The Story of Cirrus Flux (24 page)

“Let go, you fool!” shouted Mr. Hardy at the man, who was kicking and flailing below them. “You’ll kill us all! We can’t carry this much cargo!”

But the man refused to let go. He had hooked his arms round the base of the anchor. “Help me! Oh, dear God, help me!” he cried, as the wind ripped off his wig and tore at his clothes. The folds of his long purple coat flew out behind.

The moon-sail was lurching over the river and Pandora caught a whiff of the foul, smelly water: a filthy soup of sewage and bits of timber. Sweat greased her palms and she squeezed her eyes shut, unable to look.

The extra weight on the moon-sail, however, was beginning to take its toll. Alerion, tiring, was unable to keep them away from the downdrafts of air and Pandora could sense the vessel sinking in a slow, steady spiral toward the waves.

She had no choice: She had to climb higher.

Taking a deep breath, she pulled herself up, grimacing with the effort. All of her muscles were straining, her tired fingers ached, but she fed the rope between her tightly locked ankles and inched her way up.

Cirrus was leaning over the edge of the basket, urging her on, reaching out a hand to assist her, even though she was still too far away. Mr. Hardy, meanwhile, was throwing sandbags over the opposite side of the basket, trying desperately to even out their weight. Alerion was furiously flapping her wings.

Pandora could sense the waves slapping beneath her.

A sudden change in the tension of the rope caused her to look down.

The man from the museum had propped his feet on the bar of the anchor and was clawing up the rope.

His face sharpened into a sneer of contempt. “Thieves!” he shouted, gaining courage with every hold. “Give me back my Golden Boy!”

Panic surged through her body and, ignoring the pain in her arms, Pandora forced her way up. The boy was only a few more yards away … almost within reach!

But just as her fingers brushed his own, she felt a hand clutch her sharply by the ankle and drag her down. The rope slithered through her fingers, igniting a fire of pain in her palms, and she fell through the air, landing on the gentleman’s shoulders.

“Thief!” he snarled again, trying to throw her off. But she kicked out in terror and connected hard with his jaw, leaving him stunned. The man dropped several feet before managing to cling to the rope.

Quickly, before he could recover, she scurried toward Cirrus’s waiting hand.

“Mister!” cried Cirrus as he tried, but failed, to pull Pandora in. “I need your help!”

Mr. Hardy immediately turned from the mast, where he was steering the sail through the storm, and, together, they managed to haul Pandora in, almost tipping over the basket. Exhausted, she collapsed into the mound of blankets.

The boy was instantly by her side, feeding her drops of brandy from Mr. Hardy’s flask. He appeared to have recovered from some of his shock, although his face was still anxious and pale. He kept casting uneasy glances at the man and the bird, cowering a little whenever Alerion burst into flame.

“Are you all right?” he asked her, propping her head up.

The fiery liquid helped revive her and she nodded, forcing herself once more to her feet.

The moon-sail was no longer tipping at such a crazy angle, but the ropes were protesting under the weight. They were sinking still toward the waves.

“Let go, damn you!” yelled Mr. Hardy at the man from the museum, who was scrambling up the rope.

“Not without my Golden Boy!”

“Very well, you leave me no choice!” Mr. Hardy reached into his pocket and pulled out a sharp knife.

Pandora reached over to stay his hand. “You can’t!” she cried.

“But he’s pulling us down. The scoundrel’s dead weight!”

“He’ll drown!”

“Don’t you worry about him,” he said to Pandora. “Rats like him can swim.” And with that, he severed the rope.

Pandora plugged her ears as the thin, repulsive man hurtled back through the air and crashed into the waves more than a hundred feet below. He disappeared beneath the water, with next to no splash.

“But we need the anchor to land,” said Pandora miserably, as the moon-sail soared into the clouds.

The boy was peering down at the dark churning water. “I think he’s survived,” he said, as a small, slimy figure crawled onto the muddy riverbank.

But before he could say anything else, a clap of thunder exploded overhead and the moon-sail dipped wildly through the sky. Cirrus, leaning over the edge, lost his balance and fell.

The Breath of God

F
or a terrifying moment the wind skimmed past his face and buffeted his body as he plunged headlong toward the waves. Then something hot and fiery hooked him by the shoulders and carried him back through the air. He twisted his neck to see the fierce eagle-like creature flapping its wings above him, the heat of its feathers searing into his flesh. It had clasped him firmly in its talons.

The world turned somersaults, and moments later the bird dropped him again in the basket and returned to its perch. Cirrus found himself staring into the face of the man from Black Mary’s Hole. Fear flashed through him, but he recalled what the girl had said: the man was a friend.

“Careful,” said the man, as the bird lifted them higher into the air. “You may have your father’s curls, but you ain’t got his sea legs just yet.”

There was a hint of humor in his voice, although his eyes were shaded by the brim of his three-cornered hat.

Cirrus struggled to sit upright, but before he could speak, the man said, “Now then, boy. Hand over the sphere.”

Cirrus was aware of the girl watching him. She was no longer dressed in her foundling’s uniform, but in a short blue jacket and beige trousers instead. He remembered her name: Pandora.

“The sphere,” said the man again, breaking into his thoughts. “Have you got it with you?”

“Bottle Top,” he muttered feebly, feeling a stab of betrayal. “Bottle Top took it.… I thought he was my friend.”

The man regarded him blankly for a moment, then realization dawned on his face. “Why, the little devil!” he said to the girl. “It’s the boy in the gilded carriage. He’s taking the sphere to Mr. Sidereal!”

Immediately, Pandora rushed to the far side of the basket and raised a spyglass to her eye. Cirrus joined her, stepping more clumsily over the blankets that were heaped inside. Once again, he noticed the glossy sail bulging above them, and the cords and cables holding everything in place, and wondered how they were able to stay in the air.

They were above the river still, following a path the wind carved through the sky. London stretched in all directions: a sprawl of darkened buildings and twisting lanes. Most of the streets were deserted, lit by flickering lanterns.

Suddenly, the girl raised her arm and pointed. “Mr. Hardy! I can see the carriage! It’s almost there!”

Cirrus followed the direction of her finger—past the wharves and warehouses along the river to the dome of St. Paul’s. He could just make out the tail end of a golden carriage streaking past the churchyard, the same carriage he and the other boys had traveled in before.

“Hold on,” said Mr. Hardy, grabbing onto the ropes and leaning over the side of the basket, steering them into a channel of cold air.

They dived toward the city.

Cirrus grasped the sides of the basket and accidentally brushed the girl’s hand. Here, beneath the clouds, her face was jubilant, alive. Her amber eyes sparkled and her auburn hair flamed.

Embarrassed, he turned away and looked at the bird, which was burning above them, flapping its wings.

“Wonderful, isn’t she?” said the girl. “She’s a Halcyon Bird, from the other side of the world.”

Cirrus suddenly remembered the ashes he had seen at the bottom of the cage in the Hall of Wonders. “Like the one in Mr. Leechcraft’s collection?” he said.

The man heard this and scowled. He spat over the edge.

“Mr. Leechcraft was a no-good thief,” he said. “A scoundrel. Got what he deserved.”

Cirrus cast him a nervous look, but had no time to ask questions, for just as they passed over a ditch, spewing its filth
into the Thames, Pandora spotted a dove-gray carriage pursuing them through the lanes.

“Mr. Hardy!” she called out, aiming her spyglass at the ground. “There’s a carriage following us. I think it’s Madame Orrery. There’s a silver timepiece on the door.”

Mr. Hardy swore and urged Alerion to a higher elevation, carrying them over the inns and yards below. Cirrus could see the dome of St. Paul’s Cathedral rising above the city. Mr. Hardy was steering them straight toward it.

Cirrus stared at him in amazement, marveling at his ability to sail through the air, but then a ferocious clap of thunder cracked overhead and a claw of lightning split the sky, scratching the underbelly of cloud. With a hiss, hail began to fall, whitening the air like sudden winter.

The man glanced up at the sail, concern written all over his face.

“What’s wrong?” yelled Cirrus.

“The hail,” said the man. “It’ll puncture the sail. We’ll go down.”

“You’d best hold on,” said Pandora, grabbing Cirrus’s arm. She, too, had gone pale. “Landings can be difficult.”

Cirrus looked around at the tightly packed houses and felt sick. He was already aware of a sagging sensation beneath his legs. Chimney pots and church towers poked out of the gloom.

Above him the bird emitted a loud raucous screech and he glanced up to see that her blazing feathers had started to steam. The hail had lessened to a hard, steady rain, but the
condensation was dampening her feathers, extinguishing her flame.

“Quick! Lighten our load!” yelled Mr. Hardy, as they continued to sink.

Cirrus immediately did as he was told, jettisoning whatever he could find from inside the basket. The bulk of St. Paul’s was rushing nearer and he felt certain they were going to crash into the enormous columns of stone. But at the very last moment the man heaved on the ropes and steered the basket round the dome.

Pandora, beside him, was scouring the ground.

“Mr. Hardy!” she called out. “Madame Orrery’s almost directly below us.”

Cirrus peered down to see the silver carriage streaking along an adjacent passage.

“No matter,” roared Mr. Hardy, fixing his sights on a nearby building. “We’re almost there.”

Cirrus turned to look where he was pointing.

Directly ahead of them was a vast structure with lofty windows and a tall metal pole that speared straight into the menacing clouds.

“What is that place?” he shouted over the noise of the driving rain.

“Mr. Sidereal’s observatory,” answered Pandora, handing him the spyglass. “Where your friend has gone.”

Bottle Top!

Cirrus wiped the moisture from his face and pressed the lens to his eye. Instantly, his vision swooped across the
surrounding rooftops. Through one of the many windows of the observatory he could see a small, hunched figure seated in a chair on wheels. Mr. Sidereal. Flickering jets of flame illuminated the walls around him.

A sudden movement caught his eye. Bottle Top had entered the room. Cirrus could barely breathe. A fist of anger had seized him by the throat.

“What is it?” asked Pandora.

“It’s Bottle Top,” he answered. “He’s in there now.”

Heart thumping, he watched as Bottle Top walked up to Mr. Sidereal and presented him with something from round his neck. His sphere! Cirrus could see the man studying it and turning the object in his fingers. And then, very slowly, a faint bluish white vapor leaked out, filling the chamber with a soft, swirling light.

“We’re too late!” bellowed Mr. Hardy. “He’s opened the sphere!”

Just then the balloon lurched to one side. Pandora grabbed Cirrus by the arm. “Look!” she said.

A maelstrom of sucking, spinning cloud had formed almost directly over the observatory, and the wind was hurling dust and grit into the air. The sky flickered with silver spears of light. Before Cirrus knew what was happening, several bolts of lightning had forked down and struck the long metal pole housing Mr. Sidereal’s Scioptric Eye.

It was over in an instant.

A brief stab of light, a violent blast of air, followed by the brittle sound of exploding glass …

Cirrus had no time to think. He ducked down beside Pandora and clung to the sides of the basket as the force of the detonation catapulted them toward the clouds.

The wind shrilled through the ropes and tore at the sail, which it threatened to twist inside out, as they climbed a steep mountain of air. The blood spun dizzily in his head, and Cirrus had to clench his teeth to keep from calling out in fear. He was dimly aware of the girl crouched beside him, gasping for breath, and Alerion shrieking above them, scrabbling at her perch. Mr. Hardy, meanwhile, was doing everything in his power to maintain control of the shaking, shuddering craft.

Cirrus clamped his eyes shut, certain the assault would never end. But then, with a slight wobble, the vessel began to sink once more toward the ground. With a huge sigh of relief, he relaxed his hold of the basket and peered over the edge.

An angelic blue-and-white light was spreading rapidly over the city. It looked just like the heavenly substance that had radiated from his sphere the evening before, but on a far greater scale. It swept back and forth across the sky in diaphanous waves.