The Story of Cirrus Flux (18 page)

“Alerion!” shouted the man, tilting his head toward the bird, which was flapping its wings above them, struggling to keep the vessel in one place. “Up, girl, up!”

The magnificent bird gave a ferocious squawk and sent a plume of flame into the air. Immediately, the basket began to rise and Pandora was lifted free—away from the window and Madame Orrery’s grasping hands. The woman shrieked with rage.

For a heart-stopping moment Pandora dangled outside the basket, treading air, supported only by the stranger’s arms, which were hooked round her aching armpits. Then, with a sigh of relief, she felt him begin to haul her in. He lifted her up over the edge of the basket and she slipped into a mound of smelly blankets.

She lay perfectly still, struggling to catch her breath, her mouth open, her heart flailing inside her. Wind rushed through the slats of the wicker basket, cooling her brow, and she could hear the ropes creaking and cracking above her. Just how safe was this rickety contraption?

Slowly, tremulously, she got to her feet.

They were high above the city now. Rooftops drifted far below them, like the floor of a craggy sea, while clouds churned overhead, rumbling with distant thunder. A storm ringed the horizon.

The man was standing next to a slender pole in the
center of the craft, shifting his weight from side to side, riding the air currents like waves. He was dressed in a dark blue jacket that, like the rest of him, was covered in grime. On his head he wore a three-cornered hat, and his breeches were made from some kind of dun-colored hide.

Hot gusts of flame emanated from the bird above them, and Pandora peered up at the majestic creature. It was perched on a bar at the top of the pole, underneath the mouth of bulging fabric. It was amazing! She had never seen anything so graceful and yet so wild. Its wings appeared to be ablaze with fire. Every now and then it lost a feather, which fluttered through the air like a red-hot spark, slowly losing its color.

“She must be so strong, to keep us in the air like this.”

The man regarded Pandora with a curious expression. “Aye, that she is,” he said. “Alerion is a mighty powerful creature. Though it ain’t muscle alone that’s keeping us aloft. It’s the power of the air.”

“The air?” asked Pandora, puzzled.

The man nodded. “Hot air rises, see? And that there sail is harnessing the air that rises off the bird. It’s like the mainsail of a boat, capturing the wind. That’s what’s keeping us afloat.”

“The moon-sail?” asked Pandora, failing to grasp his meaning. She gazed into the gleaming sail. It appeared to be made of hundreds of bits of fabric, all stitched together and covered with a resinous glaze.

The man considered her again. “Aye, the moon-sail,” he said, with a laugh. “That about sums it up.”

A sudden gust of wind punched them to one side and the basket dipped unexpectedly, knocking Pandora off her feet. She landed with a thump against the man’s woollen jacket. She inhaled its rich, earthy scent: a mixture of woodsmoke, tar and something else. A faraway spice.

She regarded him more closely, wondering where he had come from and how he knew the boy. For the first time she noticed the peculiar markings on his face: a series of loops and whirls and patterned dots, almost hidden beneath the layers of grime. His eyes, however, were kind—a delicate blue, like bird’s eggs discovered in a nest.

The man settled her back on her feet.

“Careful now,” he said. “Otherwise it’ll be girl over-board—and I ain’t planning to be rid of you just yet, not now you’ve decided to tag along. You’ve got to show me where to find the boy.”

Her spirits sank as she looked down at the darkened streets. It was difficult to see anything in the gloom, let alone a square with a golden statue. Canyons of shadow stretched before her eyes and she could just make out the curve of the Thames as it threaded its way through the city.

“About the boy,” she admitted feebly, “I’m not entirely certain where he is. When I saw him last he was in a garden. There was a statue of a horse and rider in it.”

The man regarded her for a moment and then let out a weary sigh. “Aye, I feared as much,” he said. “That could be anywhere, child. I knew it was a mistake to believe you could help me.”

He shifted his weight and the vessel turned away from the river, slowly heading north.

“Where are we going?” she asked, suddenly afraid that he planned to take her back to the house in Midas Row.

“To the fields,” he said. “A safe place I know. I’ll let you down near the Foundling Hospital. The Governor will take you in, I reckon.”

“No!” said Pandora quickly. “You mustn’t go there. I don’t think it’s safe.”

The man looked at her, confused. “Whatever do you mean?”

She told him about Mr. Sidereal’s eye and the things she had seen from his observatory. “Mr. Sidereal saw you flying above the fields,” she said. “He and Madame Orrery know you’re searching for the boy. They’ll almost certainly look for you there again.”

The man was silent for a moment, a frown troubling his brow.

“Mr. Sidereal?” he said at last. “Are you certain? A man in a wheeled chair?”

Pandora nodded. “He has lenses all over London. They’re aimed at the ground. I think he knows you from somewhere.”

“Aye,” said the man. “I’ve met him before.” His voice was grim. “It’s worse than I feared. The Guild may already be involved. It’s even more crucial that I find the boy and his sphere.”

The sphere … Once again Pandora glanced at the man, curious to know why he was looking for it as well. But before
she could ask any questions, he had taken a spyglass from his pocket and was scouring the city. She noticed a small dent in its side.

Finally the scowl on his face lifted and he put the spyglass away.

“You’d best brace yourself,” he said to Pandora. “We’ll be anchoring soon.”

“Anchoring?” she said, peering down. All she could see was a jumble of rooftops and spires. Where could they possibly land?

“Now don’t you worry,” said the man. “Just grab hold of something—and don’t let go. It may be a bit bumpy at first.”

Pandora bunched herself into the furthest corner of the basket and shrank into its sides, reaching up to hold on to the ropes above her. She could tell where they were headed: the cathedral was drawing ever nearer, an enormous chalk-white building capped by a spectacular dome.

“St. Paul’s?” she murmured weakly.

The man nodded. “Aye. If, as you say, Mr. Sidereal has lenses all over London, directed at the ground, then I suggest we spend the night in the one place he won’t be able to see us. Behind the dome.”

Pandora felt a tremor pass through her. All of a sudden the basket they were in seemed very small and vulnerable compared to the massive edifice they were approaching. She tightened her grip on the ropes and took a deep breath as the wind nudged them even closer.

“Steady now, Alerion,” the man called up to the bird,
which was carrying them over the surrounding streets. And then, on his instruction, the bird folded its wings.

Immediately, the air grew still and quiet, apart from the silken rustle of the sheets. Pandora watched as the moon-sail lost its luster and light.

For a moment the basket continued on its upward trajectory; then, as the air around it cooled, the vessel started to sink.

Slowly at first, then faster.

Pandora felt a slight wobble beneath her feet. The man had fixed his sights on a narrow strip of roof and was steering them toward it—directly between two tall stone towers that flanked either side of the main entrance.

Pandora sucked in her breath. They were coming down too fast! They weren’t going to make it. The impact would surely smash them to bits!

But the man showed no sign of trepidation and, just as the basket neared the ledge, he released an anchor from the side of the basket and a length of rope slithered out from behind them. Pandora could hear the metal claws scratching and scraping against the stone as the basket finally landed with a thud and began to judder across the tiles.

For a moment they careened out of control, skidding toward the edge, but finally the anchor sank its teeth into the rooftop and the rope pulled taut with a jerk, overturning the basket.

Pandora was thrown out head over heels, landing with a hard, vicious smack. The world spun before her eyes and her
palms felt as if they were on fire—grazed from where she had tried to cushion her fall. She doubled over in pain.

The man was instantly by her side. “Are you hurt?” he asked, easing her into a sitting position. “Answer me, child.”

She was dimly aware of Alerion streaking across the sky above them, a red ball of flame.

“Pandora,” she managed to gasp, as the first fiery breath forced its way into her lungs. “My name is Pandora.”

The man’s face broadened into a smile. “I told you not to let go, Pandora!”

Bracing herself on his arm, she managed to hobble back to the moon-sail, which was deflating around them like a sigh. Alerion fluttered down and settled on the rim of the perch, a ready-made fire. Above them rose the dome of the cathedral, blocking out the sky—and, Pandora was relieved to see, that part of the city housing Mr. Sidereal’s eye.

She settled herself on the rooftop and stared into the bird’s brilliant red and gold plumage, while the man pulled a variety of sacks from the basket.

“Here, eat this,” he said, handing her a wedge of a flattened meat pie. “It will make you feel better.”

Only now was Pandora aware of the hunger growling in her stomach. She sank her teeth into the cold, greasy pie.

Alerion was watching her intently, with glittering eyes, and then gave a raucous screech—just like the animal cry Pandora had heard the other night in the fields.

“It was you,” she said suddenly. “The light I saw—the sound I heard—when I was sneaking into the hospital.”

“Aye,” said the man, tossing the bird some scraps. “I was watching you the whole time.”

He sat down on the other side of the bird and Pandora studied him closely. Shadows flitted across his face. Once again she noticed the strange markings on his skin.

“Who are you?” she said. “And why are you looking for the boy?”

The man was silent for a while. At last he said, “My name is Felix Hardy. James Flux was my friend. He was Cirrus’s father. We were foundlings together.”

He stared into the bird’s flickering feathers. “The truth is, I come back to take something that don’t rightfully belong to the boy. That don’t rightfully belong to anyone, for that matter … The Breath of God.”

“The Breath of God?” repeated Pandora, not certain that she had heard correctly. “What is that?”

“A secret substance James discovered on the other side of the world,” said Mr. Hardy. “It’s contained in a sphere. Like many people, Madame Orrery believes it possesses great power. James was supposed to locate more of it for the Guild of Empirical Science, but … he never did.”

His voice trailed off and his eyes took on a distant look.

“A sphere?” said Pandora. “You mean Cirrus’s token?”

Mr. Hardy eyed her with surprise. “Aye,” he said. “Have you seen it?”

“Once,” she said. “In the Governor’s study. I saw Madame Orrery looking for it later. It wasn’t there.” Her heart started
hammering. She remembered mentioning it to the boy. “Does Cirrus have it now?” she asked. “Did he find it?”

Mr. Hardy scratched his brow. “Aye, I believe so,” he said. “It went missing from the hospital the same time he disappeared.”

Pandora was quiet for a moment, trying to take this in. “And that’s why we must find him now,” she said after a while.

The man looked at her again. “Aye,” he said. “As soon as the sun’s up, we’ll start looking for the boy. But for now, Pandora, you must rest.”

He rose to his feet and pulled a couple of blankets from the basket. Pandora draped them on the ground and snuggled closer to the bird, whose feathers cast a warm, pleasant glow on her skin.

Her mind was too full of questions, however, to let her settle. “Tell me about the other side of the world,” she said. “And how you found this magical bird …”

The man made a face, but appeared to relent. “Very well,” he said. “Just a few words.”

She nodded happily and lay on her back, staring up at the thick, stormy clouds gathering above them.

“It was a long time ago,” he said in a husky voice. “James and I had been commissioned to set sail to the edge of the world. We were to find the Breath of God. It was a hard voyage, doomed from the start. Cirrus had just been born, but Arabella—she was Cirrus’s mother—died in childbirth. James had no choice but to leave the boy behind.”

“At the Foundling Hospital,” said Pandora.

“Aye,” said Mr. Hardy. “The Governor took him in. James did not know what else to do.” The man hesitated for a moment and then picked up the story, further along. “The winds were against us the entire way. We battled seas the likes of which I have never known. It was as though Nature knew the error of our ways.…”

Pandora listened, her chest rising and falling to the rhythm of his words, imagining the fearful waves, but by the time the ship reached the tip of Cape Horn she was asleep.

“And then disaster struck,” said Mr. Hardy, to himself, taking a swig of brandy from a flask in his pocket. “The ship was caught in the fiercest gale I have ever seen, a storm that took the whole crew down.…”

A
n enormous wave rises above the boat and slams down, sweeping the exhausted men off their feet. Water is gushing through a hole in the hull and Felix knows the awful truth: the ship is going down. There is nothing anyone can do to save them.

The wind howls in his ears and rain slashes across his face as he battles his way back to the quarterdeck. A lone figure stands at the helm, steering the stricken boat through the worst of the storm, heading toward a horizon he alone can see—a distant band of ice and fog, blocked by a battlefield of wave and cloud. It is as though the sea and the sky are at war with each other. Waves climb toward heaven and then topple down, while clouds burst overhead, lit by jubilant flashes of fire.

And then, out of the corner of his eye, Felix spots a vicious crag of rocks, a terrifying cliff, rising out of the water.
His blood runs cold and he swallows back the acid taste of fear in his mouth.

He turns to starboard and screams, “James! To starboard! Ahoy!” But the wind strips him of his voice and stretches it to a thin whisper. It is lost in the gale.

Another wave looms, rolling in their direction until it blocks out the sky, which is suddenly as black as night. And then his heart sinks, for he sees it curl at the edge, a lacy trim, and almost before he can brace himself, it hurtles toward the boat, smashing into the hull with the full force of a whale.

The boat buckles and trembles and tumbles to one side, its masts spearing the sea. Yet more men are thrown, shrieking, from the ropes, where they have been desperately trying to mend the shredded sails.

Felix is thrown across the deck and only just manages to hang on to the gunwales.

Slowly, agonizingly, the boat begins to recover and rights itself. The wood groans and water sluices over the side. Felix staggers to his feet, a gash in his forehead reddening his vision. The sea is flecked with bits of wood, and men float, senseless, in the waves, their coats jellyfishing around them. The air is full of drowning cries for help.

Desperately, he works his way back to the helm.

But no one is there.

James—his oldest, truest friend—is gone.

Felix lets out an anguished howl and then, realizing that no one is in command of the sinking ship, grabs the wheel
and tries to rectify their course. But it is no good. The ship pitches ever more violently toward the rocks.

And then he hears a terrifying sound. A deep rumble in the bowels of the ship, a thunderous crack that runs all the way up to the top of the mast. A grating, tearing, rasping sound, as though the boards are being prised apart and the nails wrenched away.

Felix looks up and sees the mainmast totter and lean. Before he can raise the alarm, another wave punches him in the face and slams water down his throat.

It is too late. The mast has splintered and, like a great tree falling, it spills over the side of the boat. Ropes fly and whistle, shrilling through the air, and yet more men are hurled to their death.

The sky flashes with fire and the waves rejoice. And still the rain comes sleeting down, hissing like arrows into the sea.

Felix turns. To his right, the enormous ridge of rocks is crashing closer, its jagged teeth shredding the sea to vapor. He has no choice. He crosses himself and plunges into the icy water.

The shock of it is like a hammer blow, forcing all the air out of his chest. For a moment he loses himself in the swirling darkness and then, instinctively, he begins to claw his way back toward the surface.

Choking and retching and gasping with cold, he breaks through, coughing up lungfuls of burning seawater. Salt blurs his eyes. He can just make out the boat nearby, slamming into
the rocks. It gives one last excruciating moan and then starts to go under.

Immediately the towrope whips out and snags him, dragging him down by the ankle. The water closes over him. Tired though he is, he struggles against it.

Finally, when he thinks he can hold his breath no longer, the sea relents and he slips from its grasp, kicking once more toward the surface.

The waves lift him in each swell, a crazy cradle. He tries to get his bearings, but all he can see is the boundless water.

No. The torso of a woman floats nearby.

Exhausted, he swims toward it. It is the figurehead of the ship, all that remains of the sunken vessel. With bleeding fingers he clings to it, a drowsy numbness weighing on him like an anchor.

He forces himself to keep moving, treading water, but the cold is crippling. His teeth chatter and his limbs have lost all feeling.

Nevertheless, he can sense the storm abating. The wind is not so strong now; the waves are not so vicious. A spark of hope ignites within him. He can just make out the horizon.

Two flares of light are drifting closer.…

What are they? Angels?

They soar across the sky on wings of flame.

But, no, they are too late. The water is closing around him again and he is sinking under.…

Just as his mind begins to blur, something dives into the
water. Two sharp hooks grab him by the shoulders and lift him, nearly senseless, from the waves.

He is floating—flying—through the air, though how this is possible he cannot fathom.

Perhaps he is dead. Or merely dying?

A distant heat reaches his body, but it is not enough to wake him. The world folds over and turns black.

When next he opens his eyes, he is lying on a rough, pebbly shore. Waves lap and sigh around him, but they are gentle now, a murmur. His throat is parched and his lips are raw and shriveled. A peaty smell of woodsmoke hovers in the air.

From behind him he can hear the jabber of strange voices and the crackle of a blazing fire. Enormous trees with slender trunks and bushy canopies stand on the periphery of his vision.

Suddenly, there is a patter of feet beside him and he looks up to find a child with long black hair and the most beautiful smile he has ever seen staring down at him. An animal skin has been draped across the child’s shoulder, and on this perches a bird of fire.

Felix squints. Yes, it is true. A bird with wings of flame! He wonders if this is what plucked him from the waves.

The child crouches beside him and pours something wonderful and soothing into his mouth. Cool, delicious water. Felix drinks it in and then closes his eyes with a smile.

Everything fades once more to black.