said. “There’s no reason to be thinkin’ the worst all the time.”