The Story of Cirrus Flux Read online

  ALSO BY MATTHEW SKELTON

  ENDYMION SPRING

  For Thomas and Oliver

  CONTENTS

  MAP OF EIGHTEENTH-CENTURY LONDON

  Prologue

  1 The Gallows Tree

  2 The Girl Behind the Curtain

  3 Blackguards!

  4 The House in Midas Row

  5 Mr. Leechcraft

  Twelve Years Earlier

  6 The House of Mesmerism

  7 Black Mary’s Hole

  8 Across London

  9 The Dark Room

  10 The Silver Timepiece

  Twelve Years Earlier

  11 The Boy Who Did Not Exist

  12 The Face at the Window

  13 Cirrus, Alone

  14 The Scioptric Eye

  15 The Hall of Wonders

  16 The Moon-Sail

  Eleven Years Earlier

  17 The Halcyon Bird

  18 The Hanging Boy

  19 The Fallen Angel

  20 The Celestial Chamber

  21 Escape!

  22 The Breath of God

  23 H-O-P-E

  The summer of the year 1783 was an amazing and portentous one, and full of horrible phaenomena.…

  —GILBERT WHITE

  The Natural History and Antiquities of Selborne

  The boy can hear something scratching at the sides of the boat—a restless scraping sound, as though the sea has grown claws and is seeking a way in. For countless days His Majesty’s Bark the Destiny has been drifting through uncharted waters, crossing new latitudes, until it can go no further south, blocked by an impenetrable reef of ice and fog.

  Is this it? the boy thinks. Have we finally reached the edge of the world?

  He shifts uncomfortably under the blankets he has heaped on top of himself and tries to sleep, but it is so cold that the hairs in his nostrils stick together, stitched shut. For several hours his dreams have numbed him, carrying him back to London and the fields surrounding the Foundling Hospital, where only a few years ago he was making twine and weaving nets. Now he is awake on the far side of the globe, the blood slowly freezing in his veins.

  The cold decides him. He must move.

  The boy swings his legs over the edge of the hammock and drops to the ground. All around him men are slumped in sleep, but he takes care not to rouse them as he creeps through the cramped quarters to the stairs. For many it is their second or even their third voyage to the southern reaches of the globe and they are accustomed to such hardships. Their faces have been scoured by wind and rain, and their beards are grizzled with frost.

  He finds his childhood companion, Felix Hardy, sprawled against the bulkhead door. By rights Felix ought to be above, on watch, ensuring that the boat does not run aground on the sheets of ice, but the big, burly youth has sneaked down during the night and dozed off in his heavy fearnought jacket. The boy watches him for a moment, but does not have the heart to disturb him. The ghost of rum is still warm on his friend’s breath and a smile is slung across his ruddy face. Instead, the boy bunches his own jacket more securely round his narrow shoulders and climbs the wooden steps to the deck.

  Outside, the light dazzles him with its brightness. The icy fog that has dogged them for weeks, ever since they rounded the tip of Cape Horn, has lifted and the sky is a pale powdery blue. Icebergs the size of cathedrals throng the sides of the boat.

  The boy has never known such a desolate, beautiful place. Suddenly all of the privations he has suffered—the wretched food, the hard physical labor, the bouts of seasickness—slip away and leave him charged with excitement. Remembering the thrill he first felt when he boarded the ship at Deptford Yard, dreaming of a life of adventure, he skates from one side of the deck to the other, taking in his wondrous surroundings.

  And then he senses something. A crackle in the air, a hint of sound, as though the ice itself is breathing.

  All at once he can hear Mr. Whipstaff’s instructions in his ear, training him in the arts of navigation: “Invisible forces be at work in this world, boys; and while we cannot always divine their origin, yet can we discern their presence. Let your mind be your compass and it will seldom steer you wrong.”

  In an instant, the boy is climbing the rope ladders to the top of the mast, to get a better view. The rungs are braided with ice and slip underfoot, but he is used to scaling such heights, even in stormy weather, and soon he is standing on a little platform high above the frosted deck. Up here, the air is even colder and ice fronds form on his lashes, but he brushes them away with his sleeve and stares into the distance.

  Nothing. Nothing but a shining white immensity of ice and water, for as far as he can see.

  He reaches into his pocket, pulls out a short brass spyglass and holds the freezing lens to his eye. His hands are so cold, the world trembles. Even so, he manages to guide the glass across the barren wastes.

  And then his breath escapes in a silver cloud—a dissolving yell. For, barely visible against the horizon, something has loomed into view, a precipice far larger than any he has seen. A luminous shelf of ice, a whole continent perhaps, made, it seems, of shimmering light. It towers above the water, girding the horizon like the gateway to another world.

  The boy’s heart clamors inside him. He must alert the captain.

  His foot is on the ratline, ready to descend, when something holds him back. A suspicion, a doubt. Bright blue flames have appeared above the mast and the air flickers with a quiet intensity. He looks up to see a scintillating stream of particles rippling overhead, passing back and forth across the sky.

  The boy stands perfectly still, wondering if he has imagined it, and then glances down at the small sphere he wears on a cord round his neck—his terrella, the miniature globe on which he has been charting his travels. Some of the particles have drizzled down, surrounding it, disappearing into the metal with short, sharp flashes of light.

  Slowly, as if filled with the miraculous substance, the orb begins to glow.

  Startled, he drops his spyglass, which rolls across the platform and tumbles into space, hitting the deck below with a resounding thud. Instantly, the light around him dissolves and the noise is picked up by the surrounding ice, echoed and multiplied. Explosive cracks burst through the silence like cannon fire, and icebergs calve into the sea, sending huge, crashing waves spilling against the side of the boat. The boy is nearly thrown from the mast.

  Almost immediately, there is a rumble from below. Cries of panic, footsteps on the stairs. Men appear on deck in disarray, seeking out the cause of the disturbance. Felix is at the belfry, clanging the bell with all his might. The ship is a hive of noise and activity.

  Numb with shock, the boy clings to the mast and stares dumbly into the distance, where, to his dismay, the apparition he has seen has vanished behind a gathering wall of mist. Flecks of powdered ice drift before his eyes, blurring his vision. All that remains of the icy continent and the flames above the boat is a ghostly, lingering glow. “Ahoy there! Boy!”

  The boy looks down and sees first Mr. Whipstaff and then the captain standing below him on the deck. He opens his mouth to answer, but cannot find the voice to speak. Words fail him. Instead, he gazes down at the terrella, shimmering faintly still against his chest, and hides it deep in the folds of his coat. He knows instinctively that no one will believe him, that gleaming particles have rained down from heaven and filled his sphere with light.

  Jittering more than during his first days at sea, he descends from the mast and manages to coax his shaking legs to carry him the rest of the way to the captain.

  “Yes, what is it?” says Smiling Jack, with his customary frown.

  The captain is a tall, gallant individual, dressed in a dark
blue uniform with golden braids. He has been in a surly mood ever since the boat was blown off course and became stranded in this icy landscape.

  “Speak up, boy.”

  “Able Seaman James Flux,” whispers Mr. Whipstaff in his ear.

  “Explain yourself, Flux.”

  James averts his eyes. “My spyglass, sir,” he says, running his fingers through his wavy hair. “I dropped it from the mast. It … it shattered on the deck. I’m sorry, sir.”

  The captain glances from James to Felix, who has sheepishly approached, holding what remains of a dented spyglass in his hands. His hard emerald eyes narrow with suspicion.

  “And you were the boy on watch?” he asks.

  “Yes, sir,” says James, unwilling to look at Felix directly in case he incriminates him.

  “And pray tell me, Flux, did you see anything that warranted awakening the ship in such a manner?”

  The boy doubts again that anyone will believe him; he has heard too many tales of sailors who have mistaken common gleams of light for unnatural phenomena at sea. “No, sir. There was nothing, sir. Nothing but ice and emptiness, sir.”

  The captain considers his verdict for a long time. “Very well,” he says eventually. “At least you have found us a favorable wind. For that, I suppose, we must thank you.”

  The boy lifts his head. Only now does he feel the cold, cutting breeze on his cheeks.

  Raising his own spyglass to his eye, the captain quickly scans the horizon, but finds nothing of interest and hands the instrument back to Mr. Whipstaff, who swiftly sheathes it in a polished tube. With a visible shudder, he turns to his second in command.

  “Tell the men, Mr. Whipstaff, to raise the sails. Today, we head for New Holland. I have had enough of this accursed climate.”

  A cheer greets this announcement and the men are soon hoisting the sails, which flap and swell above them.

  “And you, Flux,” says the captain, bending down to speak to James privately. “Either you are incredibly lucky or you are damned loyal. Do I make myself clear?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Now get to work. I shall be keeping my eye on you.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  A short while later, once the boat is plowing through the waves, James sneaks back to the stern and watches the icebergs recede into the distance. He is not aware, at first, of the other boy standing close beside him.

  “You saw something from the mast, did you not?” says Felix, his reddish brown hair flapping behind him. Like most of the seamen, he has tied it back in a knot—although in his case, it looks more like a frayed rope than a ponytail.

  James, locked in his thoughts, knows all too well that Felix will not move, will not budge from his side, until he shares his secret. There is a strong, safe silence between them. For the first time he manages a smile.

  “Aye, something strange and mighty powerful, I shouldn’t wonder, Felix,” he says, peering into the waves that chop and churn behind the boat, erasing all memory of their passage through the water. His hands reach for the terrella beneath his jacket and he feels a strange tingling sensation pass through his fingers.

  “I reckon,” he says at last, “that I seen the Breath of God.”

  The Gallows Tree

  For as long as anyone could remember, the children had been drawn to the Gallows Tree. The black twisted oak stood on the outskirts of the city, in the corner of a field not far from the dirt road leading to the hills of Hampstead and Highgate, several miles to the north. The oak was clearly visible from the upper windows of the Foundling Hospital, and the children liked nothing more than to gather under the spell of moonlight and whisper strange stories about the tree.

  “Do you see that shadow in the topmost branches?” said Jonas one night as the boys prepared for bed. “Do you know what it is?”

  The boys pressed closer to the window, ghosting the glass with their breath. They nodded as a small round shape detached itself from the gloom.

  “What is it, Jonas?”

  “Tell us.”

  Jonas’s voice was dark and menacing. “Why, ’tis only Aaron’s head,” he said. “The boy who used to sleep in that bed.”

  He pointed to a narrow cot, one of many that filled the room, causing the little boy who now owned it to cry out in fear. Barely five years old, the new boy had just left his wet nurse in the country and wasn’t yet used to life in the boys’ dormitory. His eyes widened in fright and large tears splotched the front of his nightshirt.

  Voices circled the room.

  “What happened, Jonas?”

  “Go on. Pray tell.”

  Jonas stood for a moment in front of his captive audience and then, like the Reverend Fairweather at the start of one of his sermons, raised a forefinger in the air. “Promise not to repeat a word I say. Not to the Governor, the Reverend, nor the Lord above. Do you promise?”

  “We promise, Jonas.”

  “We swear.”

  The vow passed from mouth to mouth like a secret. Even Tobias, the new boy, managed to murmur his assent.

  When at last the room was quiet, Jonas spoke. A thin, pale-faced boy, he had a shock of dark hair and rings of shadow, like bruises, round his eyes.

  “Aaron took it upon himself to leave the hospital,” he said. “Tired of being a foundling, he was. Wanted to make his own way in the world.”

  His gaze settled briefly on Bottle Top, who was stretched out on his bed, pretending not to listen, and then traveled back to the other boys, who were sitting, cross-legged, on the floor.

  “But all he met was Billy Shrike.”

  “Billy Shrike?” asked the new boy uneasily.

  “A cutthroat,” one of the others whispered.

  The older boys knew that Jonas was lying—Aaron had been apprenticed to a wigmaker in the city—but Jonas was the most senior boy among them, one of the few who could read and write, and his mind was a gruesome compendium of details he had scavenged from the handbills and ballad sheets visitors sometimes left behind in the stalls of the chapel. He could tell you everything, from the names of the criminals in Newgate Prison to the lives of those condemned to hang. Billy Shrike was his most fearsome creation yet: a footpad who liked to stalk the fields by night and snatch young foundlings from their beds.

  Jonas swept the hair out of his eyes and leaned toward Tobias. “The felon was waiting for Aaron near Black Mary’s Hole,” he said, “and slit his throat with a smile … and a rusty knife.”

  The boy who had inherited Aaron’s bed now streaked to the chamber pot in the corner.

  Jonas’s voice pursued him. “Billy put his head in the Gallows Tree to keep an eye on you, Tobias. To warn us not to let you escape. For, if you do, he’ll hunt you down and—”

  “Stop it! You’re frightening him!”

  Heads turned to find Bottle Top standing on his bed. Dressed in a rumpled white nightshirt that came down to his knees, he looked like an enraged angel—except that his ankles were smeared with dirt and his wild flaxen hair shone messily in the moonlight. The air made a slight whistling noise as it passed between his teeth, which were chipped and cracked.

  Jonas stepped toward him and, for a moment, the two boys glared at each other, face to face; then Jonas glanced at the new boy in the corner.

  “Have we frightened you, Tobias?” he asked, with false kindness.

  Tobias, crouched near the floor, looked from one boy to the other. Then he noticed the small gang slowly crowding round its leader and sniffed back his tears.

  “No,” he mumbled. “I’m not frightened.”

  “Bah!” exclaimed Bottle Top, throwing himself back on his bed and rolling over to face the wall, defeated. “The devil take you all!”

  “Shhh! Someone’s coming,” said a voice from the opposite end of the room. Cirrus had pressed his ear closer to the door and was listening for any trace of movement. He backed away as he heard the first heavy footfall of the Governor on the stairs.

  Quickly and quietly, the boys retu
rned to their beds, while Cirrus rushed from window to window, closing the tall wooden shutters, which had been folded back to reveal the moonlit night outside. He gazed into the dark stretch of fields—at the wide expanse of grass and the huddled hills beyond. Then, as he came to the last window, he noticed the Gallows Tree.

  Sure enough, exactly as Jonas had said, there was a head-shaped shadow in the topmost branches; but now, standing beside the tree, there was also the unmistakable figure of a man. Cirrus could not distinguish him clearly, but the man appeared to be wearing a long black coat—just like a highwayman—and a three-cornered hat that obscured part of his brow. His hands were cupped round a flickering flame that cast an uncertain glow on what was exposed of his face. At first, Cirrus thought it might be a lantern, but, as he watched, the flame slowly escaped from the man’s fingers and rose in the air.

  A key scraped in the lock.

  Cirrus spun round and saw a thin wedge of light slide under the door. Immediately, he closed the wooden shutters, ran across to his bed and leapt under the covers. He lay perfectly still, hoping that his racing heart would not betray him.

  Light seeped into the room and the short, stubby figure of Mr. Chalfont, the Governor, appeared. Carrying a candle, he trod up and down the dormitory, in between the rows of beds, checking on the boys, who all seemed to be sleeping peacefully, snoring at intervals.

  Cirrus watched the steady advance of candlelight from under his blanket and sucked in his breath as it paused briefly above his head. He could smell the Governor’s familiar aroma of pipe smoke and brandy, and was reminded of those nights, many years ago, when Mr. Chalfont had taken him aside and shown him the treasures in his study. He had been just a small boy then, no older than four or five, and more interested in the private stash of ginger, which the Governor kept in a tin in his desk, than the dramatic seascapes on the walls.

  “Good night, lads,” said Mr. Chalfont at last, breaking into Cirrus’s thoughts. “Sleep tight.”

  He made his way across the room, closed the door behind him and locked it.