The Story of Cirrus Flux (19 page)

The Halcyon Bird

T
he sound of footsteps woke her. Pandora tilted her head to one side and saw the hefty figure of Mr. Hardy approaching. He was dressed in his heavy seafaring jacket, dun-colored breeches and knee-high leather boots. He was carrying something else in his hands, too. Clothes.

He placed them on the ground beside her and strolled over to where the basket still lay after its bumpy landing the night before. From a sack inside, he pulled out a crusty loaf of bread, a slab of cheese and a flask of brandy.

Pandora ran her fingers over the warm, woolly garments. They were simple, hard-wearing clothes: a short bum-freezer jacket, a linen shirt and a pair of loose-fitting trousers, like those any sailor might wear. He had even remembered to include a pair of stout leather shoes.

“Where did you get them?” she asked sleepily.

The man sliced himself a wedge of cheese. “I bought ’em good and proper from a man I know in Dolittle Alley,” he said. “Traded one of my best instruments for ’em, too. Now get dressed. We’ve much to do.”

Excited, Pandora scooped up the clothes and carried them over to the side of the dome, where she could change in private.

Above her, on a ledge, pigeons burbled noisily and a sharp wind gusted round the edges of the cathedral. She had to step carefully because the tiles sloped dangerously underfoot and there was a steep drop to her left.

She removed her foundling’s dress and tugged the unfamiliar garments over her body. Her skin was covered in plum-colored bruises.

“Thank you,” she said, shyly emerging from behind the dome and walking back toward him. “No one will recognize me in these fine clothes.”

“That’s the idea, child,” said Mr. Hardy. “Now put this on your head.”

He tossed her a red cap, made from knitted wool, which she pulled over her short auburn curls. She stood before him while he looked her up and down.

“A reasonable fit, all things considered,” he said, cutting a length of rope from a coil in the basket. He looped it quickly round her waist and tied the ends in a knot. “Can’t have your trousers falling down if you’re to be my Able Seaman, can we?”

Pandora blushed, not sure whether it was from embarrassment or pleasure.

“Are we flying again in the moon-sail?” she asked hopefully, her eyes drifting to the net of fabric.

“Course not,” said Mr. Hardy. “It ain’t safe, child, not with Mr. Sidereal watching.” He motioned toward the ground with his knife. “No, we’re going to do some walking. Now get some food down you and we’ll be off.”

He offered her a hunk of bread and cheese, which she followed with a sip of his brandy. The rich, fiery liquid stripped the back of her throat and made her eyes water. She coughed a little and then smiled as a warm sensation glowed in her stomach.

At this moment Alerion swooped down from the top of the belfry and alighted on the metal perch between them. Pandora gazed into the bird’s red and gold plumage, marveling at its appearance. Each feather was like a spark, ready to ignite into flame.

“What is she exactly?” she asked, breathless with admiration.

Mr. Hardy reached into a sack behind him and pulled out a dozen dead rats, tied together by their tails. Alerion was watching him closely, her eager eyes aflame. Her short, curved beak opened to reveal a crimson tongue.

“A Halcyon Bird,” he said, tossing Alerion a rodent.

She snared it in her claws and pulled strings of meat from the carcass.

“Where did she come from?”

“From the other side of the world,” said Mr. Hardy. “Like I told you. An island no bigger than this city, off the tip of Cape Horn.”

Pandora peered into the distance—past the wharves and warehouses along the riverbank, and the tanneries and mills. All she could see at the far end of the city was a forest of masts and rigging.

“There was an ancient people on that island,” continued Mr. Hardy. “The Oona tribe. They spoke another language. They could even speak to birds.”

Pandora’s eyes widened. “How, then, did you understand them?”

Mr. Hardy was silent for a moment. “Like all things, it took time,” he said. “I learned some of their ways; they learned some of mine.”

Alerion was preening herself, fluffing her wings, sending hot sparks into the air. He tossed her another rat.

“They were a peaceful tribe,” he said, rising to his feet and walking to the edge of the cathedral. “They belonged to the earth, whereas we”—he swept his eyes over the city—“we believe it belongs to us.”

Pandora stood beside him. For an instant the sun broke through the clouds and transformed the river into gold. The city glowed in a luminous haze. But then, just as suddenly, the sun dipped back into hiding and the city was filled again with shadow and smoke.

“You say they
were
a peaceful nation,” said Pandora hesitantly. “What happened to them, Mr. Hardy?”

He stared into the distance. The light faded from his eyes.

“The Oona tribe is gone, girl,” he said. “Dead.”

He marched back to the moon-sail and started shoving supplies into the basket. “After our ship went down, others came looking for the Breath of God. Some chanced upon the island. When they discovered that I did not have the sphere—indeed, that James had not brought it with him—they took whatever they could find and killed the birds for sport.”

Mr. Hardy glanced at the bird above them. “Only one egg was spared and that was Alerion’s. A Halcyon Bird, see, takes years to hatch. They’re resilient creatures, but rare. Alerion … well, she’s the last of her kind.”

Pandora stared at the bird with burning eyes. Tears were running down her cheeks.

Mr. Hardy’s voice was now little more than a whisper. “The ships left something even more terrible in their wake. Disease. The whole tribe was ravaged by fever. I was the only survivor. Eventually I flagged down a passing ship, using light reflected from a mirror, and worked my way back to this godforsaken island.”

He reached into a sack, pulled out another dead rat and flung it to Alerion, who snagged it in her claws and devoured it.

“She certainly eats a lot,” said Pandora, watching carefully.

Mr. Hardy finally managed a smile. “Aye. Halcyon Birds grow at an alarming rate and this one’s got a voracious appetite.”

“May I feed her?” asked Pandora suddenly.

Mr. Hardy turned toward her. “I don’t see as why not,” he said, offering her a rat. “Flinging it by the tail is best.”

“No,” said Pandora nervously. “I mean, may I feed her … by hand?”

Mr. Hardy swallowed. “Oh, I don’t know about that. She’s a mighty fearsome creature. Halcyons don’t take kindly to strangers.”

“Please,” said Pandora. “I’d like to try.”

Alerion cocked her head and regarded Pandora with a ruby eye.

“Very well, if you must,” said Mr. Hardy, rising to his feet. “But first put on these.” He handed her a pair of thick leather gloves. “Otherwise, she’ll make a feast of your fingers.”

Pandora slid her hands into the scabby interior, as stiff as a plate of armor round her wrists.

“Now raise your arm,” said Mr. Hardy, “and hold it steady like the branch of a tree.”

Pandora did as she was told, shaking a little as Alerion bobbed up and down. And then, in a blaze of fire, the bird leapt forward and hooked her talons round Pandora’s narrow wrist. She settled there, surprisingly light and agile.

A laugh escaped Pandora’s lips. She could feel the fiery feathers burning into her skin, but she didn’t want to let go; she wanted to hold on to this moment forever. She accepted
a rat from Mr. Hardy and, with her spare hand, raised it carefully to the bird’s beak, watching as Alerion ripped long fatty ribbons from the gray body.

“She’s beautiful,” Pandora said, her heart thumping inside her.

“Aye, that she is,” said Mr. Hardy fondly. “But now, Pandora, we must go. We’ve a boy to find.”

Pandora carried Alerion back to her perch and then followed Mr. Hardy to the corner of the roof, where a ladder led down to a small door in the nearby bell tower.

“How are we going to find him?” she asked.

“I’ve been thinking about that,” said Mr. Hardy. “You say that Mr. Sidereal’s been watching the city from his observatory high above the rooftops. Well, I suggest we start by watching him instead. For, if what you say is true and he may have seen the boy, I reckon it’s only a matter of time before he leads us to him.”

The Hanging Boy

C
irrus was in the aviary when Bottle Top found him. The Hall of Wonders had closed its doors for the afternoon, allowing the boys a few hours of precious freedom before the evening performance. Cirrus had come here on his own, preferring the company of the birds to the rough-and-tumble boys, who were no doubt still wrestling on the beds upstairs. Hundreds of birds were arranged in the glass cases around him: toucans, peacocks, parrots, owls and even luminescent hummingbirds that dangled from the ceiling.

He climbed one of the ladders that had been propped up around the room and began wiping a rag along the jars.

“What’re you doing?” asked Bottle Top, reclining on a cushioned bench behind him. Only a handful of visitors had trickled through the museum that afternoon, but he had regaled nearly all of them with his accounts of the more gruesome exhibits. His voice was hoarse and croaky.

“Mr. Leechcraft told me to make myself useful,” said Cirrus, spitting on a jar and buffing it to a fine polish. “I’m cleaning the cages.”

“Well, he ain’t here now, so you don’t have to work so hard,” said Bottle Top, removing one of his shoes and massaging his heel.

Cirrus said nothing, but continued wiping his rag along the shelves. Up close, he could see that many of the birds were badly stuffed, fixed with twine or else pinned by rusty nails to the branches that were supposed to represent their natural habitats. Some of their eyes had fallen out, and their bodies were coming undone at the seams.

“Don’t you ever feel sorry for these birds?” he said at last. “They ought to be free, not cooped up here in cages.”

“They’re dead, Cirrus.”

“Well, they oughtn’t to be,” said Cirrus. “It’s not right. Things oughtn’t to be left to rot like this.”

Bottle Top was watching him closely. “What’s on your mind, Cirrus? Is there something you ain’t telling me?”

Cirrus shook his head. One of the jars was particularly dusty and he blew on it to reveal a small speckled bird inside. It had an ornate feathery headdress and a wide, gaping bill. He read the label—
Owlet Nightjar, Native of Australasia
—and patted the token from his father, resolving to find out later where that was.

“Don’t you like it here at the museum?” continued Bottle Top.

“It isn’t that,” said Cirrus, adjusting the cord round his
neck. “It’s just that I wasn’t entirely honest yesterday about why I left the hospital.”

Bottle Top rose from his bench and drew up another ladder so that he was side by side with his friend. “Tell me,” he said.

Cirrus was quiet for a moment, dusting and redusting the same jar, then he finally told Bottle Top about sneaking into the Governor’s study and finding the ledger full of names and numbers.

“There were tokens, too,” he said. “In the drawers. One for each child, I should reckon. Keepsakes, mementoes and letters full of grief and sadness, written by mothers for the babies they had to leave behind.” He took a deep breath. “Only there weren’t nothing like that for me.”

Bottle Top regarded him thoughtfully. “I don’t see why you’re so upset,” he said eventually. “We was all abandoned at the hospital, Cirrus. Ain’t none of us was truly wanted. That’s why we’re to look after each other now.”

“That isn’t all,” said Cirrus, inching closer to the truth. “I found out who it was left me there.” He gripped the sides of the ladder and stared straight ahead. “My father,” he said.

“Your father?”

Cirrus felt a chill creep over him. “Turns out he paid to get rid of me.”

Bottle Top’s jaw dropped open.

“How much did he pay?” he asked in a whisper.

Cirrus continued dusting the owlet nightjar, pretending he had not heard.

“How much?” asked Bottle Top again.