Cloud Walker, All Fools' Day, Far Sunset (8 page)

Thus Brother Sebastian’s quandary. Kieron, though a commoner, was now a person of some importance – temporarily, at least.

‘Tell me, brother, how came you to break the limb?’ This was a rhetorical question, because everyone in the seigneurie knew how Kieron had broken his leg.

‘Brother Sebastian, I was but flying a kite,’ said Kieron carefully.

‘A kite? You were flying a kite. I have been misinformed, it seems. I had heard that you were flying
in
a kite.’

Kieron thought for a moment or two. Brother Sebastian had flung back his
cowl. His head was clean-shaven; his face, totally visible, seemed totally innocent.

‘It is true, brother,’ amended Kieron. ‘I was flying in a kite.’

‘It must have been an exceptionally large kite.’

‘It was, Brother Sebastian. It was a very large kite. I designed it.’

‘And who aided you in this project, Kieron?’

Kieron thought carefully. If he admitted that Aylwin had obtained the sail canvas, that they had both cut the willow rods and that Sholto, the smith, had been persuaded to make fastenings for the harness, it could seem like conspiracy.

‘No one, Brother Sebastian. It is true I coaxed the miller’s prentice to hold the rope. He is but a stupid fellow and fit for nothing but the grinding of corn. However, dull though he is, it pleased me to make use of him. I little recked that he would take panic when I rose into the air.’

The neddy stroked his chin thoughtfully. ‘That must indeed have been a sight.’

‘Indeed it must, brother,’ said Kieron with unguarded enthusiasm. ‘There was a steady and strong offshore breeze, and I rose up from the beach, my legs dancing and seeking footholds where there were none. It was a wonderful feeling. I rose more than ten times the height of a man before the loop of cord was jerked from its hook.’

‘You were lucky, Kieron, that the sea broke your fall.’

‘That is why I waited for an offshore wind,’ explained Kieron. ‘That is why I chose to experiment on the beach.’

‘Experiment?’ Brother Sebastian raised his eyebrows. Experiment was a dangerous word. It smelled of fire.

‘Experiment in the sense of finding out how to handle the kite,’ amended Kieron hastily. ‘Nothing more.’

Brother Sebastian stroked his chin slowly. At length, he said: ‘The kite was made of sail-cloth and willow wands.’

‘Yes, brother.’

‘And the harness as you call it had metal fastenings which could only have been fashioned by the smith.’

‘Yes, brother.’

‘It was a very ambitious kite, Kieron.’

‘Yes, Brother Sebastian. It was a very ambitious kite.’

‘And you designed it alone?’

‘I designed it alone.’

‘Sholto did not know your purpose?’

‘No, brother.’

‘And the boy Aylwin helped you only by anchoring the cord and by moving as directed?’

‘Yes, brother.’

‘I am told you instructed him in the use of a pulley, by which means he could control the kite without great exertion to himself.’

‘You are well informed.’

‘Yes, Kieron. I am well informed.’

‘The pulley. It is a very simple principle.’

‘Simple principles can be dangerous, Kieron. You have been instructed in the Holy Scripture, have you not?’

‘Yes, brother.’

‘Men have burned for simple principles, Kieron. Remember that.’

Kieron wanted to rise from his bed and strangle this dull-witted neddy. But he had enough wit to say docilely: ‘Yes, Brother Sebastian.’

‘I have heard,’ went on the neddy, ‘that folk call you Kieron-head-in-the-air. Why should they call you that?’

Kieron thought quickly, gave a shrug, and laughed. ‘Since I fell from Mistress Alyx Fitzalan’s mare, they also call me Kieron-arse-in-the-muck. People amuse themselves as they wish.’ It seemed as good a time as any to remind Brother Sebastian that Kieron was permitted to ride with Seigneur Fitzalan’s daughter.

The neddy was not to be distracted. ‘You do not know why they call you Kieron-head-in-the-air?’

‘Brother, perhaps it is because I often look at the sky. The sky is a wonderful place. It is ever-changing. Its moods are always different.’

‘You are fascinated by the sky?’

‘Yes, Brother Sebastian, I am fascinated by the sky.’

‘And you wish to voyage through it?’

Now, there was a dangerous question. Kieron was immediately alert to its implications.

‘The sky, the firmament, is beautiful,’ he said carefully. ‘The artist in me is profoundly moved by its aspects, and by the subtle changes it undergoes throughout the seasons … To the greater glory of Ludd.’

Brother Sebastian crossed himself. ‘To the greater glory of Ludd,’ he echoed automatically. After a reverent pause, he continued: ‘But do you wish to voyage through it?’

Kieron’s leg was hurting, and sweat was forming on his forehead, and he did not know how long he could endure the damnable persistence of the neddy.

‘I can admire the freedom of the bird without wishing to sprout feathers. I am a man, Brother Sebastian, accepting the freedom and the limitations of men. I rejoice in my human condition.’

‘But, Kieron, my brother, do you wish to fly?’

‘Brother Sebastian, I do not wish to be a bird.’

Brother Sebastian sighed, and looked unhappy. ‘Your answers are less than direct.’

‘I am sorry, brother. I thought my answers were accurate and truthful. This accursed leg gives me pain. Perhaps I do not think too clearly.’

‘Perhaps so. I shall report our conversation to Holy Church, Kieron. Others, more competent than I, will consider it.’

‘That is well, Brother Sebastian,’ said Kieron, thinking it was far from well. ‘Perhaps my childish adventure was ill-timed.’

‘Kites are for children only, Kieron. Remember that. You are almost a man.’

‘I will remember it.’

‘Further, a kite is but a toy. But if a man should choose to ride a kite, it could be interpreted as a machine.’

‘I will remember that also.’

‘I shall pray for you,’ said Brother Sebastian. ‘You have a great future. Master Hobart tells me that you are gifted in your craft. Do not spoil that future, Kieron. Good painters are rare. Evil men are with us always.’

‘I will remember your words, Brother Sebastian, and I shall dwell upon your wisdom.’

‘Ludd be with you, my brother.’

‘And with you also.’

‘Farewell, then.’ Brother Sebastian departed. Hardly had he gone, when Alyx came into the room.

‘How went your discussion with Brother Sebastian?’

‘He is a fool.’

‘My love, I know that. But was he satisfied?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘You should know. Why don’t you know?’

‘Because I too am a fool,’ said Kieron irritably, ‘and my leg twitches …’ Then he smiled, and added: ‘And it is a fine day, and I would be out walking in the woods with you.’

‘This will teach you to try to walk upon air, when we have so little time.’ She shuddered. ‘You could have been killed. Promise me to be more careful, Kieron.’

He glanced at his leg. ‘I can hardly be but careful, Alyx.’

‘Not now, dolt. In the future, as. you well know.’

‘I will be careful until you are carried off to Talbot’s bed,’ he promised rightly. ‘Then I will construct a kite that shall raise me high above your father’s castle. Then I will leap from it and dash myself to death before his eyes.’

Alyx pouted. ‘I wish Talbot would die. I truly do. And I wish the plague or somesuch would carry off that dreadful Petrina, with her peasant breasts and a bottom like a cow’s rump. Ludd forgive me, I pray for these things.’

‘Petrina does not have a bottom like a cow’s rump.’

‘She does so. I have studied her.’

He laughed. ‘Ah, you have studied her, Green Eyes.’

‘I hate you! I hate you.’

‘Come, let me sketch you while the fire still consumes you. I must earn my keep lest Seigneur Fitzalan and Master Hobart begin to imagine the absurdity that is the truth.’

‘Peasant!’ she stormed.

‘Yes, I am a peasant,’ he replied tranquilly. ‘Be mindful that the gulf between us is great – with or without Talbot and Petrina.’

‘I love you, and I would die for you. Is that not enough?’

‘It is too much. I love you, as you know, Alyx, and we must both live in a world where such love is an affront to the minds of men … Besides, I have a destiny to fulfil.’

‘I would not stop you painting.’

‘You would stop me flying.’

She looked at him in amazement. ‘Flying! Kieron, my love. You are mad. Men do not fly. Men will not fly.’

‘Yes, I am mad – and I will fly. I will construct a machine that—’

‘Do not speak of machines! Or, if you must, to me only. Machines are evil. That is the word of the Divine Boy, that is the teaching of Holy Church, that is what all men know.’

‘And yet,’ said Kieron, ‘it is not true. Machines cannot be evil. Evil lies only with the human spirit … I will fly, I swear it. I will fly for the good of men. By the spirits of the Brothers Montgolfier, of Otto Lilienthal, of the great Santos Dumont, and of the Brothers Wright, I so swear.’

‘Who are these creatures?’

‘Nothing but ghosts. Great and friendly ghosts. Men who lived centuries ago upon earth and raised their eyes unto the stars … I read of them in the book you gave me’.

‘I had done better to burn it. My father does not read, and therefore cannot have known that his library contained heresy.’

‘Had you burned it, Alyx, I still would have lifted my eyes unto the stars. It is not in the nature of man to remain earthbound … Come, kiss me. Then I will try to be of some credit to Master Hobart.’

The days passed quickly. Kieron’s leg mended and was not noticeably shorter. Spring deepened into summer – and brought a bloom to Mistress Alyx’s face that did not pass unnoticed. She taught Kieron to ride – or, at least, not to fall off a horse when it was in motion. He made studies of horses. Horses grazing, horses ambling, galloping, jumping. The first time Alyx took her mount over a seven-bar gate for him, he was too terrified to put charcoal to paper.

‘My love, never again! Don’t do it. You are like to break your neck.’

‘Poof! Thus speaks the cloud walker, who rose ten times the height of a man and fell into the sea.’ And, to emphasise her point, she put her horse to the gate again; and rose, chestnut hair streaming in the sunlight, to ride like a goddess between sky and earth in a moment of infinite beauty.

Kieron worked like a demon, like one possessed. He made a hundred sketches and discarded ninety. This portrait of Alyx Fitzalan would be his sole claim to greatness as an artist. He knew it would be good, because it would be compounded of love, of beauty, of youth, and of joy in life.

Master Hobart coughed much and complained little. He complained little because Kieron had ceased to complain at all.

Hobart gazed at the sketches he brought back, and was filled with wonder. The boy had achieved rapport with his subject. There was elegance in his work and, yes, greatness. Hobart reached for the usquebaugh or the eau de vie and contemplated this greatness. Escapades with kites mattered little – indeed, were irrelevant – against such purity of line, such mastery of motion.

Soon, Kieron would begin to paint. Not at the castle, but in Hobart’s studio. And the painting would be a masterpiece, signed Hobart. And when is was acclaimed a masterpiece, Hobart would add: app Kieron. Thus would his life’s work be completed. Thus would Kieron be set upon the path to fame.

Kieron executed the painting in one day only. One day being a full twenty-four hours. During that time, he did not speak. He did not recognise Hobart. The old man hovered about the canvas, wringing his hands, and Kieron did not know him. The Widow Thatcher brought food. Kieron stared at her, uncomprehending, and the food was left untouched. As darkness fell, Hobart brought lamps, many lamps, and squandered whale oil prodigiously. Kieron muttered to himself at the change of light, but did not know what brought it about.

Once he fell to the floor, and was conscious of someone forcing a fluid that burned between his lips. He got up, and went back to the canvas. The rider was finished; but the fetlocks of the leaping horse were wrong. He scraped them away from the canvas and started again.

Now, what of that damned tail? And the nostrils? And, Ludd have mercy, the mane? And now the eyes were wrong. The creature should have great, proud eyes as it supported its glorious rider in that impossible leap. He looked at Alyx once more. Purgatory and damnation! The hair was wrong. That long, beautiful hair should flow with movement, be alive in this instant with a life of its own.

Master Hobart tended the oil lamps and drank usquebaugh and muttered plaintively to himself and gazed with awe at the young man who seemed to be engaged in a life or death battle with brushes and pigments as his weapons.

Who was the enemy? Hobart asked himself blearily, drunk with spirits and fatigue. Who was the enemy against which Kieron waged so ferocious a battle? It came to him that the enemy was time. Kieron was not only trying to paint a great portrait, he was challenging the Adversary, He was the Life Force incarnate; and every brush stroke was a sword thrust. He was declaring his bid for immortality.

The picture was finished shortly after daybreak. Hobart, who had dozed intermittently, drew back the curtains from the window but left the oil-lamps burning.

Kieron stood in front of the canvas. Brushes and palette had dropped from his exhausted hands.

Hobart gazed at the portrait and wept, knowing that he was in the presence of greatness.

Kieron looked at him, pale, drawn, red-eyed. ‘I have done my best, Master Hobart. What say you?’

‘My son, my son!’ the old man was beside himself. ‘You have joined the ranks of the immortals. I am a fool. I presumed to teach you. But now that it is too late, I know how much I had to learn.’

‘If you love me,’ said Kieron, ‘you will sign it Hobart. You will add nothing.’

‘Kieron, I am not worthy.’

‘The style is yours. Had you been younger, the brush strokes would have been yours.’

‘The brush strokes could never have been mine.’