Wild Blue Yonder (The Ceruleans: Book 3) (12 page)

The Somme, France, 1916. In the trenches, thousands of
British men preparing to go over the top. Among them, four boys. George and
Arthur and William and Henry, of the 9th Devonshire Regiment.

As children, they had played with toy soldiers, epic
games in which they were always victorious against the enemy. As young men,
they dreamed of glory on the battlefield, of serving their country and their
God, of saving people. So, lying about their ages – sixteen – they enlisted to
fight in the Great War.

They did not expect to be at the forefront of the
bloodiest military operation in history. They did not expect to fall. And yet,
along with nineteen thousand compatriots, on the first of July 1916, they did
fall, barely minutes after they rose out of their trench.

They fell into the blood-soaked mud and they lay there,
side by side, on their backs, drifting in the in-between – in the no-man’s-land
separating friend from foe; in the quiet place between earth and heaven.

As they lay there, George said, ‘But we had no chance to
save people.’

Arthur said, ‘But we had no chance to serve God.’

William said, ‘Poor souls, do you hear them screaming?’

Henry said, ‘Dear Lord, please save them all.’

They lay and they lamented and they waited for the light
to embrace them. But it did not. Instead, the clouds of smoke cleared to reveal
the sky. George began to recite the Lord’s Prayer, and in a heartbeat his
friends joined him. And at the word ‘Amen’, the heavens fell on the four
soldiers and infused them with the very bluest of lights.

When they awoke – and they did awake – George and Arthur
and William and Henry found themselves lying in the mud still, but the sky
above now was dark and obscured by thick smoke. They sat up and looked around.
To each side, a long, terribly long, row of bodies. Before them, a trench
filling rapidly with dead men. Soldiers, grim-faced and stiff, were shovelling
earth into the trench. A man in uniform in the distance was shouting orders. In
the confusion and magnitude of loss, nobody noticed the resurrection of four
young men, and they stood and slipped away into the night.

In a dark corner, they inspected each other. Though their
clothes were torn and bloodied, their wounds were gone.

George said, ‘It’s a miracle.’

Arthur said, ‘God be praised!’

William said, ‘We’ve been saved.’

Henry said, ‘But why?’

An hour later, they had come to understand. For in
joining the effort to recover those still lying in the wasteland, each had
discovered his new ability – to heal, where a man could be healed; to comfort,
where it was a man’s time. One by one, they fell to their knees in the mud and
they gave thanks to God for saving them, and for granting them the gift to save
others – from pain, from fear.

George said, ‘What are we, that we can heal so?’

Arthur said, ‘Remember as we lay dying, the heavens
above? How they fell into us? Heaven within us. We are servants of God.’

William said, ‘I remember the sky. That blue. Cerulean
blue.’

Henry said, ‘That is what we will call this, us. My
friends, God has made us Ceruleans, that we may save and be saved. He gave us a
light, that we must serve.’

That was the beginning. That is Our Story.

And to this day, we, the Ceruleans, the descendants of
George and Arthur and William and Henry, live by their example, and we keep at
the heart of all our endeavours this:
Serviam.
I will serve.

After the ceremony – after a further speech by Barnabas on
the importance of the Cerulean mission, and a prayer, and a somewhat confusing
series of general announcements in which the boys were warned not to run inside
the building and reminded of that evening’s race in the central corridor – I
stepped out of the hall.

I attempted to look through the many portraits on the wall,
shots of mid-teenage boys, digging my heels in against the tide of excited boys
running off to class. I thought I’d spotted on the way in… yes, there he was:
Jude, aged around sixteen, I’d guess. He looked different, carefree and smiling
and relaxed. I realised I’d never seen him without some ghost of anxiety in his
eyes. I scanned a little further and saw David and Adam and… I leaned forward
and peered more closely. Yeesh, was that Michael?

‘In my defence, at the time I’d been convinced by another
boy that those specs were cool. And the haircut.’

I turned to see Michael standing behind me.

‘They are,’ I said. ‘In an Austin Powers kind of way.’

He smiled a little and coloured a little, and then said, ‘I…
well, I wondered whether you’d like a drink. Coffee, maybe? I mean it’s
instant, but still… I could show you my art studio if you like. I have no
classes today.’

‘Thanks,’ I said. ‘I’d love a coffee. And to see your
studio.’

He gestured the way and we set off. As we weaved through
labyrinthine corridors Michael pointed out little features – a trophy cupboard,
a sports schedule board, a staircase whose banister varnish was worn thin from
sliding rear ends. I responded to each enthusiastically, but really my focus
was on the guy walking alongside me. Though he seemed friendly, something about
him whispered ‘awkward’. It wasn’t that he was shy; he held his own with
others, albeit in a quite serious way. It was a sense that he didn’t quite fit comfortably
in his skin, conveyed in myriad little things: his intense brown eyes that
locked on mine for a beat too long, the habit he had of worrying at his lower
lip, the hollowness of his laugh. Perhaps he was just nervous around a female;
perhaps that was all it was.

Finally, we came to a halt in a far corner of the building.

‘This is my studio,’ said Michael, somewhat unnecessarily
given that on the door he was swinging open a sign read
Michael’s Studio
.

I’m not sure what I had expected. At my old school, the art
room had been warm, colourful and haphazardly arranged, walls covered floor to
ceiling with students’ work and surfaces littered with brushes and easels and
modelling clay, all overhung with the distinctive aroma of fresh paint. Judging
by the artworks pinned to the wall on the corridors leading here, clearly
created by juvenile hands, I’d anticipated a similar space given over to
shaping and celebrating the creative pursuits of children. But the room into
which I stepped was far removed from the rest of the chaotic, child-centric
school. White walls, white ceiling, white floor, white-voile-covered windows,
white furniture, white everything – and surfaces clear, so that the eye found
nothing to look at other than the canvases on the wall. Each was hung
meticulously, exactly the same distance from its neighbours and the ceiling and
floor, and each was utterly, unspeakably beautiful.

‘Oh!’ I breathed.

I stepped toward the nearest picture to examine it. A
seascape, clearly of Shell Beach at Cerulea, in oils. I moved along. A
Picasso-style depiction of a woman’s face. Slowly, I worked my way around the
room. A little boy, gazing out of a window at a group of boys playing in a
field. A woman nursing a baby. Another seascape, reminiscent of Twycombe. And on
and on; I drank in every detail of the pictures. Finally, I reached the last, a
complicated rendering of storm clouds and – was that a crying woman?

I turned to Michael, who was watching me silently from the
doorway. ‘These are amazing!’ I said. ‘It’s like… it’s like being at the Tate!’

He said nothing, but smiled.

I turned in a circle, taking in the body of work as a whole.
Some pictures were sunny, full of light and delicate detail. Others were dark
and oblique, paint slashed onto the canvases in bold strokes, the concept hard
to fathom. The overall effect was powerful and moving, but also a little
confusing, given the conflicting styles coming through.

‘Did you paint all of these?’ I asked, and Michael quickly
intuited my meaning.

‘Yes,’ he said. ‘When I’m not teaching or out there healing,
I paint. Evangeline likes me to make pretty little landscapes for the walls on
the island and here. But for myself, my style is a little – looser.’

‘You paint in here?’

‘Yes.’ He glanced at a tall white cupboard in the corner,
beside which stood an easel covered by a sheet, and I understood that he kept
his supplies neatly out of sight.

‘Wow,’ I said. ‘It’s so… clean here.’ Sterile, in fact,
would have been a more apt word.

‘I like it that way,’ replied Michael simply.

‘And the boys you teach?’

‘They come in here for theoretical discussion. But for
practical lessons, there is another – messier – room adjacent.’ He curled his
lip a little at the word ‘messier’. I wondered how a man who was clearly a
worshiper of order and control was at the same time an amazing artist; surely
the two were exclusive?

‘Coffee?’ said Michael.

‘Please.’

He gestured to the two sole pieces of furniture in the room:
a wide sofa set under the windows with a matching coffee table. I sat down, and
Michael opened a door in the far wall and disappeared into what I assumed was a
kitchenette, given that I heard a tap running and then a kettle click on.

‘So,’ he called above the sound of chinking china, ‘what did
you think of the naming ceremony?’

I noticed that here, in his own environment, some of his
awkwardness had fallen away, and his tone was more relaxed. I thought about how
to answer, and finally settled for: ‘It was interesting.’

A short laugh, and then: ‘I suspect after today we’ll revert
to the time-old tradition of just reading out the new boy’s name.’

‘The story at the end was interesting.’

‘Ah, yes. The origins fable.’

‘Fable? You mean it’s not true?’

‘I dare say there’s some truth in it. But no doubt you
noticed it’s little more than a well-versed snapshot designed to ground boys in
a heritage and convince them of the Cerulean cause. It’s not like anyone around
here really sits you down with a full history and family trees.’

‘That’s it?’ I said, astonished. ‘That’s all the history you
know?’

‘That’s all the history we get
told
,’ he said.

I was silent for a moment. This was the furthest any
Cerulean had gone in sounding critical of the established way of life. It was
surprising, but it also made my heart beat faster with hope. Could I? Should I?

‘Do you know more?’ I blurted out at last.

He emerged from the other room carrying two steaming mugs.
He focused on not slopping over the contents as he crossed the room, and then
he set the mugs down on the table, sat beside me and said, ‘I don’t know
enough, Scarlett, but I did once find an account buried in Evangeline’s papers
that adds to the story.’

He picked up his coffee and sipped it, avoiding my eyes. He
was waiting, I thought, for some reaction to his admission that he’d rooted
about in Evangeline’s stuff. Well, he’d find no recriminations from me on that
score.

‘Will you tell me?’ I asked him. ‘The rest of the story.’

He fixed his eyes on me – a strange shade of brown – and I
saw that I had passed his test. As I picked up my coffee and began sipping it,
Michael settled back on the sofa cushions and took up the tale where David had
left it.

*

Those four first Ceruleans survived the Battle of the
Somme, which raged for another four months. During that time they saved many
lives, and they comforted many hundreds of soldiers who could not be saved.

It was while helping to ferry injured soldiers to the
field hospital that George and Arthur and William and Henry met the women who
were to become their wives: Penelope, Eleanor, Mary and Sarah, nurses of the
Voluntary Aid Detachment. At once George and Arthur and William and John were
drawn to the nurses. Because they too had nearly died following an explosion in
the hospital some months previous; and they too had prayed to God to save those
crying out in pain around them; and they too had awoken later with a very
special talent to heal the infirm.

When the war was over, William and Mary, and George and
Sarah, and Arthur and Penelope, and Henry and Eleanor returned home to Devon.
But though they were far now from the cries of fallen soldiers, still they knew
their work must continue.

They settled together outside the village of Butterleigh.
They got married and bore children. And they worked tirelessly to heal in their
local community and, when they could travel, further afield.

For twenty years, they lived a peaceful life. And then
war broke out again. William and Mary, and George and Sarah, and Arthur and
Penelope, and Henry and Eleanor enlisted at once in the armed forces. Each was
sent to war. None returned.

It was left to Robert, eldest son of William and Mary and
now a man himself, to take up the reins and lead the sons and daughters of the
founding families, all of whom had been born with their parents’ gifts. He
formed the rules by which we live today, and he led us into a time when
Ceruleans would be ever-multiplying to bring more light to pitiful humans.

*

Having narrated the appendix to the story smoothly – and
with an unmistakable undertone of scepticism – Michael went back to drinking
his coffee.

I stared at him.

‘That’s it?’

‘That’s it. As I said, no family tree, no detailed history.
Just a nice, neat story.’

I nursed my coffee cup in my hands and thought quietly.
Michael was right: this had the feel of a moral tale that belonged in some modern-day
preaching children’s book. I didn’t like it, that this was all the information
available. How did humans fit into this tale? What of the potential that Sienna
and I had that meant we could be Claimed? From which original exactly had each
boy descended? Who were Jude’s parents, Adam’s parents, David’s parents,
Michael’s parents?

‘I see plenty of questions in your eyes, Scarlett,’ said
Michael quietly. ‘Welcome to the world of being a Cerulean.’

Emboldened by his candour, I said, ‘Do you mind – can I ask,
what’s it like for you, Michael? I mean, how you grew up here, what you do
now?’

‘I didn’t grow up here actually. I grew up on the island and
came to Kikorangi when I was your age.’

‘Oh, I’m sorry. I just assumed.’

‘That’s okay. Most of the boys do come here. But I was a
special case. I wasn’t born Cerulean.’

‘You were Claimed? I thought that was just girls.’

‘It’s usually girls they Claim. But sometimes a boy.’

‘So you were like me and Sienna, out living your life and
then…’

‘No, I grew up on the island. With Evangeline as my mother.’

‘Evangeline is your mother? But then wouldn’t you be…’

‘No, Evangeline isn’t my mother, Scarlett. She merely
mothered me. But of course, my being human meant she couldn’t be around me for
too long. None of them could. I drained them. So until I was Claimed and the
human bit of me died, I was kept separate. Just an hour or so with the others,
and then time to myself.’

I stared at him, appalled. Not only had he been stuck on
that island, but he’d been cut off, ostracised. Now his manner made a lot more
sense.

‘I’m sorry that you were so alone, Michael,’ I said softly.

His eyes flickered. ‘Thank you,’ he said. He gave a thin
smile. ‘But of course it all worked out – all that time for my art. And as
Aristotle said, “He who is unable to live in society, or who has no need
because he is sufficient for himself, must be either a beast or a god.”’

The quotation unsettled me. What was his point? That he was
godlike as a result of his isolation? Perhaps he meant he had become a god of
his art. Certainly, the pictures surrounding us were compelling evidence of
that fact.

I wanted to ask him so many more questions. I wanted to ask
him how a human baby had come to be raised in Cerulea. I wanted to ask him
whether he was dissatisfied with his life here, now. I wanted to ask him
whether he’d ever thought of walking away from it all. I wanted to ask him
whether he knew of a way I could walk away. But before I got the chance,
Michael was looking at his watch and saying, ‘I’d better get you back to
Barnabas. I know he’s eager to give you the full tour of Kikorangi.’

‘Thank you,’ I said as he rose and collected our mugs. ‘For
the chat.’

He stared at me a little longer than was comfortable, and
then said, ‘Let me just wash these up – I don’t like to leave dirty cups about
– and then I’ll take you to the main office.’

As Michael busied himself in the other room, I crossed to
the covered easel. My eyes had kept straying to this corner throughout our
conversation, pulled by that naughty kind of curiosity you get whenever
something is concealed but in plain sight. I shot a look at the door to the
other room. Water running and splashing indicated that Michael was engaged in
his task. Just one little peek. Couldn’t hurt.

I raised the corner of the sheet and lifted it back, just
enough to get a look at the canvas. It was clearly a work in progress – just
some rough pencil sketches. I squinted. Figures. One male, three female, based
on the silhouettes. One of the male figures was shielding a female behind him,
and wielding something in his hand. The other two females were kneeling and
looking up – perhaps reverent, perhaps cowering. The focus was a large form in
the centre of the canvas. It was impossible to identify given its ragged and
blurred edges, but something about the arrangement of lines made me think it
was a creature of some sort. I thought of the Aristotle quote and wondered what
Michael’s artwork was about: a beast or a god?