Brightling

by Rebecca Lisle

  ‘Can you do it?’ Miss Minter asked him.

  ‘Course. I’m on it. I’ve enough special mix to knock out the entire circus,’ he said with a chuckle. ‘I’ll have a word with the girls. Just so’s they know.’ He laughed. ‘Lucky, lucky, lucky!’

  Miss Minter smiled as she took her seat again. She had to have that girl! Sparrow was equally important as the spitfyres. More important? Equally important. More? She fixed her gaze on Sparrow, daring her to slip from her grasp again. Little Sparrow, worth a fortune. Who’d have thought it?

  She breathed a sigh of relief as six littles danced around the ring and extinguished some of the lanterns; dark was good. Dark was safe.

  The show was about to begin.

  Everyone clapped as Zippo, the ringmaster, skipped and jumped into the ring, cracking his whip and twirling his moustache. Slap! Slap! The whip made the sawdust fly up around him. He wore black boots with tassels and a red and gold jacket. His eyes gleamed. Finally he came to a standstill in the centre.

  The audience roared. ‘Good evening, ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls!’ he cried. ‘Sit back and enjoy the one and only, wonderful, Zippo’s Circus! The Greatest Show On Earth!’ The curtains were drawn back behind him and the entire circus company trooped into the ring: clowns, ponies, littles, acrobats and … cats.

  Sparrow nearly toppled off her seat.

  Cats.

  Not tigers, or lions, but big, beautiful mink-coloured cats, each the size of a small fox, just like Scaramouch. She could not take her eyes off the slinky, wonderful cats as they circled the ring, their large paws puffing up the sawdust, tails swinging gracefully from side to side. They were special cats; handsome cats with round, knowing, yellow eyes … Each had the same noble head and finely-chiselled nose that Scaramouch had, the same curl at the end of its long, thick tail. It wasn’t her imagination; they were identical.

  ‘Just like my Scaramouch!’ Sparrow breathed. Her fingers gripped the top of the barrier in front of her. She leaned forward, totally amazed and thrilled. Just like Scaramouch!

  Music blared and the acts began to trail out.

  ‘For your first act tonight,’ Zippo cried, ‘please give a big hand for the amazing Felix and his Feline Friends!’ A man in leopard skin had remained in the ring; his four cats sat patiently beside him, their eyes fixed on his craggy, handsome face.

  Felix smiled at the crowd and bowed. The band struck up a tune. Felix flicked his hand to the waiting cats and they began to run swiftly and quietly around the ring, their tails streaming behind them, their paws padding soundlessly on the sawdust. Their mouths were open, showing sharp, white teeth; they looked as if they were laughing.

  ‘Ladeees and gen’lemens!’ Felix cried in a voice thick with a foreign accent. ‘Boyz and girlies, put your ’ands togezzer please, for my four spectacular, amazing, dancing, acrobatic cats! Fandango, Pulcinella, Pierrot and Columbine!’

  As each cat’s name was called, it leaped high into the air, stretching out long and smooth and landing with a ripple of muscle and a shiver of fur.

  ‘Zeeze are rare Sherbavian cats, brought back from ze furzest lands in ze world,’ Felix cried. ‘No-vair will you be lucky enough to see such magnificent cats as zeese!’

  Sparrow smiled to herself. At the nest, she thought. You’d be lucky to see just such a one at the nest! And she felt a sharp thump in her chest, as if someone had hit her, thinking longingly of her own Scaramouch.

  Pulcinella had a black nose and both Fandango and Pierrot had black tails. Columbine had white paws. They all had eyes as round as saucers and yellow as gold, circled with black. Their ears were upright, perky and tipped with dark chocolate fur. Scaramouch was, without a doubt, a Sherbavian cat.

  Sparrow bounced in her seat, desperate to share her knowledge with Hilda and also keen not to miss a moment of the show.

  Felix had only to click his fingers or jerk his chin and the cats leaped over high bars, walked along a tightrope and climbed ladders. They balanced on seesaws and ran up ramps, through flaming hoops and onto balls, and everything they did, they did smoothly and calmly and with obvious enjoyment.

  Finally, the music grew melancholic and soft and the cats began to dance. A single beam of light picked out Pulcinella and Fandango, who stood on their hind legs and somehow, Sparrow thought, didn’t look stupid or wrong or un-catlike. They danced beautifully; gracefully swaying to the music while the other two cats weaved around them, trailing their floaty tails across their bodies and under their tummies.

  Sparrow was mesmerised. She perched on the edge of her seat and hardly breathed. When the act ended and Felix started to run out of the ring she felt like bursting into tears. The cats ran after Felix and leaped up onto his broad shoulders, two on each side, balancing on his outstretched arms. He turned round then and bowed and the cats one by one trickled down his back, over his bottom and floated away.

  Everyone applauded loudly.

  ‘Oh Hilda, that was so marvellous!’ Sparrow said. ‘That’s what I shall do!’ she went on, clapping her hands furiously. ‘When I’m older, I’m going to be a cat trainer in the circus.’

  All three looked at her as if she had just said something very wonderful and very odd.

  ‘What’s the matter?’ she said, staring at their extraordinary expressions. ‘Oh,’ she went on, ‘and my Scaramouch, my cat, he’s just like that. Just!’

  ‘Now, Sparrow, really that’s ridiculous,’ Gerta said. ‘Your cat couldn’t be as big as those Sherbavian monsters.’

  ‘He is!’

  ‘Nor as clever,’ Gerta added. ‘I just don’t believe it.’

  ‘He is,’ Sparrow said obstinately.

  ‘Perhaps he is, Gerta, perhaps … ’ Bruno said.

  ‘It was quietly clever, wasn’t it?’ Hilda said, dabbing a tear from her eye.

  ‘Are you all right?’ Sparrow asked anxiously.

  ‘Of course, of course, it’s just memories … ’

  They had to be quiet then, as five littles came somersaulting into the ring and began to roll around and do silly things to entertain the audience before the next big act came on.

  Sparrow began to dream about wearing sequins and flying on a trapeze with Scaramouch. Why not? she thought. She’d see if she could get a job with Felix; he might want an assistant and … but first she must find Scaramouch! She’d almost forgotten that he wouldn’t be waiting for her back at the Butterworths’ house. Dear, dear Scaramouch, where was he?

  The acrobats and clowns came in and, although they were thrilling, she wasn’t as interested. She felt hot and overexcited. She began peeling off her gloves and then stopped.

  Her fingertips were glowing faintly silver in the lantern light.

  She turned her hands over and over to see if she was imagining it, but it was true. She shone. She glowed just like the other girls in the nest had glowed in the dark. Quickly she pulled her gloves on again. It must be phosphorus. It had to be. It had got inside her just as it had the other match-girls. Now, as she watched the horse riders and the clowns and the man on a unicycle, she couldn’t help wondering all the time what the phosphorus would do to her. She knew it made your teeth rot and jaw ache. She didn’t have any symptoms of that yet and hoped she never would.

  The white horses, ridden by a family of beautiful blonde girls, distracted her, as did the handsome strong man who lifted up a baby elephant. Two littles breathed fire and put themselves out with buckets of water and made them all laugh.

  Sparrow laughed too and then stopped just as suddenly.

  She’d right that moment made up her mind. Even if it meant leaving the Butterworths she would, because she absolutely had to. She had to find Scaramouch.

  29

  Spitfyres

  The drum roll boomed round the tent so loudly that the lanterns wobbled and vibrations ran through the wooden seats. The audience jumped and then tittered and looked around nervously; Sparrow and Hilda glanced at each other and grinned.

  The dr
ums heralded Zippo again, who came twirling into the centre of the ring, bowing and waving. He was flanked by ten littles, wearing brightly-coloured costumes and carrying buckets of water. They began sprinkling the water over the sawdust floor.

  ‘Ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls!’ Zippo cried. ‘This dampening down is just a precaution, as you’ll see.’ He pointed to the littles hurrying around the ring. ‘We don’t want to dampen your spirits, but there must be no chance of the arena going up in flames … These animals can be very sparky … ’ He rubbed his hands together gleefully. ‘And now, the moment you’ve all been waiting for!’ He had to raise his voice as a thrilled murmur of excitement rippled round the ring. ‘Let me present to you Stormy and Maud, Academy Directors, and their miraculous, fantastical, super-splendiferous, extraordinary spitfyres!’

  Zippo went out, leaving the arena empty. The littles had doused some of the lights so now the tent was darker.

  Nothing happened.

  The crowd, which had fallen silent, waiting, now began whispering and looking around, wondering what was going to happen.

  Suddenly the top of the tent was drawn back and through the opening came a blast of orange and golden light; and a shower of sparkling ash fell through the air over the ring like fireworks.

  ‘Oooh!’ the crowd cried. ‘Look! Look!’

  Two horse shapes seemed to drop heavily through the opening and fall into the tent. Spitfyres!

  Sparrow caught her breath, her hands to her mouth in amazement. Astride each flying horse sat a sky-rider, dressed in close-fitting, dark clothes.

  Just when it looked as if the spitfyres would plunge to the ground, they flashed open their great wings. There was a loud swooshing sound, like an umbrella unfurling, and the spitfyres halted their fall, swooped up and began to fly.

  The audience clapped and cheered.

  Everyone was looking upwards as the flying horses spun round and round the tent. The spitfyres’ leathery wings blew up a huge draught, making the people in the top seats cry out and clutch their hats and scarves. As the metal-tipped hooves floated above their heads they ducked and shrieked, half in horror, half in fun.

  The sky-riders waved as they circled the tent. They threw down a cascade of yellow-coloured pamphlets that everyone grabbed greedily.

  The spitfyres flew around and rose up and circled about the apex of the tent once more before plunging down to the arena and skidding through the sawdust to a halt.

  The crowd was on its feet, applauding and shouting.

  The two sky-riders slipped off their spitfyres and bowed.

  ‘I am Stormy,’ the young man said, ‘and this is Maud. We are the Directors of the Academy.’

  Stormy was tall, slender and about twenty years old. His eyes sparkled with fun and energy; he looked lively enough to ignite a pile of wood all on his own, thought Sparrow. He was wearing a plain, dark suit, narrow boots and a high-necked white shirt. His shoulder-length hair was brown. Maud had long, very dark hair piled up on her head and tied with white ribbons, and she couldn’t stop smiling. Sparrow thought her very pretty. She began to wonder how she might join them up at the Academy … with Scaramouch, of course.

  The spitfyres were much bigger than ordinary horses, and quite extraordinary animals. They pulsated with energy and sparkiness; they were bursting with life.

  The spitfyre that Maud had ridden had a coat of dark red, black and purple that seemed to have the texture of velvet. Her hooves were speckled with violet-coloured scales. When she tossed her head, her long mane flowed like water, cascading down over her neck, sparkling with gold and silver. Her wings were huge and scaly in places; dark, dark red spread over black sinews, running through the wings in a fine network of veins.

  ‘Hello, everyone!’ Maud called. ‘Let me introduce my wonderful spitfyre to you. This is Kopernicus!’

  Kopernicus tossed her purple-black mane. She pranced in a circle around Maud then stopped in front of her, puffing out blue smoke from her nostrils. The smoke rose up and hung like a blue halo above them both.

  The crowd roared with amazement.

  ‘Despite being so beautiful, our wonderful spitfyres are in constant danger,’ Maud said, patting the spitfyre’s neck. ‘People want to steal their fire-power, their Brightling!’

  Stormy stepped forward. ‘This is Seraphina,’ he said, introducing his own spitfyre.

  She shone purple or silver or sometimes turquoise or even gold, depending on how the light hit her. Her wings were the palest purple and silver. And when she moved, she shimmered like a fish under water. She huffed out and breathed a stream of small balls of fire that went bowling over the sawdust, skipping and rolling until they died out with a little hiss and wisp of smoke. At a signal from Stormy, she spun round, reared up on her hind legs and blew out a stream of spinning, multi-coloured sparks and a jet of orange flame, which shot over the ground, jumping and sparking until it fizzled out on the wet sawdust.

  ‘Isn’t she beautiful?’ Hilda whispered dreamily to Sparrow. ‘What a lovely, lovely thing.’

  ‘As Maud told you, we’re here today because these rare and precious animals are being stolen for their sparking fluid, for Brightling. Brightling should not be taken from them, it is part of them, it is their essence. Without it, they die.’

  Sparrow sat up and listened intently.

  ‘We must stop this terrible trade,’ Maud cried. ‘Look at these lovely creatures! How could anyone harm them?’

  ‘Brightling is absolutely worthless!’ Stormy said, his voice rising. ‘It has no value to you. None.’

  ‘It cured my grandma’s lumbago!’ someone shouted from the stalls.

  A few members of the audience laughed and others cried, ‘For shame!’ and ‘It’s rubbish!’ and ‘No, it doesn’t work!’

  ‘I assure you it did not cure your grandma’s lumbago,’ Stormy said. ‘How could it? It is –’

  ‘My daughter waited five years for a baby,’ a woman interrupted. ‘Took a dose of Brightling and had one straight away.’

  ‘No, no,’ Maud said, spinning round to face the speaker. ‘That wasn’t Brightling! It was just luck.’

  Stormy quietened the audience. Half of them seemed to believe Brightling worked, and the other half was on his side, not wishing to hurt the spitfyres.

  ‘If you take their Brightling from them, they die,’ Maud said. ‘And if you take Brightling you may well die!’

  ‘That can’t be true!’ someone called. ‘My brother –’

  Suddenly there was a shout from the back of the crowd.

  ‘Fire! Fire!’

  At first Sparrow thought the call of ‘fire’ was all part of the spitfyres’ show. She looked round, expecting the flying horses to do something dramatic, but then, when she saw the smoke billowing into the tent from all sides in great black, thick clouds, she realised it was a real fire.

  The cry was taken up in earnest all around.

  ‘Fire!’

  Smoke filled the tent so quickly no one had a chance to move before, suddenly, they were plunged into the dark as the smoke draped over them. The ring of lanterns around the arena could only glow faintly through the darkness.

  ‘Keep calm!’ Stormy called out, but he was already invisible. ‘Keep ca—’ His voice was cut off suddenly. A spitfyre whinnied and briefly puffed out a yellow haze of fire. Then that went out too.

  The audience was already up on its feet and pushing, struggling to escape.

  Sparrow turned to Hilda, who was standing up but looking dazed, and grabbed her coat for her. ‘Come on,’ she said. ‘We must move quickly.’

  ‘Mayra?’ Hilda said in a disjointed, worried way. ‘She died here, in an accident. Oh Sparrow, Bruno, what’s going on?’

  Bruno put his arm around her and tried to move her out ahead of him, but people blocked their path. They couldn’t see where to go. Hilda’s anxiety was catching – but Sparrow wasn’t worried about Mayra, she was thinking about Tapper. She was sure he was here. She hadn’t se
en him, but why else did she have this familiar feeling of dread? What else could cause this cold, creeping sensation of impending doom?

  A dot of light pierced through the smoke, darting up and down as if searching for something. It was the same brightness she’d seen at the market when Kate sold the Brightling. Before she could work it out, the lantern beside her went out and, as it died, she felt someone dash past, and the bright dot went with them.

  Kate? Agnes? she wondered, nervously.

  One by one, all the lanterns in the arena went out. Blackness descended, dense with smoke. All around, people shouted and pushed.

  Sparrow couldn’t see anything and she could hardly breathe now, as the smoke thickened and caught in her throat and eyes.

  ‘Get those lanterns back on!’ someone yelled.

  ‘Quickly, quickly now!’ That was Bruno. Where was Hilda? Sparrow tried to move towards the Butterworths. Her eyes were watering. She couldn’t move at all; Gerta squeezed her from the other side; she was coughing, bent over, struggling. Desperate to get free, Sparrow was forced to clamber over the low rail and she toppled into the ring.

  How could it be so dark? She coughed and coughed. ‘Hilda! I’m just here!’ she called.

  She felt someone suddenly beside her; not someone trying to get out, not someone panicking and struggling, but someone who was bearing down on her, a black, empty, nothingness, dread and loathing … Again the tiny dot of light! Right up by her face. A spark. A star.

  ‘Got ya!’ a man said.

  Glori held her tiny phial of Brightling out at arm’s length; it shone like a miniscule star. When she closed her fingers round it, it vanished. Magic.

  The blindfolded spitfyre she was leading out of the ring had come willingly; she found it dreadfully sad that it trusted her. ‘Don’t, don’t,’ she’d murmured. ‘Don’t let me take you like this. Fight me, can’t you?’

  But Miss Minter’s accomplice, Brittel, that nasty, sloping-shouldered greaseball, had got to them first and fed them something to hush them up. Now the creature followed her as meekly as a lamb. She’d only to whisper its name – ‘Seraphina, Seraphina’ – and it came.