by Paton, Chris
“Do?” Bhàtair laughed. “There's no telling what he will do. But I know where he will go.”
“Where?” Seffi stood up, shouldering the knapsack and picking up the control box.
“South. Somewhere warm for Abi so that she might find peace for her poor lungs. Come on,” Bhàtair slipped his hand beneath my good arm and helped me to my feet. “We had best get down there.”
I hobbled down the path in Bhàtair's grip. Seffi walked ahead, pausing for a moment to pick up the knapsack I had dropped when I was shot. Archie met us at the spot where Macfarlane and the emissary had fallen. He nodded at the gillies carrying Macfarlane's body down the mountain.
“It wasnae going tae end well. Ah knew that.” He looked at me. “Can you climb?” He pointed at a rope ladder hanging beneath the airship.
“I think so,” I looked at Seffi, caught the brief nod of her head. “Yes. I can.”
“Then let's be having you,” Archie smiled. “Whistlefish is waiting, and miss Abi is awful anxious tae meet you.”
“And Beatrice?” I let Bhàtair and Archie help me onto the ladder.
“Aye,” Archie laughed. “There's supper and tea.”
“Well, I'm not dead yet. A little tea won't kill me.”
“Don't be so sure, Karl.” Seffi stepped around the two men. Placing her hand on the thick twisted rung between us, she leaned in close. “Thank you, Karl.” She kissed my nose, her chapped lips scratching my skin. “I am glad you don't always listen.”
“You're welcome.” I heaved myself onto the ladder and looked up.
“We'll pull you up, Mr. Finsch,” Whistlefish waved down from the deck of the airship.
The last rungs of the ladder swung beneath me as I gripped the rope, holding on as Whistlefish and his crew pulled me aboard. As I passed the emissary hanging beneath the keel in a web of thick hawser nets, I smiled at the blink of green light behind the mangled faceplate.
“Still with me, friend?”
The green light blinked twice.
“Good. The field trials might be over, but we're not done yet.” I looked down at Seffi. “We're just getting started.”
“Welcome aboard The Suilven Star, Mr. Finsch.” Whistlefish extended his hand, gripped the rope ladder and pulled me onto the deck. “May your stay be a pleasant one.”
Stepping onto the deck, I looked around at the Inverkirkaig staff. Dressed in aeronaut's leathers and furs, they struck me as a piratical bunch, save for Beatrice, wringing her hands in a cloth apron tied at her waist. I smiled at each of Whistlefish's pirates, the cool air tugging a tear from the corner of my eye. “I am sure I will, sir, or should I say, Captain?”
“Captain Whistlefish?” he smiled. “I like the sound of that.”
I walked to the rail and watched as Bhàtair, Archie and Seffi clambered up the ladder and onto the deck. Whistlefish strode across the deck, ordered more gas to be pumped into the great skin balloons above us, gripped the wheel and turned The Suilven Star into the wind. The Highlands of Scotland slipped away beneath us, as I went below decks, crawled into a hammock and closed my eyes. Settling into the rhythm and creak of the airship, I imagined the emissary blinking silently in the nets beneath the hull.
Emissary Metal
PART 3
NEGOTIATION
Chapter 1
Jewels of mist trapped the dawn on the deck of the The Suilven Star as the airship breached the cloud and ascended into the morning sky. The emissary swung beneath the hull as the airship banked to starboard plying a course for Stornoway, on the Isle of Lewis in the Outer Hebrides. I climbed up through the hatch and stepped onto the glittering deck, smearing the dawn dew beneath my bare feet.
“You'll catch a cold,” Whistlefish looked down at my feet as I climbed up the steps to the quarter deck and approached the wheel.
“Perhaps,” I smiled. “But I want to feel this,” I stretched my arm in front of me, tracing the horizon with my fingertips. “Just for a short while.”
“I can understand that,” Whistlefish moved to one side of the wheel. Pinching one of the eight handles, he beckoned me forwards. “So long as Beatrice doesn't see you without socks and boots. Here,” he guided my right hand to the wheel, “make yourself useful and steer the Star for me.”
“Really?” I gripped the handle with my right hand, another with my left. Ripples of flight trembled through my arms. I turned as Whistlefish crossed the short deck to the railing.
“Really.” Whistlefish settled onto a wooden bench, leaned his back against the railing and closed his eyes. “The Star practically steers herself. Just tell her where to go, point her in the right direction, and she'll take you there.” I turned back to the wheel, biting my lip as the pain from the bullet wound in my shoulder seized my body in a quiet spasm of pain. “Ease up on the wheel, now, Mr. Finsch.”
Exhaling, I relaxed my grip. The creep of a smile spread across my face as the trembling in my arms relaxed to a gentle tickle and the pain in my shoulder subsided.
“Better?”
“Yes. Much.”
“I built her in all secrecy, inside a barn on the grounds. Bhàtair knew, and Beatrice. Some of the men guessed, but they were good enough not to pry. Good men, all of them.”
“And Abigail?”
“Abi?” Whistlefish chuckled behind me. “Do you know, we played quite the game with one another. She pretending not to know, me pretending she didn't. Once Bhàtair and I had the foundations of the barn excavated, and I had started building the hull, she would leave a basket at the door. I would sit on the step and eat the sandwiches she left, drink her tea – not Beatrice's, mind.”
“No,” I laughed.
“I found other uses for that.” The bench creaked as Whistlefish settled upon it. “Abi left a basket on the step every night for five years. It worried me so, her walking outside at night, daring her lungs to fail. But so long as we never talked about what I was doing, I could never challenge her about it.”
“You never talked about it? For five years?”
“Not even once,” Whistlefish stamped his feet on the deck, clapped his hands and joined me at the wheel. “Small adjustments, Mr. Finsch.” He guided my hand with his own. Nodding, he moved around the wheel and turned to face me. “I feel the cold like any man, but try as I might, I can't get sick. I can't share my Abi's pain.”
“But if you are sick, you can't care for Abigail. Why would you want to...”
“Ah, Mr. Finsch, I admire your optimism. I pray you never should suffer the sickness of a loved one. Abi will not see the year out, I fear. And where she will go, I cannot follow.”
The sadness tugging at the corners of Whistlefish's eyes and mouth stalled the beginnings of a sentence upon my tongue. A brief image of Seffi, pinned down among the rocks on the mountainside, flashed between my thoughts and I watched as Whistlefish fought to turn the corners of his mouth into a smile.
“Such sad talk does not befit the dawn,” Whistlefish gripped the railing above the deck of the airship and took a long, deep breath. The sun dried the sheen of sadness from his eyes as he turned back to look at me. “Of course, when I say we never talked about my project, that does not mean Abi didn't have anything to say on the matter.” Whistlefish unbuttoned the top three buttons of his heavy wool jacket and retrieved a thick brown envelope from the pocket on the inside of his lapel. I watched as he opened the envelope. Taking care with the edges of the paper, he tucked the empty envelope back into the pocket and unfolded the paper before me. “Abi's plans for our cabin.” He smiled.
I leaned forwards, pressing my face closer to the plans, my eyes dancing over the three-dimensional space captured so exquisitely in delicate coloured inks. “Such detail,” I squinted in the growing sunlight.
“Yes,” Whistlefish folded the paper, placing it inside the envelope and buttoning it inside his jacket as we talked. “When she was sure I could reproduce her designs, she made new plans for each of the crew's quarters. Beatrice is especially please
d. Bhàtair, not so much. But then he was given access and time to shape his own cabin.”
“How did Abi know you could reproduce her designs?”
“Photographs, Mr. Finsch,” Whistlefish smiled as he yawned. “Abi and I exchanged not a single word, but hundreds of pictures about the project. The Suilven Star is as much her design as it is mine.” He paused. “It will be her legacy. When...”
The wheel trembled in my grasp as a pocket of wild air buffeted the airship, distracting Horatio Whistlefish from his sombre thoughts as he took my place at the wheel. I swayed across the deck to the bench, steadying myself into a sitting position as the airship bucked and reeled out of the turbulence and into a calmer stream of sky.
“Never a dull moment,” Whistlefish grinned. “Are you all right, Mr. Finsch?”
“Yes,” I held my breath.
“You look a little peaky.”
“Yes.”
“Then take the wheel again while I find you something for your feet. Beatrice will be up and about soon, and no amount of queasiness will save you from a tongue-lashing if she finds you barefoot on deck. Can you steer The Star for me?”
“Yes,” I swayed onto my feet and into Whistlefish's steady grip.
“Good.” He guided me to the wheel. “Then you have command, Mr. Finsch.”
Gripping the wheel, I watched Whistlefish walk down the steps to the main deck and disappear below. I stared at the horizon, occupying my mind with the image of the emissary, arms outstretched, head pressed forwards, gliding through the air in its net beneath the hull. My nausea diminished and I lightened my grip on the handles just as Bhàtair, a pair of leather boots dangling by the laces from his fist, stepped onto the main deck with Archie in tow. I nodded at them as they climbed up onto the quarterdeck and stood either side of me at the wheel.
“'Tis a fine morning,” Archie nodded at the wheel. “How aboot ah take over. Bhàtair wants tae talk tae you, show you aroond The Star.” The young Scot stepped behind the wheel as I let go. Bhàtair handed me the boots.
“Master Whistlefish said you were missing something,” Bhàtair pointed at the boots. “I figured it was these, seeing as they were outside your cabin door when I passed it on my way up.”
“Thank you.” I sat down on the bench, pulled the wool socks from inside the boots and clenched my teeth as I tugged them over my feet.
“When did you last change your dressing?” Bhàtair sat beside me, his shoulder bumping mine as Archie corrected the course of the airship, steering between the clouds.
“I haven't. Not since Seffi put it on.” I tied the laces of each boot.
“Then we'll have a look at it,” Bhàtair stood up, “as soon as we are done with the tour. It's time to show you around The Suilven Star, Master Finsch.” Tucking his hands into the pockets of his sheepskin aviator jacket, Bhàtair crossed the quarterdeck to the steps, the hem of his kilt flapping as he walked. “Come on.”
My boots clumping on the wood, I followed the old man down the steps and onto the main deck to where he stood beside the hatch.
“The mast would be here, if the Star were a ship of the sea,” Bhàtair kicked at the hatch. He looked up and I followed his gaze. We stared at the skin membrane rippling above us like a bloated worm, each woven ring strengthening the seams stitching the segments together. “Master Whistlefish never did say what it was made of,” Bhàtair pointed up at the ring directly above us. “But I know for a fact it is tough. I broke forty-three needles on the stitching.”
“You stitched this?”
“Aye,” Bhàtair frowned at me. “Did he tell you different?”
“No,” I shook my head. “Captain Whistlefish only told me about the plans. Nothing more.”
“Captain Whistlefish,” Bhàtair chuckled. “Oh, he'll like that, without a doubt.” With a jerk of his head towards the starboard rail of the airship, Bhàtair gestured for me to follow him.
The rail, a bruised oak veneer protecting the thick balsa beneath it, was warm to the touch. The pits and nicks scabbing the oak suggested many years of service. I picked at a deep cut in the dark wood with my finger, the surface of the lighter balsa was soft beneath my fingernail.
“We sacrificed a lot of furniture in the building of the Star.” Bhàtair placed both hands on the railing as I stopped worrying at the balsa with my finger and leaned over the side to peer down through the clouds at the sea far below. “Steady lad,” Bhàtair gripped my elbow. “It would be a shame to effect such a fine rescue as we did on the mountain, only to lose you over the side and into the sea.”
“Yes,” I relaxed into the old man's grip as he guided me a step back from the railing.
“I thought I saw a wire protruding from the hull, about a foot below the railing. What is it?”
“Ah,” Bhàtair smiled as he let go of my elbow. Stuffing his hands into his pockets, he nodded. “That'll be the lightning shrouds.”
“Shrouds?”
“Aye,” Bhàtair nodded at the rigging stretching up and around the gas bag from both sides of the ship. “Ships have shrouds – rigging if you like – and some of them are what sailors call Futtock Shrouds. There's metal chain woven into them. Now,” Bhàtair began to walk along the railing, “Futtocks are used to stabilise the top of the mast, but we don't have that. We can make do with hawser rope, and save on weight. The Star is lighter than most airships, and nowhere near as heavy as the English and German types. Strong as they are, the airframe has a lot of metal inside, and a lot of copper too. I often wonder at the sailor's nerves when they fly through a thunderstorm,” he shook his head. “Master Whistlefish thought we needed an advantage, in the event that we were caught unawares. The Star is fast but not great in a fight. If an airship sneaks up on us and comes alongside, ready to board, we are nigh on defenceless. Unless,” Bhàtair's eyes caught the light of the dawn as the sun dispersed the clouds in a warm glow, “we charge the lightning shrouds and send a burst of charged atoms through their hull and across their decks.”
“Does it work?”
“In theory, aye, but we've never had to try it, lad.”
“I see.”
“Of course,” Bhàtair stopped at the steps leading up onto the forecastle, the raised deck at The Suilven Star's bow, “we don't stand a chance if they use their cannons. That's why we prefer to run.”
Lifting his right foot onto the step, Bhàtair gestured for me to follow him. Crossing the forecastle deck, he sat on the base of the bowsprit. I stood next to him and closed my eyes, warming my face in the morning sun. The drama of the night, the musket balls and gunpowder clouds, settled in the back of my mind to be replaced with an image of Seffi's face as she bandaged my side.
“What do you know of your friend, Master Finsch?”
“Seffi?” I opened my eyes, blinking in the glare of the sun.
“Aye,” Bhàtair smiled. “The wild one.”
“Wild?”
“Untamed, then. What do you know of her?”
Bhàtair shuffled along the bowsprit, patting the wood with his palm. I sat down. “She has been taught something called the wilding arts. I am not sure what it is. She practices it, believes in it, even pushed me in the bog because of it.” I turned to look at Bhàtair. “I don't understand much about it.”
“Not many people do,” he smiled. “Your friend, Seffi...”
“Achterberg.”
“Aye,” Bhàtair nodded, “she has a way of walking in nature that places her close to the earth, closer to the elements than she is to people. I saw it that first night on the beach.”
“I remember.”
“And again when she was at Inverkirkaig, wandering around the estate, skirting around the people.”
“She has a certain roughness around people.”
“That's been encouraged, afterwards,” Bhàtair removed his hands from his pockets. Fishing inside his jacket, he removed a small leather bag with his right hand. He placed it on my palm, I frowned at how little it weighed.
&n
bsp; “What is it?”
“Open it.”
Placing the bag on my lap, I undid the drawcord pinching the bag tight at the top. Placing the drawcord on my thigh I lifted the bag with one hand, tipping the contents onto my palm. Three round stones clinked into my hand. I clutched at them to stop them rolling onto the deck.
“Stones? But they weigh nothing.”
“Aye,” Bhàtair nodded. Taking a stone from my hand, he turned it in the sunlight, searching for a nick in the surface, before pressing it to his lips. He blew into the stone. After a minute, Bhàtair removed the stone from his lips and swapped it for the two in my palm. My hand dipped with the weight of it.
“It is heavy. How? I don't understand?”
“No,” Bhàtair smiled, “but you will.”
“You hollowed it out,” I lifted the stone to my eye, turning it in the sunlight.”
“Aye.”
“And then filled it up...”
Bhàtair nodded.
“But with air,” I found the nick in the stone's surface and tipped it towards the deck. Shaking the stone, I searched in vain for the contents emptying onto the deck.
“Once you have filled something hollow, it won't empty again. Not right away.”
“You're talking about Seffi?”
“Am I?”
“What then? Who?”
“'Tis true, your friend is a vessel, hollow when she sees fit, full when she least expects it. But I am not just talking about your friend.” Bhàtair paused as Archie adjusted the airship's course, sailing around a buffet of wind. “What do you know of Şteamƙin, Master Finsch?”
“Şteamƙin?” I shook my head. “Nothing.”
“Well,” Bhàtair stood up. “That we'll have to remedy, won't we.” Flicking his finger towards the main deck, he gestured at the bustle of Whistlefish's crew as they assembled around the hatch for breakfast. “Breakfast first, Master Finsch.” Bhàtair walked towards the steps. “You can keep the stone.”
I turned the stone in my hand as Bhàtair walked down the steps and onto the main deck, the soft thud of his boots on the worn wood masked by the cheer of breakfast. Heavy in my hand, the stone occupied my thoughts a moment more before, pocketing it, I left the forecastle and braced myself for a large mug of Beatrice's tea.