by Eoin Colfer
‘Perhaps,’ said Conor. ‘But for how long?’
Great Saltee
Two-year-old Sean Broekhart lay in his bed, but he was not sleepy.
‘I think he has a fever,’ said Catherine, touching the back of her hand to the young boy’s forehead. ‘Perhaps we should stay at home.’
‘Stay home,’ agreed the smiling Sean.
Declan stood in the doorway, shoulders broad in his dress uniform. ‘Sean is fine, darling. He thrives. Were he any stronger I would enlist him right now. If you don’t want to go, just say the words. No need to drag little Sean into your schemes.’
Catherine straightened a row of medals on her husband’s chest. ‘I have been saying the words since the invitation arrived. It’s so strange, don’t you think? This sudden desire of the marshall’s to celebrate Conor?’
Declan’s brow creased. A lot had changed in these past weeks. He felt more himself than he had in years, three years to be exact. And while he still felt gratitude for what Hugo Bonvilain had done for Conor and the family, he had concerns about the man’s methods, especially the tight rein he held over Little Saltee. Recently his men had begun to tell him horror stories about the prison.
‘It’s not strange, it’s natural. Hugo feels some guilt too. After all, his men were supposed to be guarding the king. That was always the problem with Nicholas, he did not want to live his life under guard. He was too trusting by far.’
‘Talk to Isabella, Declan. She is expecting it.’
‘You have already spoken to the queen about this?’
Catherine took her husband’s arm. ‘She spoke to me. Isabella has concerns too. She needs an ally that the men will listen to. You are the only one who can challenge Bonvilain.’
Declan did not want this burden. ‘The marshall is my superior officer and he has been very good to us.’
‘I don’t wish to wound you, Declan, but your mind has been elsewhere these past years. You have been blind to the injustices that grow commonplace on the Saltees. Nicholas’s dream was to create a Utopia for the people. That has become Isabella’s dream too. It is not Hugo Bonvilain’s. He wishes to be prime minister; he has always wished it.’
Declan admitted the facts like shafts of light through chinks in a heavy curtain. ‘I have heard things. Perhaps I can investigate.’
Catherine’s grip tightened on his arm. ‘One more thing, perhaps this is not the night to say it, but Victor Vigny, a traitor?’
‘They found letters in his apartment detailing the island’s defences. My own men were with Bonvilain when he found the bodies.’
‘I know all about the evidence, but I knew Victor too. He saved us, remember?’
‘He saved himself,’ countered Declan, then gently, ‘Victor was a spy, Catherine. They are a cold breed. We saw of him what he wished us to see.’
There were tears in Catherine’s eyes now. ‘Just promise me you will stand by Isabella, whatever she decides to do. Your first loyalty is to her.’
‘Of course, she is my queen.’
‘Very well,’ said Catherine, drying her eyes. ‘Now I must ready myself again. Why don’t you tell your son a story, put him off to sleep before the nanny arrives.’
Little Sean seized on the word. ‘Story, Daddy,’ he called. ‘Story, story, story.’
Declan squeezed his wife’s hand before she left the room. ‘I am here now, Catherine. I will take care of us all, including the queen.’
He sat on Sean’s bed, and as usual he could not gaze upon one son without thinking of the other, but he forced the melancholy look from his features and smiled down at the boy.
‘Well, Sean Broekhart, not feeling sleepy tonight?’
‘No sleep,’ replied Sean belligerently, tugging his father’s sleeves with small fingers.
So small, thought Declan. So fragile.
‘I think one of my stories might do the trick. Which one would you like? Captain Crow’s army?’
‘No Crow,’ said Sean, his lip jutting. ‘Conor. Tell me Conor story. Sean’s budder.’
Declan was taken aback. Sean had never asked about Conor before and for some reason, Declan had never anticipated this moment.
‘Conor story,’ insisted Sean, pummelling his daddy’s leg.
Declan sighed. ‘Very well, little one. A Conor story. There are many tales about your brother, for he was a special person who did many amazing things in his life. But his most famous deed, the one for which he earned the gold medal in the cabinet, was the rescue of Queen Isabella. Of course, she wasn’t a queen in those days, merely a princess.’
‘Princess,’ said Sean contentedly.
‘On this particular summer afternoon, Conor and Isabella had exhausted the fun to be had tracking an unused chimney to its source and decided to launch a surprise pirate attack on the king’s apartment…’
And so Declan Broekhart told the story of the burning tower, and when it was over and the princess saved, he kissed his sleeping boy and left the bedchamber with a heart that felt strangely lighter.
Saint Patrick’s Bridge
This is madness, thought Conor. Lunacy. There are so many things that can go wrong.
The engine could prove too weighty in spite of the aluminium casing. The propeller has not even been tested in a wind tunnel and could rip the nose apart as easily as propel the craft. The untreated muslin was lighter than the treated variety but may not deflect the air currents sufficiently to give lift. The steering was rudimentary at best and would allow no more than a twenty-degree turn and even that could pull the wings off. The wing tips may not provide enough balance for a take-off.
So many things.
Saint Patrick’s Bridge had become a cathedral of sorts. The villagers had made the trek down the steep path for the spectacle, and most were crowded into the natural amphitheatre above the shale outcrop. They wiggled into comfortable positions, opened baskets of food and chatted amicably while they waited. The rest lined both sides of Saint Patrick’s Bridge, holding their lanterns aloft, lighting a path for the Airman.
More expectations, thought Conor. As if overthrowing a military leader were not enough, now I must entertain a village into the bargain.
He made a final tour of La Brosse, holding an oil lamp close to the underside of each wing, searching for tears, smoothing down bumps. No more need for delay.
‘That’s your fourth final inspection, if my ears serve me correctly,’ said Linus from the shadows. ‘Go now, Conor, or you will miss the tide.’
‘Yes, of course, you are right. I should leave, immediately. It must seem silly to everyone. All this preparation for such a small journey.’
Linus stepped into the lamp’s glow. The light caught him from below, casting ghostly shadows along his thin face.
‘You are wrong, boy. This is a momentous journey. Historic.’
Conor buttoned his aeronaut’s jacket. ‘Not historic, I am afraid. There will be no official record, no photographs. Nothing is acknowledged without at the very least a fellow of the Royal Society. Every week a new crackpot appears claiming to have flown.’
Linus raised his arms high to the watchers, like a conductor acknowledging his audience.
‘Every man, woman and child here will remember what is about to happen on this beach for the rest of their lives, no matter what the history books say. The truth will never die.’
Conor strapped on his goggles and hat. ‘Linus, if something happens – something unfortunate – will you find a safe way to contact my father? He must know the truth.’
Linus nodded. ‘I will find a way, boy. This old spy has a few tricks up his sleeve, but I have faith in you.’
Conor climbed the short ladder to the pilot’s seat, positioning himself carefully on the driver’s bench.
Something on his jacket clinked against the frame. It was the winged ‘A’ symbol.
‘I don’t suppose I need this any more,’ said Conor, unfastening it. ‘Bonvilain knows exactly who I am.’ He tossed it twinkling ove
r Linus’s head to the boy known as Uncle.
‘A keepsake for you, so that when people tell you that this never happened, at least you will know different.’
Uncle polished the winged ‘A’ on his shirt. ‘Thanks, Airman. I was hoping for the goggles, but I suppose you’ll be needing those.’
‘Unfortunately, yes. But you can have this pair if I come back, in return for one last favour.’
‘Anything,’ cried the boy, already imagining strutting along Kilmore quay, goggles at a jaunty angle on his crown. ‘So long as it doesn’t involve bathing.’
‘No. No bathing. I need two of your tallest boys to stand at the wing tips. They must be strong, and they must be quick on their toes.’
Uncle summoned his two tallest boys and positioned them as Conor had asked.
‘These two are so thick they make the village idiot look like Sherlock Holmes,’ Uncle confided to Conor. ‘They’ll run straight into the sea if you want.’ Then to the two lads: ‘Run fast, won’t ye, buckos. Hold the wings level and I’ll swap those diamonds for two bars of toffee.’
‘Righto, Uncle,’ said one.
‘Toffee,’ said the other, who looked a lot like the first.
‘They can stop before the water,’ said Conor, fixing his goggles. ‘I need them to run alongside and keep the wings balanced. As soon as I lift off, they let go. Can they do that?’
‘Of course they can, they’re not thick,’ said Uncle. ‘Sorry, they are thick. But not that thick.’
Conor nodded. ‘Good, Uncle, if things go badly for me tonight, I want you to stay with Mister Wynter, he will pay you a decent wage.’
‘Will he make me bathe?’
‘No, he will debate the matter with you until you decide to wash.’
‘Ah. One of those. Very well – for you, Airman. Though I may have to murder him in his sleep.’
‘Fair enough.’
I waste time talking with this boy. Time to be off.
Conor braced his feet against two wooden blocks and stood, leaning forward to grasp the engine’s crank. The engine had always run well enough on a block in the tower, but that was the way of things. Engines ran well until they were needed.
The engine caught on the second revolution, coughing like a sick dog then spluttering forth a roar. The crowd cheered, and Conor felt like doing the same. Stage one complete, now if he had done his calculations correctly, the vibrations would not tear his aeroplane apart for a while at least.
After an initial burst of enthusiasm, the engine settled to about ten horsepower, spinning Conor’s revolutionary propeller and sending the exhaust fumes streaming over his shoulder. The aeroplane bounced and reared, eager to be off, a wild beast on a tether.
This can never work. I have no speed control. This frame cannot last for more than five minutes.
Too late for doubts now. Too late.
Conor strapped on his harness, then released the brake lever and the plane leaped forward, bumping over the shale surface.
In his peripheral vision, Conor saw Uncle urging one of the runners on with strokes from a switch. With one hand, he buckled his harness across his chest, while the other struggled to keep the tiller straight.
You should have buckled your harness before releasing the brake. Idiot.
The ocean was approaching fast, and he had not sufficient speed. He urged the craft forward with jerks of his torso, and tried to ignore the smoke and oil spattering on his face and goggles.
You should have fixed an exhaust pipe to the body. What were you thinking?
Lanterns sped past on either side, speed trails blurring one into the next. It was all he could do to keep the aeroplane between the lines. The vibration was terrible, rattling his backbone, clicking his teeth, rolling his eyes in their sockets.
Some form of absorbance is needed. Cloth padding, or springs.
This was not the time for ideas. The aeroplane, though just brought to life, was already dying. Rivets popped, material ripped and ribs groaned. It had minutes left before the engine shook it to pieces like a dog shaking a rag doll.
Conor’s feet found the pedals on the floor and he pushed forward, angling the wings. The aeroplane lifted a fraction, then dropped to earth. He pushed again and this time the lift was greater and the vibration decreased. No longer could he feel the bump over each stone transmitted through the wood into his rear end, which was a relief.
The water loomed black before him and then underneath. Conor vaguely registered his two runners splashing into the ocean, then he was airborne and away.
I am flying a machine, he thought. Can you see me, Victor? We did it.
Great Saltee
Marshall Bonvilain had arranged for the dinner to be held in his own apartments, which was very unusual. None of the guests had ever been in the marshall’s rooms before this night, and they had never heard of him extending an invitation.
Bonvilain’s tower was separate from the main palace, further south along the Wall, and had been occupied by his family since its construction. It had the distinction of being the tallest structure on Great Saltee, and sat grey and imposing on the skyline like a reminder of the marshall’s power. He could often be seen on his balcony, brass telescope screwed to his eye, keeping a watch on everything, making the entire island feel guilty.
The dining room was sumptuous, decorated with swathes of Oriental silk and painted paper screens. The table itself was circular and low to the ground, surrounded by thick cushions.
When Queen Isabella and the Broekharts were ushered into the area, it felt as though they had stepped into another world.
Catherine was especially amazed. ‘It’s so… It’s so…’
‘Cultured?’ said Hugo Bonvilain, stepping from behind a screen. In place of his usual sternly cut blue suit and Templar stole, he wore a Japanese robe.
Bonvilain could not help but notice his guests’ surprised faces. ‘This is a Yukata Tatsu robe. Tatsu is the Japanese word for dragon, embodying the powerful and turbulent elements of nature. I spent a year in Japan in sixty-nine, as personal bodyguard to Emperor Meiji, before my father died and I was called back. Emperor Meiji insisted I take some of Japan home with me. I rarely have it taken out of storage, but this is a special occasion and I thought you might like to see a more relaxed marshall.’
Catherine was the first of the small group to recover from her surprise. ‘You look striking, Marshall.’
‘Why thank you, Catherine. No one minds sitting on cushions, I hope.’
No one objected, though cushions are not the most comfortable of seats for those with ceremonial swords at their belts, nor for that matter for those in fashionable dresses.
‘Thank goodness bustles are no longer fashionable,’ Catherine commented to the queen, ‘or we should be rolling about like skittles.’
The meal was mostly fish and rice, served by a single wizened servant.
‘Coco is also the chef,’ said Bonvilain. ‘I lured him away from a restaurant in London with the promise of a decent kitchen. He is Portuguese, but can cook any meal you wish. Japanese is one of his specialities.’
An hour passed slowly, in spite of several cultural lectures from the marshall. Eventually Catherine’s patience reached its limit. She made a small snuffling sound and twisted her napkin as if to strangle it.
Declan winced. He knew that snuffling sound well. Trouble was brewing.
‘The meal is lovely, Marshall,’ said Catherine. ‘But I am sure we did not come here just for food and small talk. Your invitation was vague, and so I would like know – how do you propose to celebrate Conor’s life?’
Bonvilain’s face was a mask of regret and understanding. ‘You are right, Catherine. I have been shying away from tonight’s raison d’être. Conor. Your son. The hero of the Saltee Islands. I thought we could share our memories of that brave young man, and then perhaps raise a toast. I have been saving a special bottle of wine.’ It was a good performance and the marshall felt that, if needed, he could prod
uce a tear.
‘But why now?’ prodded Catherine. ‘I admit to being a little puzzled, Marshall.’
He was spared the need to answer by the sound of a bugle piping from the Wall.
Declan leaped instantly to his feet.
‘That’s the call to arms!’ King Nicholas had insisted that the Saltee buglers learn US Army signals.
‘No need for panic,’ said Bonvilain, hurrying to the balcony. ‘I was warned he might show up.’
‘Who?’ asked the queen.
‘An enemy of the state, Your Majesty,’ explained Bonvilain, fixing his eye to a brass telescope. ‘This one calls himself the Airman.’
‘Airman,’ said Declan. ‘I’ve heard rumours about him. You mean he’s a real threat?’
‘Real? Yes,’ said Bonvilain, squinting into the eyepiece. ‘A threat? Absolutely not. Simply a Frenchman with a kite. Come and look. The lenses in this thing are quite fabulous.’
Catherine grasped Declan’s arm to stop herself shaking. All this talk of flying and Frenchmen had put Victor Vigny in mind.
‘A Frenchman in a kite?’ she said, voice strained.
‘Oh, dear God, of course,’ said Bonvilain, feigning shock. ‘Exactly like Vigny the murderer. I believe this Airman could be one of his acolytes. A curious hybrid of crazed revolutionary and scientist. I should not have even mentioned him; how insensitive of me. Please remain indoors. The Wall guard will shoot him down.’
Declan took Bonvilain’s arm, leading him to one side. ‘Shoot him down, Marshall? But you said he posed no threat.’
Bonvilain bent his head, spoke in a low voice. ‘Not a realistic one, though my men have found a grenade workshop.’
Declan blanched. ‘Grenades! Marshall, I am Captain of the Wall watch. Why do I not know all of this?’
‘Captain. Declan. My informants on the mainland reported to me barely two hours ago. I fully intended to broach the subject after dinner, but, in all honesty… a Frenchman, in a glider, dropping grenades? It seemed ludicrous. Something from a penny dreadful. At any rate, the wind is towards the mainland tonight, so how could this madman possibly glide here?’