The Story of Cirrus Flux Page 15

“A reasonable fit, all things considered,” he said, cutting a length of rope from a coil in the basket. He looped it quickly round her waist and tied the ends in a knot. “Can’t have your trousers falling down if you’re to be my Able Seaman, can we?”

  Pandora blushed, not sure whether it was from embarrassment or pleasure.

  “Are we flying again in the moon-sail?” she asked hopefully, her eyes drifting to the net of fabric.

  “Course not,” said Mr. Hardy. “It ain’t safe, child, not with Mr. Sidereal watching.” He motioned toward the ground with his knife. “No, we’re going to do some walking. Now get some food down you and we’ll be off.”

  He offered her a hunk of bread and cheese, which she followed with a sip of his brandy. The rich, fiery liquid stripped the back of her throat and made her eyes water. She coughed a little and then smiled as a warm sensation glowed in her stomach.

  At this moment Alerion swooped down from the top of the belfry and alighted on the metal perch between them. Pandora gazed into the bird’s red and gold plumage, marveling at its appearance. Each feather was like a spark, ready to ignite into flame.

  “What is she exactly?” she asked, breathless with admiration.

  Mr. Hardy reached into a sack behind him and pulled out a dozen dead rats, tied together by their tails. Alerion was watching him closely, her eager eyes aflame. Her short, curved beak opened to reveal a crimson tongue.

  “A Halcyon Bird,” he said, tossing Alerion a rodent.

  She snared it in her claws and pulled strings of meat from the carcass.

  “Where did she come from?”

  “From the other side of the world,” said Mr. Hardy. “Like I told you. An island no bigger than this city, off the tip of Cape Horn.”

  Pandora peered into the distance—past the wharves and warehouses along the riverbank, and the tanneries and mills. All she could see at the far end of the city was a forest of masts and rigging.

  “There was an ancient people on that island,” continued Mr. Hardy. “The Oona tribe. They spoke another language. They could even speak to birds.”

  Pandora’s eyes widened. “How, then, did you understand them?”

  Mr. Hardy was silent for a moment. “Like all things, it took time,” he said. “I learned some of their ways; they learned some of mine.”

  Alerion was preening herself, fluffing her wings, sending hot sparks into the air. He tossed her another rat.

  “They were a peaceful tribe,” he said, rising to his feet and walking to the edge of the cathedral. “They belonged to the earth, whereas we”—he swept his eyes over the city—“we believe it belongs to us.”

  Pandora stood beside him. For an instant the sun broke through the clouds and transformed the river into gold. The city glowed in a luminous haze. But then, just as suddenly, the sun dipped back into hiding and the city was filled again with shadow and smoke.

  “You say they were a peaceful nation,” said Pandora hesitantly. “What happened to them, Mr. Hardy?”

  He stared into the distance. The light faded from his eyes.

  “The Oona tribe is gone, girl,” he said. “Dead.”

  He marched back to the moon-sail and started shoving supplies into the basket. “After our ship went down, others came looking for the Breath of God. Some chanced upon the island. When they discovered that I did not have the sphere—indeed, that James had not brought it with him—they took whatever they could find and killed the birds for sport.”

  Mr. Hardy glanced at the bird above them. “Only one egg was spared and that was Alerion’s. A Halcyon Bird, see, takes years to hatch. They’re resilient creatures, but rare. Alerion … well, she’s the last of her kind.”

  Pandora stared at the bird with burning eyes. Tears were running down her cheeks.

  Mr. Hardy’s voice was now little more than a whisper. “The ships left something even more terrible in their wake. Disease. The whole tribe was ravaged by fever. I was the only survivor. Eventually I flagged down a passing ship, using light reflected from a mirror, and worked my way back to this godforsaken island.”

  He reached into a sack, pulled out another dead rat and flung it to Alerion, who snagged it in her claws and devoured it.

  “She certainly eats a lot,” said Pandora, watching carefully.

  Mr. Hardy finally managed a smile. “Aye. Halcyon Birds grow at an alarming rate and this one’s got a voracious appetite.”

  “May I feed her?” asked Pandora suddenly.

  Mr. Hardy turned toward her. “I don’t see as why not,” he said, offering her a rat. “Flinging it by the tail is best.”

  “No,” said Pandora nervously. “I mean, may I feed her … by hand?”

  Mr. Hardy swallowed. “Oh, I don’t know about that. She’s a mighty fearsome creature. Halcyons don’t take kindly to strangers.”

  “Please,” said Pandora. “I’d like to try.”

  Alerion cocked her head and regarded Pandora with a ruby eye.

  “Very well, if you must,” said Mr. Hardy, rising to his feet. “But first put on these.” He handed her a pair of thick leather gloves. “Otherwise, she’ll make a feast of your fingers.”

  Pandora slid her hands into the scabby interior, as stiff as a plate of armor round her wrists.

  “Now raise your arm,” said Mr. Hardy, “and hold it steady like the branch of a tree.”

  Pandora did as she was told, shaking a little as Alerion bobbed up and down. And then, in a blaze of fire, the bird leapt forward and hooked her talons round Pandora’s narrow wrist. She settled there, surprisingly light and agile.

  A laugh escaped Pandora’s lips. She could feel the fiery feathers burning into her skin, but she didn’t want to let go; she wanted to hold on to this moment forever. She accepted a rat from Mr. Hardy and, with her spare hand, raised it carefully to the bird’s beak, watching as Alerion ripped long fatty ribbons from the gray body.

  “She’s beautiful,” Pandora said, her heart thumping inside her.

  “Aye, that she is,” said Mr. Hardy fondly. “But now, Pandora, we must go. We’ve a boy to find.”

  Pandora carried Alerion back to her perch and then followed Mr. Hardy to the corner of the roof, where a ladder led down to a small door in the nearby bell tower.

  “How are we going to find him?” she asked.

  “I’ve been thinking about that,” said Mr. Hardy. “You say that Mr. Sidereal’s been watching the city from his observatory high above the rooftops. Well, I suggest we start by watching him instead. For, if what you say is true and he may have seen the boy, I reckon it’s only a matter of time before he leads us to him.”

  The Hanging Boy

  Cirrus was in the aviary when Bottle Top found him. The Hall of Wonders had closed its doors for the afternoon, allowing the boys a few hours of precious freedom before the evening performance. Cirrus had come here on his own, preferring the company of the birds to the rough-and-tumble boys, who were no doubt still wrestling on the beds upstairs. Hundreds of birds were arranged in the glass cases around him: toucans, peacocks, parrots, owls and even luminescent hummingbirds that dangled from the ceiling.

  He climbed one of the ladders that had been propped up around the room and began wiping a rag along the jars.

  “What’re you doing?” asked Bottle Top, reclining on a cushioned bench behind him. Only a handful of visitors had trickled through the museum that afternoon, but he had regaled nearly all of them with his accounts of the more gruesome exhibits. His voice was hoarse and croaky.

  “Mr. Leechcraft told me to make myself useful,” said Cirrus, spitting on a jar and buffing it to a fine polish. “I’m cleaning the cages.”

  “Well, he ain’t here now, so you don’t have to work so hard,” said Bottle Top, removing one of his shoes and massaging his heel.

  Cirrus said nothing, but continued wiping his rag along the shelves. Up close, he could see that many of the birds were badly stuffed, fixed with twine or else pinned by rusty nails to the branches that
were supposed to represent their natural habitats. Some of their eyes had fallen out, and their bodies were coming undone at the seams.

  “Don’t you ever feel sorry for these birds?” he said at last. “They ought to be free, not cooped up here in cages.”

  “They’re dead, Cirrus.”

  “Well, they oughtn’t to be,” said Cirrus. “It’s not right. Things oughtn’t to be left to rot like this.”

  Bottle Top was watching him closely. “What’s on your mind, Cirrus? Is there something you ain’t telling me?”

  Cirrus shook his head. One of the jars was particularly dusty and he blew on it to reveal a small speckled bird inside. It had an ornate feathery headdress and a wide, gaping bill. He read the label—Owlet Nightjar, Native of Australasia—and patted the token from his father, resolving to find out later where that was.

  “Don’t you like it here at the museum?” continued Bottle Top.

  “It isn’t that,” said Cirrus, adjusting the cord round his neck. “It’s just that I wasn’t entirely honest yesterday about why I left the hospital.”

  Bottle Top rose from his bench and drew up another ladder so that he was side by side with his friend. “Tell me,” he said.

  Cirrus was quiet for a moment, dusting and redusting the same jar, then he finally told Bottle Top about sneaking into the Governor’s study and finding the ledger full of names and numbers.

  “There were tokens, too,” he said. “In the drawers. One for each child, I should reckon. Keepsakes, mementoes and letters full of grief and sadness, written by mothers for the babies they had to leave behind.” He took a deep breath. “Only there weren’t nothing like that for me.”

  Bottle Top regarded him thoughtfully. “I don’t see why you’re so upset,” he said eventually. “We was all abandoned at the hospital, Cirrus. Ain’t none of us was truly wanted. That’s why we’re to look after each other now.”

  “That isn’t all,” said Cirrus, inching closer to the truth. “I found out who it was left me there.” He gripped the sides of the ladder and stared straight ahead. “My father,” he said.

  “Your father?”

  Cirrus felt a chill creep over him. “Turns out he paid to get rid of me.”

  Bottle Top’s jaw dropped open.

  “How much did he pay?” he asked in a whisper.

  Cirrus continued dusting the owlet nightjar, pretending he had not heard.

  “How much?” asked Bottle Top again.

  “A hundred pounds,” said Cirrus very softly.

  Bottle Top’s face was suddenly alive with excitement. “A hundred pounds! You know what this means, don’t you?” He grabbed Cirrus by the arm. “You’re from a wealthy family, Cirrus! Gentry, even! Only a rich gentleman could afford a sum like that.”

  Cirrus stopped rubbing the glass jar and frowned at his reflection. “It doesn’t mean that at all,” he said. “It means I weren’t wanted. I weren’t wanted so much, my father paid to get rid of me. I must have been a great disappointment to him.”

  “Nonsense,” said Bottle Top. “It means you’re special, Cirrus! You was always the Governor’s favorite for a reason.”

  Cirrus whipped his hand away and stared at his friend. “What’s that supposed to mean?” he said.

  “Just what I told you,” said Bottle Top. “The Governor always treated you special. Like you was royalty or something.”

  “Well, you don’t know anything,” said Cirrus bitterly, and jumped down from the ladder. “Your mam probably dropped you off at the hospital the moment she laid eyes on you.”

  Cirrus stormed to the other side of the room and climbed another ladder to hide his emotions. He was annoyed with Bottle Top for not sympathizing with his situation, but he was also hurt and angered by his father for abandoning him at the hospital all those years ago. Besides, Bottle Top was wrong: Mr. Chalfont couldn’t have cared about him that much; he had been willing to give the man from Black Mary’s Hole his token, after all.

  Breathing heavily, Cirrus set to work on the remaining jars. Some of them looked as though they hadn’t been cleaned in ages, and he flicked his rag at them angrily, expelling little clouds of dust in the air.

  Suddenly, he stopped.

  One of the jars contained a pile of feathers that looked nearly identical to the ones he had seen below the Gallows Tree only a few weeks before. A heap of light gray ashes, streaked here and there with orange and crimson. He found a label near the bottom of the jar, written in a spidery hand:

  Cirrus creased his brow, struggling to make sense of the words, and was just about to check the sphere round his neck, to see where Tierra del Fuego might be, when he caught Bottle Top watching him from the other side of the room.

  “What you got there, Cirrus?” asked Bottle Top moodily.

  “Nothing,” said Cirrus, returning the sphere to its hiding place.

  “You’re lying. I saw it. There’s something round your neck.”

  Bottle Top got down from his ladder and moved toward him, but then a bell shrilled somewhere in the museum and he turned to the door.

  “What’s happening?” asked Cirrus, dismounting more slowly.

  “It’s time for the evening performance,” said Bottle Top quickly. “I’ve got to prepare.”

  He scurried back through the museum. Silently, Cirrus put down his rag and followed.

  Upstairs, the other boys were hurriedly pulling on their jackets and dabbing rouge on their cheeks. The air swam with perfume and powder. Bottle Top was seated before a tarnished mirror on the wall, checking his reflection.

  “Pass me that bottle of ceruse, will you?” he demanded, as Cirrus walked past.

  Cirrus looked around, found a bottle of smelly white powder and handed it to Bottle Top, who smeared it all over his face.

  Cirrus watched him in the glass.

  “I’m sorry,” he said at last.

  “What for?” said Bottle Top, averting his eyes.

  “For what I said earlier,” said Cirrus. “About your mam. I didn’t mean it. I know she would’ve cared.” He hesitated. “As do I.”

  Bottle Top tilted his face and applied some more powder to the base of his chin. Then he smacked his lips together and opened his mouth.

  “Doesn’t matter,” he said finally, inspecting his teeth. “Now pass me my wings.”

  Cirrus glanced around the room, confused, and then saw a silver jacket with two surprisingly heavy wings, made from goose feathers, protruding from the back of it.

  “You look just like an angel,” said Cirrus aloud as Bottle Top slid his arms into the sleeves.

  Bottle Top took one more look at himself in the mirror and grinned. “I’m Cupid with the Sparkling Kiss,” he said.

  Another bell rang and the boys promptly grabbed their wigs from the wooden bedposts, where they had impaled them, and tramped down the stairs. Bottle Top followed more slowly, taking care not to damage his wings, while Cirrus lagged a few steps behind.

  Two flights down, he noticed that one of the doors was ajar and peeked in to see Mr. Leechcraft seated behind a worn wooden desk. The man’s head was wigless and bare, in need of a shave, and he had rolled up his shirtsleeves, which looked grubby and soiled.

  Mr. Leechcraft caught him watching and rose from the chair. He took his wig from its stand, grabbed his amber cane and quickly advanced toward the door, donning his frock coat as he came. By the time he reached the landing he was a new man.

  “Are you ready, my boy?” he said to Bottle Top, who was waiting nearby.

  Bottle Top nodded and a halo of powder drifted down to the ground.

  “Good. Perform well tonight,” said Mr. Leechcraft, “and there’ll be a shilling in it for you. I am expecting a special guest. A gentleman from the Guild.”

  “The Guild?” asked Cirrus, convinced he had heard the word somewhere before.

  Mr. Leechcraft regarded him curiously. “The Guild of Empirical Science,” he said, arching a brow. “The foremost body of natural philosophers in
the land. Impress upon them the importance of our work here and our fortunes will be assured. I trust you will not let me down, Abraham?”

  Bottle Top straightened. “Don’t you worry about a thing, sir. I’ll make the audience scream!”

  “Good,” said Mr. Leechcraft, tapping him on the shoulder with his cane. Then he turned to Cirrus and his expression changed. “As for you,” he said, running his eyes over the boy’s unruly hair, “watch everything closely and keep out of sight. Do I make myself clear? I have not decided what to do with you yet.”

  “Yes, sir,” said Cirrus.

  “Now come along. We haven’t much time.”

  Swinging his amber cane, he led the pair down the steps and through the darkening hall, full of shadowy exhibits, to a special auditorium at the back of the museum. Cirrus felt a vague sense of apprehension creep over him as they approached the black curtain he had seen before.

  “Welcome to my Electrical Chamber,” said Mr. Leechcraft, sweeping the curtain aside. “Where I perform my investigations into Aethereal fire!”

  They entered a small amphitheater, lit with flickering candles. Tiers of gold-backed chairs surrounded a stage, on which various pieces of equipment had been arranged. Cirrus was immediately struck by a lethal-looking machine with two glass disks, the size of cartwheels, suspended vertically within a tall wooden frame. This was attached to a long metal rod that extended halfway across the stage.

  Mr. Leechcraft snatched a candelabrum from a passing boy and led them down the aisle.

  “This is my electrostatic machine,” he said, stroking the gleaming gun barrel with his hand. “When I turn the handle here”—he indicated a crank behind the glass wheels—“sparks of Aethereal fire rush out of the other end. It is most extraordinary.”

  Cirrus, however, was momentarily distracted by a flat wooden swing that Micah was lowering from the ceiling. It came to rest just a few inches away from the nose of the machine.

  “Ah, the highlight of the performance,” said Mr. Leechcraft, looking at Bottle Top expectantly. “The Hanging Boy.”

  As Cirrus watched, Bottle Top slipped off his shoes and wriggled into position on the swing. He lay lengthwise, so that his chest and stomach were pressed against the board, but his arms and legs were free to dangle from either end. It looked just as if he were swimming in midair.