The Story of Cirrus Flux (6 page)
Read The Story of Cirrus Flux Online
Authors: Matthew Skelton
“Come along, Cirrus!” said Bottle Top, who was at the door, impatient to be off.
But before Cirrus could get away Mrs. Kickshaw had screwed the hem of her apron into his ear and was scrubbing hard.
“There, be off with ye now,” she said, dusting the flour from his curls. “Perchance, this time, you’ll be lucky.”
She guided him to the door and pushed him after Bottle Top, who was already scuttling past the chapel on his way to the gallery, where new masters came to inspect potential charges.
Cirrus took his time, trailing his fingers along the redbrick walls and twirling them round the newel of the giant staircase, which climbed all the way up to the dormitory at the top of the building. At last he came to the Weeping Room, where mothers waited for their babies to be examined for signs of sickness. Jonas had once told him that if you pressed your ear close enough to the door, you could still hear their ghostly wailings on the other side.
“Ah, there you are,” said Mr. Chalfont, filling the opposite doorway with his ample frame. “Just the boy I was looking for.”
He ushered Cirrus into a room full of oil paintings and curtained windows overlooking the fields at the back of the hospital. Eight boys had been arranged in single file on a rug before the fire, in descending order of height: from Jonas at one end to Bottle Top, wriggling and squirming, at the other. It was like a visit from the Bug Doctor—only, instead of the repellent figure of Mr. Mudgrave, whose blackened fingers inspected the boys each month for lice and nits, there stood a cadaverous gentleman in a purple frock coat with frilly cuffs. He was carrying an amber cane.
Cirrus backed away, instantly taking a dislike to him, but bumped into Mr. Chalfont, who was standing like a father behind him. He clasped Cirrus by the shoulders and positioned him beside Jonas at the head of the line.
“Now then, lads,” said the Governor. “Mr. Leechcraft is a gentleman of great learning, a natural philosopher who has traveled to the ends of this earth. He has seen things you can hardly imagine exist. And now he has come to select one of you fine boys as an assistant for his museum in Leicester Fields.”
The boys shuffled uneasily and glanced at the impeccably groomed gentleman. Even more startling than his frock coat and frills was the savage necklace that circled his throat: a loop of shells, beads and bits of bone, plus some sharp incisors from an unknown species of animal.
“Sharks’ teeth,” he said, answering the boys’ fascinated looks of horror. His face was long and thin, and crowned by a dark gray wig.
Very slowly, he began to pace up and down the row of boys, swinging his amber cane. “I am looking,” he said in a reedy voice, “for a boy to shine like a star in my firmament. To be the attraction in my Hall of Wonders. He must be a child of rare courage, discipline and, above all, Virtue.”
Something about the way he said this last word sent a shiver down the young boys’ necks.
As if sensing this, he gravitated toward Cirrus and planted his fingers on the boy’s head. An odor like the Gallows Tree seemed to hover over him and Cirrus noticed tiny trails of dirt on his skin.
Summoning all of his courage, Cirrus glanced up into the man’s face and said, “Begging your pardon, sir. What is a natural philosopher?”
Mr. Leechcraft let out a hiss of irritation and leaned even closer, emitting a blast of bad breath. “A natural philosopher, boy,” he said, “seeks to understand how this great Universe of ours works. He studies the forces of nature and apprehends the laws of God.” A flash of arrogance lit up his eyes and his voice purred with pride. “It is not for feeble minds to grasp.”
He released his grip on the boy’s head and continued his inspection of the other foundlings. Then, almost hungrily, he set his sights on Bottle Top, who was staring, transfixed, at the necklace.
“Ah, such a seraphic child. Who could resist such a face?” he said. “This boy, what is his name?”
“Abraham Browne, if it please you, sir,” said the Governor, leaping forward. “Though I do believe the other boys call him Bottle Top on account of his teeth.”
“And would you say that this child is of high spirits?” asked the gentleman, extending a finger to stroke the boy’s cheek, which still shone from Mrs. Kickshaw’s aggressive treatment.
“The highest, sir,” said Mr. Chalfont. “Why, Bottle Top—Abraham, I mean—is always climbing things. The trees in the garden, the stalls of the chapel. He has even been known to slide down the banister of the great wooden staircase.”
Bottle Top’s mouth cracked into a grin.
“Though, regrettably for his teeth, he fell off,” added Mr. Chalfont, hastily closing the boy’s lips.
If anything, Mr. Leechcraft seemed even more pleased by this information. “A brave boy, a daring boy,” he said. “Not
afraid of a little discomfort.” He studied Bottle Top more closely. “His teeth, of course, can be replaced. There is just one thing more I need to consider. His Virtue.”
Conjuring a pair of silk gloves from his frock-coat pocket, the man slid them over his hands and began rubbing his cane quite vigorously, until it gleamed in the firelight. Then, with a flourish, he raised it above the boy’s head.
The most amazing thing happened. Bottle Top’s flyaway blond hair floated straight into the air, as if alive. Thin tendrils curled round the rod and made a faint crackling noise as Mr. Leechcraft brushed it back and forth between the grasping hairs. The other boys watched, astonished.
Mr. Chalfont was not so delighted. “Mr. Leechcraft, I do protest, sir! Whatever are you doing to this poor boy?”
“I am merely determining the quality of his Virtue,” said the gentleman. “All of God’s creatures are invested with a quantity of Aether, which escapes from their bodies in the form of electrics. Or, as I prefer to call it, Virtue. It is quite painless, I assure you.”
Mr. Chalfont’s face was a picture of concern. He knelt down and examined the boy minutely. “Abraham, are you hurt? Speak to me, child!”
Bottle Top tried unsuccessfully not to giggle. “It tickles, sir,” he said, jogging from one foot to the other. “It feels like there’s a spider dancing in my hair.”
Mr. Leechcraft’s smile widened into a grin. “Splendid!” he said. “This boy will do nicely, Mr. Chalfont. I have made my choice.”
Cirrus felt a knife twist in his stomach. He had seen many boys come and go during his time at the hospital, but he had never expected Bottle Top to be among them. He had always imagined they would be apprenticed together. What would become of their plans?
He watched helplessly now as Mr. Chalfont beamed into the startled boy’s face.
“Well then, Abraham. It appears you have a new calling,” said the Governor. “A fresh start in life. You must do everything Mr. Leechcraft asks of you, do you understand? You must serve him well.”
Bottle Top glanced uneasily at Cirrus and then nodded his head, too dumbfounded to speak.
“A child who can keep his counsel,” said Mr. Leechcraft. “Even better.”
He played the puppeteer for a moment longer and then whisked the rod away and tapped it once on the ground to break the spell. Bottle Top’s hair fell back into place, though even messier than before.
Mr. Chalfont dismissed the other boys, who gloomily dispersed to their lessons, and then led Mr. Leechcraft, with Bottle Top in tow, to the adjoining study to prepare the necessary paperwork.
Cirrus stumbled to a hard wooden bench outside the Weeping Room and sat down, feeling numb and dizzy. Bottle Top was his only friend, the one always leading him on larks and adventures. How was he going to cope without him?
“Looks like it’s just you and me, Flux,” said Jonas, strolling past. “The oldest ones left.”
Cirrus kept his head down, trying to ignore the sick feeling spreading inside him.
Shortly afterward, Bottle Top rushed up to him. “Mr. Leechcraft says he’s going to buy me a brand-new set of teeth,” he said, his face shining with excitement. “And some fancier clothes, too!”
Cirrus tried to imitate a smile, but his heart wasn’t in it. He wondered how Bottle Top could sound so eager to get away. What would happen to their friendship? He was about to say something when he became aware of the dark-wigged gentleman advancing toward them.
“Come along, you,” spat Bottle Top’s new master. “We have important work to do. You’re going to make my reputation.”
He led the boy down the steps to the front of the hospital. Cirrus followed, a safe distance behind, watching as the man’s grip on the boy’s shoulder grew tighter the nearer they came to the outside world. And then, before Cirrus could say goodbye, he saw his friend disappear into a plain black carriage and drive off toward the city.
Cirrus turned and ran back to the kitchen, alone.
“A quack, if you ask me,” said Mrs. Kickshaw once he had told her everything that had happened. “I’ve heard of his kind before. No better than a charlatan, a rogue! Pshaw!” She spat into the fire. “The Governor ought to know better than apprenticing young boys to scoundrels!”
She caught the worried look crumpling Cirrus’s brow and pulled him into an embrace—so tight Cirrus could smell the overpowering stench of her yeasty brown apron. “Now, don’t ye worry about Abraham,” she said, rocking him back and forth. “He’ll find his own way in the world, I promise.”
“And what about me?” he asked weakly.
She looked down at him and smiled. “There now,” she said, mopping away the tears that had sneaked into his eyes. “Your day will come, too, Cirrus. Your day will come. Someone will come looking for ye, too.”
T
he boat drifts up to the stairs off Strand Lane and two men disembark. One is dressed in a dark blue naval uniform, which fits him snugly round the chest; the other is clad in a heavier fearnought jacket. Above them rises the massive edifice of the Guild of Empirical Science: a crown of architecture on the shore of the Thames, its hundred or more windows lit up against the night by a galaxy of candles.
They each press a coin into the outstretched hand of the ferryman, who stands at the prow, and then hurry up the stone steps, away from the river. They pass through a dim passageway into a cobbled courtyard and from there enter the Guild: an enormous hall lined with columns and marble busts. Blank-eyed visionaries stare down at them from their plinths along the walls.
The two men pay little attention to their grand surroundings, but follow a footman up a wide staircase to the top of the building, where an impressive doorway stands before them. The doors are made of ancient oak, and a godly hand can be seen emerging from a bank of clouds carved into the center of each panel. A Latin motto runs along the top:
Ligatur mundus arcanis nodis
—“The world is bound by secret knots.”
The doors swing open and the two men enter a cavernous room filled with blazing light. A long table sits in the middle of the chamber, underneath a glass roof, through which the moon is faintly shining. The table is surrounded by some of the most eminent men in London. There is just one woman.
A man in a red jacket is addressing the table.
“The Breath of God. Think of it, gentlemen,” he says in a loud, cannonading voice. “It is the most subtle, elusive force in all existence, the paragon of elements. Many a brave sailor has gone in quest of it. Imagine being able to tap its source, to capture and contain it. Why, we would be like gods! We would have all the power in the world at our disposal!” He bangs his fist upon the table. “We want it, gentlemen, and by thunder we shall have it!”
A gust of wind whips round the side of the building, and the fires that burn in the hearths along the walls roar with their approval.
“But how do you propose to find it?”
It is barely a squeak of skepticism in the large room, but enough to make the man pause, a wineglass half raised to his lips. His eyes search the table until he finds the owner of the
small voice: a cartographer in a frock coat with numerous pockets, from which he pulls a collection of tightly scrolled maps.
“The Breath of God is rumored to exist beyond the edge of the world,” continues the cartographer, “further than any man has traveled. Venturing upon such an enterprise would be folly, surely?”
The president of the Guild takes a deep breath and returns his glass to the table, spilling a quantity of wine on the tablecloth.
“Folly?” he says. “Then why, sir, are the French, the Spanish and the Portuguese all looking for it? Why do they send their ships to the furthest reaches of the globe? Terra Australis Incognita? Is that what they are searching for? Why, it is but a ruse! They are searching for the Breath of God!”
“But the Southern Hemisphere is ringed by a band of ice and fog,” insists the other man. “It is, by all accounts, impassable.”
He unrolls one of the maps and spreads it across the table. The paper reveals a filigree of finely drawn lines that dissolve into emptiness the nearer they approach the Antarctic. The bottom part of the map is a gulf of uncertainty.
“Who will guide us to this mysterious Aether?”
The president glances at the door and his lips curve into a smile. “Why, sir, I know the very gentleman,” he says. He motions toward the two latecomers. “May I introduce, sirs, Mr. James Flux, First Lieutenant in His Majesty’s Navy.”
Thirty years old, fresh-faced and clean-shaven, James approaches the table.
Heads turn to greet him.
“Why, sir, he is no more than a boy,” says someone on the left, a man with cheeks like marbled cheese. “And certainly no gentleman.”
James feels a wave of antagonism surge toward him, but he plows on through the stares of their defiance. His hair is a mass of dark curls, and the buttons on his newly brushed jacket gleam in the firelight.
“Lieutenant Flux, I assure you, is no boy,” says the president of the Guild. “Why, in his young career he has already charted an archipelago in the South Pacific and risen swiftly through the ranks of His Majesty’s Navy. Indeed, it is said that the wind favors him wherever he sets sail and the sea prostrates itself before him. There is no finer seaman alive.”
Someone scoffs, “And who is the oaf in the monkey coat beside him? Surely not some savage he picked up off one of the islands?”
Laughter surrounds the table and James can sense all two hundred pounds of his best friend, Felix, stiffen under his battered fearnought jacket. Together, they have braved the iciest gales and most vicious storms, and he hopes the insults will wash off him now like sea spray.
“Mr. ‘Fearnought’ Hardy is my second in command,” he says, using the name by which his colleague is commonly known at sea, “and a gentleman I would trust with my own life.”
One of the merchants dismisses his comments with an idle wave.
“Be that as it may. Kindly tell us, Flux, why we should entrust you with such a mission. You are asking us to invest a personal fortune in your quest for something that may or may not exist. How do you propose to track down this elusive Breath of God?”
“It is quite simple, sir,” says James, staring him in the eye. “Because I have seen it.”
There is silence around the table—a silence so complete that James can hear the flames sputter on their candlewicks. All eyes are fixed on him, and for the first time he takes in the whole assembly: the proud merchants and tight-lipped bankers to his left, the keen-eyed philosophers to his right, and the heavy-lidded astronomer and clergyman at the far end of the table. Immediately beside James is a silver-haired woman with fine cheekbones and a lofty brow, whose beauty takes his breath away. And to her right sits a shrunken individual, no larger than a child, in an upright chair on wheels.
“I trust you know Madame Orrery and Mr. Sidereal,” says the president to him privately.
James inclines his head. “Indeed. I know them both by reputation.”
Madame Orrery is esteemed for her investigations into the human mind, which have impressed all of London, and Neville Sidereal, the son of a rich merchant, is reputed to be the cleverest man alive. He has developed an ingenious system of lenses that allows him to see far and wide across the city from a rooftop observatory.
Twiddling a knob attached to the arm of his chair, which
moves a series of cogs and gears beneath, Mr. Sidereal wheels closer. “You have seen it?” he asks.
“Indeed, I have,” says James. “The Breath of God appeared above His Majesty’s Bark the
Destiny
when I was but a boy and receded into mist the moment I beheld it. Yet I believe I caught sight of its source: a vast continent made of shimmering ice, with the most amazing light behind it.”
“What did I tell you?” says the clergyman, leaping to his feet at the far end of the table. “What are the ice caps, sirs, if not the frozen waters of the Flood—that great deluge sent down by God to drown the sinful multitudes? And what of the fog that surrounds them? Why, it can be only one thing—the souls of the departed. Indeed, it is obvious, sirs. The Breath of God resides beyond the edge of the world, at the entrance to the next. Mr. Flux, I do believe you have discovered the very gates of heaven!”
“But have you any proof of this divine Aether?” asks one of the philosophers more scathingly. “Or are we merely to take you upon your word?”
James feels Felix shift beside him.
“I do,” he says.
“And would you care to enlighten us?”
“First, I have a condition of my own to make.”
One of the merchants, a man with fat ruby rings, snorts. “You have a condition? What, pray, can you demand from us, you upstart whelp?”
James swallows. “A house for my wife and an annual allowance,” he says. “She is with child.”
For the first time, Madame Orrery displays an interest in the discussion. She leans forward and cups her chin in her hand. “Is that all?” she asks. “You seek nothing else—for yourself?”
Just for a moment, James thinks of his bedridden wife in the tiny room they share in a tumbledown house next to the vile-smelling foundries on the south side of the river. He recalls what she said to him earlier this evening: “Please, James, I wish you would not go. Not for so long, not so far away. Anything could happen.… At least wait to see your child.”
A blush steals across his cheeks, but he speaks over the doubts and misgivings in his head. “My loyalties are to my wife and child,” he says. “I must ensure their well-being, if not my own.”
“Very well,” says Madame Orrery, her voice hardening somewhat. “I shall see to it personally that your wishes are fulfilled. Now, how do you propose to convince us of this Breath of God?”
“With this,” says James.
Taking a deep breath, he loosens the collar of his naval uniform and withdraws a small spherical object from the cord round his neck. It is the terrella he has worn since his first days at sea, the globe engraved with distant countries.
“A terrella?” says the philosopher. “You propose to convince us with a common piece of metal?”
“If you please, sir,” says James. “Watch.”
He twists the halves of the sphere until they fall into place and the line at the equator cracks open. He glances at
Felix, who, with a slight look of disapproval, signals to the footmen to extinguish the candles. The room plunges into shadow, save for the moonlight drifting overhead.
Very carefully, James removes the northern hemisphere.
The assembled members gasp as a brilliant blue-and-white light escapes from the interior of the sphere and spreads throughout the room, floating in icy waves above them. All at once they rise from their seats and reach toward it.
“It’s beautiful,” murmurs Madame Orrery, gazing up at the heavenly light. “May I touch it?” She extends a hand toward the sphere itself.
James hesitates, afraid to let go of the sphere, but then slips the terrella into her hand. Immediately, her fingers close round it and snatch the light from the room, sheathing it in a case of skin and bone.
“It’s astonishing,” she says as a soft sheen takes possession of her face. “I can feel its power working through me. It is like a new lease on life!”
James averts his eyes. He knows its alluring effect too well. He has opened the sphere many times during the intervening years, always surprised to find that the light is still inside, always afraid that the supply will one day run out.
One of the merchants reaches across the table.
“Let me see that!” he exclaims, but Mr. Sidereal is too fast. With astonishing speed he maneuvers his chair closer to Madame Orrery and seizes the terrella from her.
“Such perfect clarity,” he says, examining it with a special lens. “Such luminescence. Why, it must be studied!”
“Give that here, you runt,” says the ruby-knuckled merchant.
This time, Felix intervenes. Wrestling the terrella away from Mr. Sidereal, he swiftly hands it back to James, who threads the halves together. Gradually, the wonderful light radiating through the room fades and the footmen, until now standing forgotten along the walls, rush forward to relight the candles. Their light seems dull and timorous compared to the brilliance before.
“So,” says the president of the Guild, glancing round the table, “what say you, gentlemen? Are we agreed? Do we undertake this mission?”
There is a babble of excited voices, and soon a unanimous decision is reached.
“Good,” says the president, smiling smugly. He turns to James. “With our wealth and intelligence behind you, Flux, not to mention the latest instruments to guide your way, our success is assured. Determine the coordinates of the Breath of God—and, if you can, bring back more of this heavenly Aether—and you and your family will be richly rewarded.”
Once again, James hears the worried voice of his wife in his ear and glimpses Felix’s troubled look beside him, but the temptation to sail is too great. He finds himself accepting the mission instead. “I await your instruction,” he says simply.
The president nods. “Kindly see to it that you do not fail. The glory of this nation rests upon your shoulders.”
With that, James and Felix leave the room and make their way down the stairs to the front of the Guild. It is even colder
now, and very lightly it has begun to snow. Small sleety flakes spiral down from the sky in constellations.
“I do not like this, James,” says Felix as they head toward the river. “Did you not see the way they were at each other’s throats? It is not safe to give such people power.”
“Nonsense,” says James. “It will make our reputations.”
Felix glances at his friend. “I think ambition is clouding your judgment.”
James scowls and listens to the water lapping blackly. “Are you really against me?” he asks, his voice sounding somewhat younger and less assured than before. “Would you honestly prefer to stay behind?”
