Skyborn Read online

  “Didn’t have a chance to ask you last night, young fella,” Crake said, pulling the curtains open with a whish. The sound of his voice brought Bastjan fully awake. Instinctively, he slid his hand beneath his pillow; his fingers met with the corner of his mother’s box and he relaxed. “What had the boss man to say to you?”

  Bastjan pushed himself up on his elbows to stare at his friend. Crake’s nightshirt and cap were worn and faded, and his reddish-tinged, mostly grey hair stuck out around his head and face like he was caught in a stiff breeze. “He wants me to go up,” he said.

  “No,” Crake breathed, his cheeks paling. “You must’ve got the wrong end of the stick, lad. You must have!”

  Bastjan sighed and slipped his legs out of bed. He perched on the edge of his bunk, staring at his toes. “No joy, Crake. It’s what ’e said.”

  Crake threw back his blankets and sat forwards. “But you’ve not been airborne since… Since you know when.”

  Since my mum died. “Yeah,” Bastjan said miserably.

  Crake’s expression softened. “Well. Yer mother was born to it and that’s a fact. So if you’re anything like her – and I reckon you are – then you’ll probably be a natural.”

  Bastjan looked at his friend. “Was she really that good? Somethin’ to see, I mean?” Ester, he thought, feeling the name glowing inside him, somewhere deep and private.

  Crake gave a quick smile, but there was sadness in it. “It was like she had a touch of somethin’ otherworldly about her,” he said. “Never seen anythin’ like it, lad.” Crake paused and looked Bastjan in the eyes. “But more important than that, she was part of this troupe and that means she’s my family, blood and bone. To the grave.” He blinked hard. “And so are you.”

  Bastjan slid off his bunk and ran the three steps to Crake’s bed, launching himself into the huge man’s arms. The tears came hot and fast, and without warning.

  “Now, now,” Crake murmured. “There’s no need for that.” The big man held Bastjan tightly for five long breaths and then placed him gently on the ground.

  “He gave me somethin’,” Bastjan said, rubbing his wet face on his sleeve. “Last night. To make me go up.” He turned towards his bunk and lifted the pillow. The box lay on the plain white sheet, its dark wooden casing made even more striking by the daylight. Its enamelled pattern gleamed.

  “Well, I’ll be,” Crake said.

  “It was Mum’s,” Bastjan said. “I can’t open it.”

  Crake’s hands were already outstretched and Bastjan placed the box into them.

  “A whole chest o’ stuff, Crake. Outfits an’ shoes an’ face paint an’ all sorts, and ’e had it. All this time.” Bastjan’s rage felt like an ember glowing deep down, just waiting for a puff of air to blow it into life. “He should’ve given it to me.”

  “He should have, that and more,” Crake murmured, turning the box over and over in his large hands.

  “There’s a keyhole,” Bastjan said. “Smaller’n any key I ever saw.”

  Crake squinted. “There is an’ all. And you’re right. Looks like a pin would fit into it.”

  “A pin,” Bastjan whispered. “D’you think we could pick—”

  A loud knock rattled the wagon’s front door and Crake almost dropped the box. “Glory,” he muttered, shoving it back into Bastjan’s hands. Quickly, Bastjan pushed it under the pillow again.

  Bastjan heard faint knocks falling on the other wagon doors as the circus was roused for practice. Even more faint were the whistles that sounded around the camp as the roustabouts passed messages to one another in the code only they fully understood, the roustie code that kept the big top up and the lights lit and the camp running smoothly.

  Crake heaved himself off his bed. “After practice, we’ll have another look. All right?”

  Bastjan nodded and Crake began to search through the drawers beneath his bunk. As the strongman pulled out leotard after leotard, sniffing them or checking them for rips, Bastjan dropped his gaze to his own bed. The box was impossible to see beneath the pillow, and it wasn’t likely that anyone would poke about the wagon while they were gone, but something about leaving it unguarded made Bastjan uneasy. He knew there was no time to look for a better hiding place – they had to get to the ring.

  A couple of minutes later, Bastjan was hopping out of the wagon pulling on a plimsoll as he went while Crake strode across the campground, his oiled beard in its two thick braids resplendent in the morning light.

  “Come on, lad!” the strongman called. “I’m not missin’ me kippers on account o’ you.” Bastjan followed Crake to the mess tent. Word had spread fast about his debut on the wire. Everywhere Bastjan looked he saw interested eyes, some kind and some merely curious, watching him pass.

  Then, as he was halfway through his first kipper, he heard a voice. “She’ll be looking after you, sonny,” it said, and Bastjan turned to see Zenobia, the Painted Lady, leaning down to whisper in his ear. She pulled her fringed shawl tighter around herself as she met his eye. “Never you fear.”

  Bastjan looked away from Zenobia’s face, but his eye was caught by one of her many tattoos – barely a patch on her skin was left untouched by the artists’ ink. This particular tattoo showed a grinning skull wearing a hat made out of bones – possibly the skeleton’s own – and something about it made him cough on his breakfast.

  “That’s enough, Lady Z,” Crake said, wiping his greasy mouth. “Leave the lad be.”

  “I meant no harm, I’m sure,” Zenobia replied, straightening up.

  “That’s as may be,” Crake said, getting to his feet. He ushered Bastjan up, and the boy followed him. “Good day to you now.”

  Bastjan trotted after Crake. The strongman had already reached the door of the mess tent and knocked it aside as he strode through – Bastjan almost had to run to keep up. “What did she mean?” he asked. “Lady Z, Crake. What was she on about?”

  “Superstitious old bat,” Crake muttered. “Ignore her, son.”

  “Is she talkin’ about Mum?” Bastjan said, and Crake stopped. Bastjan stopped too and the strongman crouched to look him in the eye.

  “Up on that wire, don’t worry about anyone or anythin’ but yerself,” Crake said. “Those who came before you and those who’ll come after – let them go.” He waved one hand, as though swatting away a fly. “An’ don’t let anyone make you believe you can’t do it – most of all yerself.” Crake prodded Bastjan in the chest with one thick finger, making the boy stagger backwards a step.

  Crake’s knees clicked loudly as he straightened his legs and he muttered an oath under his breath as he began to walk. Bastjan followed, and minutes later, they stood at the edge of the circus ring, staring up at the trapeze and high-wire apparatus overhead. Without the audience, the space beneath the tent echoed strangely. It seemed much bigger and less comforting than usual, and Bastjan clenched his fists as he tried to imagine himself on the wire, forty feet in the air.

  “Come on, then! Chop chop!” Cyrus Quinn whacked aside a flap of canvas as he strode into the ring. “Let’s see what you’ve got!” His gaze fell on Bastjan for the briefest moment, and then he was gone, taking up his usual spot on the ringside barrier to keep an eye on proceedings.

  As Quinn barked instructions at Ana and Carmen, who were practising their floor routine, Bastjan looked up at Crake. “I won’t say good luck, lad,” Crake said. “You won’t need it. Trust yerself.” Bastjan’s eye was caught by the approach of a short older lady, dressed in a faded practice leotard. “An’ listen to Nanette,” Crake added, nodding at the woman. Crake pinched Bastjan’s cheek, very gently, before moving off towards his own rehearsal area.

  “Ready?” Bastjan turned to Nanette van Hemel, the circus’s most experienced aerialist, as she spoke. He nodded and the woman gave him a kind smile. “We’ll start with a low wire until you find your feet.”

  The low wire was still further off the ground than Bastjan was tall, and falling from it to the sawdust below was deepl
y unpleasant – and very frustrating.

  “Come on!” he growled, after his fourth tumble to the ground.

  “It takes time, Bastjan,” Nanette said. Her eyes never left him for a moment. “Remember what I told you, now. Arms out and don’t look down. Keep those knees bent. Slide your foot forwards. Feel the wire. And stand up straight, boy. No slouching. That’s it!” Bastjan focused on the pole opposite, where his wire was anchored, and tried to let it run alongside his big toe, as Nanette had shown him. His right foot felt like it was cramping, and every muscle ached, but he kept going.

  He tried not to look at the ringside barrier, where Quinn was sitting.

  “Pay no heed to that man,” Nanette said, her voice low. “Even your mother had to learn. Nobody walks the wire without training.”

  Bastjan wobbled. “Did you train my mum?”

  Nanette heaved a sigh. “She was an artist before I ever met her, that girl. Such a loss.” She leaned close as Bastjan crouched low on the wire. “But I’ll bet she was no good on her first day, either,” Nanette said, her eyes twinkling.

  Bastjan grinned at her before slowly rising into a standing position again. He was over halfway to the other side and he felt his determination roar. I’m gonna touch that pole. He focused his gaze on the spot where his wire was tied off and everything faded into the background – even Nanette’s voice. All he could feel was the bite of the wire along his soles and the pull in his muscles as his body sought to keep him balanced, and all he could hear was his own calm and steady breathing.

  Then, a few feet from the pole, he couldn’t resist the urge any longer. Tucking in his head, he flipped into a forward roll, feeling the crunch of the wire as his spine travelled along it. In the blink of an eye he was on his feet again – and the pole was right in front of his nose. He slapped it in triumph and his head exploded with sound. Nanette was cheering, Jericho, Ana and Carmen were clapping, and from somewhere not too far away he could hear Crake shouting “That’s my boy!” Bastjan glanced at the ringmaster. Quinn’s lips were tight, his dark eyes intense, and the boy looked away.

  Nanette jogged to his side, her yellow curls bouncing. Her eyes shone with pride. “I think it’s time to try a little height,” she said, reaching to help him down.

  Bastjan stood on the platform high above the circus ring, his soft-soled leather shoes making his toes sweat. Before him stretched the wire, disappearing into the distance, taut and steady. Unbreakable.

  Then, out of nowhere, the sense of falling that had woken him in the night washed over him again. He had to shut his eyes, planting his feet wide on the platform to keep himself upright. Nanette was somewhere on the other side, watching his every move, and he didn’t want to let her down.

  When he was ready, Bastjan opened his eyes and stared at the wire again. He took a breath, looked up, steadied himself – and then he slid his right foot out, feeling the wire grip his sole. Somehow, it felt as though there was already a groove worn in his foot, as though the wire had been holding him up for years. It gave him strength.

  Taking the second step was always the hardest part, but Bastjan did it. He glided further along the wire, his strong and agile feet finding the correct position as though they remembered it. Keeping his back straight and his knees slightly bent, his arms held out to either side and his weight centred over his leading leg, Bastjan focused his gaze on the far-side platform and allowed himself a smile. Three more steps, he told himself, an’ I’ll try a trick.

  Those three steps brought him almost to the wire’s midpoint. Taking a deep breath, his heart racing in his chest, he ran through the moves in his mind. Then, his breath held, he rotated his back foot and began to turn his torso, remembering to keep his arms steady. In the next breath, he’d completed his trick – and now he was facing back towards the platform he’d started from.

  There was a sudden flash of bright white sequins and a half-formed figure appeared before him on the wire. He saw a raised arm with elegant fingers outstretched, the shine of a spotlight on a wide smile and a leap into the dark. He blinked. The person and the sequins were gone, as though they’d never been, and Bastjan realized they were a memory. Dark hair, he thought, trying to clear his mind. Dark hair, an’ brown eyes, just like Mum’s… His breath began to stick and he wobbled on the wire, his arms trembling. Steadying his weight-bearing leg, he found his balance and moved again.

  “Is that all you’ve got?”

  The voice was loud and large, as though the person who’d spoken was standing right behind him, and Bastjan felt his body contract in shock. Then he made the mistake of glancing down. The ringmaster was standing beneath the wire, his hands on his hips, and even from this height Bastjan was sure he could see the scorn on the man’s face. He looked at the platform again – it was so close, just out of reach – but the ringmaster’s mocking shout had ruined any chance he had of making it back. The boy let himself slip, his body calm and his limbs relaxed, and he bounced to safety in the huge net which was strung beneath the wire.

  “That net won’t be there when you’re performing,” the ringmaster snapped, his voice carrying around the ring.

  Bastjan made his way to the edge of the net and sat there for a moment or two, his feet dangling, as he fought to catch his breath. The sparkling light he’d seen on the wire still danced behind his eyelids and his narrow chest started to labour, his ribcage billowing in and out. The whoop as the air left his lungs could be heard throughout the tent.

  Jericho jogged up to him, his face shining with sweat and his eyes clouded with concern. “What is it?” he asked, placing a hand on the boy’s arm.

  “It’s – nothin’,” Bastjan panted. “Just – whoop – not used to it, is all.”

  “Not used to it, my be-hind,” Jericho said, frowning. “You sound like you’re breathin’ through a reed.”

  “It’s fine,” Bastjan insisted, trying to squash down his panic. His chest felt like Mammoth was standing on it. He’d never felt like this before, not even during the toughest routines with the Runner Beans.

  “Mr Jericho!” the ringmaster shouted. “If you’re quite ready.”

  “Sir, I think the boy needs a doctor,” Jericho called. Horrified, Bastjan clutched his arm. Needing a doctor was one step away from being thrown out like last week’s scraps.

  “No!” he croaked. “Jericho, I’m fine!”

  “You’re makin’ him perform where his mama lost her life,” Jericho continued, his voice rising. “Don’t you think that’s a bad idea?”

  “I’ve had a lot of bad ideas,” the ringmaster called. “But putting that boy on the wire wasn’t one of them. P’raps I need to thin out my floor performers, Mr J. What do you think? Do you fancy a change of scenery, eh? I’m sure there’s work down the shipyard for a clever fella like you.”

  Jericho swallowed. “No, sir.”

  “Didn’t quite catch that,” the ringmaster shouted, cupping one hand behind his ear.

  “No, sir!” Jericho called.

  “Then get back to your job,” Quinn said, jerking his thumb towards the rest of the tumblers. Ana and Carmen were standing together, shooting angry looks at the ringmaster. Ana raised her fingers in a tiny wave to Bastjan, and he tried to take heart from the gesture as Jericho turned to him with sorrowful eyes. Then he was gone, loping easily over the floor, long-limbed and loose.

  Within a minute or two he, Carmen and Ana had resumed their routine and Bastjan, his body quivering with the effort of breathing, rolled himself out of the safety net. He landed gracefully on the floor and began the walk to the ladder without being asked. High above on the far-side trapeze platform, Nanette watched.

  Bastjan’s next try was a disaster: halfway through a jump he lost his nerve and spun out. For a horrible second the world whirled and then he felt the pain of the wire against his inner thigh. He bent his leg and reached up to grab the wire with both hands, his heart thudding and his breath squeaking. Finally, he got the strength to pull himself right side up, w
here he shuffled backwards to the platform. He sat there for several long moments, his leg throbbing and his head pounding and his lungs sticking to themselves inside his chest.

  “Again! You worthless thing!” the ringmaster shouted from below.

  Bastjan stood, ignoring the agony in his thigh, and took his position. He blinked back his tears and raised his arms over his head, imagining the surging music, and waited for the cue nobody else could hear. Then he bounded on to the wire, landing lightly, feeling the spring at his ankles and the looseness in his knees and thinking about nothing except the next move, the next trick, the next jump—

  He landed on his wrists and one gave way beneath him with a painful twang. Then he was falling, despondently, into the net.

  “I don’t know who the bigger fool is here,” the ringmaster said, his full-chested voice carrying around the ring. Bastjan sat in the net with his head in his hands, hating his every squeaking breath, desperately trying to open his lungs. “You, or me, for ever believing you could deliver. Your mother could do these routines with her eyes shut! She could’ve done them with three limbs strapped behind her back!”

  He paused to spit in the dust. “And, what’s worse, the least of the aerialists who came after her could have done better than the performance you’ve just given.” He stared up at Nanette as he said this, his eyes glittering with fury. “And I’m about to put you on as my headline act?” He shook his head. “I might as well just put this whole place up for sale, lock, stock and flaming barrel, and leave it at that.”

  He turned and stalked out of the tent, yelling at anyone unfortunate enough to get in his way. Finally, there was silence beneath the canvas – a silence broken only by Bastjan’s mournful whoops, his chest sticking and squeaking as it rose and fell.

  “Come on, son,” Crake rumbled, his words low in the quiet tent, once they were all sure Quinn was gone. He helped Bastjan down from the net. “You’ve earned a rest.”