Eoin Colfer: Airman

Conor transferred his thoughts from one obsession to another.

‘Imports in our new laboratory. You spend almost every evening in this laboratory. When can I see it, Victor? Tell me.’

The Frenchman raised a warning hand.

Wait, the gesture said. And be quiet .

He closed the doors to the balcony, then checked that no one listened behind the door.

‘Let me ask you something,’ he said to his intrigued student. ‘These romantic feelings you’ve been having. Why haven’t you talked to your father?’

Conor frowned. ‘I would. We are close, but this past year he has been preoccupied. The Knights of the Holy Cross grow stronger. There have been several incidents of violence against citizens and visitors. The knights openly flout the king’s wishes. Father worries for the king’s safety.’

‘He is right to worry,’ confided Victor. ‘Bonvilain’s men grown bolder by the day. The Marshall was almost prime minister, and believes there may still be a chance of obtaining that exalted office. The king has plans for a parliament, but not one that will be presided over by the knights. Serious political machinations are afoot on both sides. It is a time for caution and secrecy.’

‘Is this tied to the man you must meet? And the new laboratory?’

‘Yes. To both. The man risks his life to send news of Bonvilain’s hold over the prison authorities.’

‘And the laboratory?’

Victor knelt before Conor, gripping his shoulders. ‘It is almost ready, Conor. Finally. The renovation is finished, not that you would know from the outside. And the equipment has arrived to build our flying machine.’

Conor’s heart thumped against his ribs. ‘Everything?’

‘Yes. Everything we asked for and more. Nicholas doubled the order, and asked for anything else he could think of. A veritable Aladdin’s cave of wonders for two airmen like us. Six engines. Five crates of balsa. Silk and cotton by the roll, cable, pneumatic rubber tyres, Conor. Expensive but worth it. Two pairs of dashing goggles, the latest precision tools. Everything we need to build a workshop like nowhere on earth, and thanks to a generous grant from Nick, we have an old Martello tower outside Kilmore in which to build it. A place where Bonvilain won’t be looking over our shoulders. We shall have our own wind tunnel, jeune homme . Think of it.’

Flying machines were already taking off in Conor’s mind. ‘When can I see it?’

‘Soon,’ Victor promised. ‘Soon. Only two people on the islands know about our equipment. Three now including you. To others it is simply a hugely expensive collection of mismatches. An idiot’s shopping list locked inside a ruin.’

‘But why the secrecy?’

‘You do not yet understand the magnitude of what we attempt. When we succeed, the Saltee Islands will be the toast of the civilized world and King Nicholas will be the man who taught the world to fly. His position secure for as long as he lives. Until then, he is a crackpot king selfishly emptying the Saltee coffers. We are a stick to beat him with. This consignment is huge. It must be kept secret until we are ready. Until then, we can pretend that our trips are educational.’

Conor understood, but his excitement made him reckless. ‘Curse Bonvilain. He holds back science.’

‘Not for long,’ said Victor soothingly. ‘Very well, I will sneak you across on the ferry next weekend. You can peruse our new engines.’

‘Next weekend. Good.’

‘We can read some Shakespeare on the boat.’

Conor’s face was blank. ‘Shakespeare, I…’ Then he remembered and jumped to his feet. ‘Oh. Isabella will be at tea now. I must talk to her directly afterwards. What time is it?’

The Frenchman ignored the carriage clock on his mantle, consulting instead the sundial on his balcony.

‘I would say, perhaps a quarter past five.’

‘How could you know that?’ asked Conor in disbelief. ‘You can’t see the sun today, not through all those clouds.’

Victor winked. ‘Other men may not see the sun, jeune homme . But I am a visionary.’

Conor’s head buzzed with new information as he crossed the keep towards the Broekhart apartments. The day was grey, with dull light falling on the granite walls, rendering them close to black. There was nothing to distract him from his thoughts of invention and romance.

Victor was right. Isabella sat beside him every day for Latin, French, mathematics and now Shakespeare. He would have his chance. And what better way to impress a girl than by building a flying machine for her? A real aeroplane, not a toy. He would name it the Isabella, if Victor agreed, and how could a dashing romantic such as the famous La Brosse stand in the way of young love?

Conor crossed the inner courtyard, the intensity of his thoughts hurrying him along. He ignored neighbours and failed to notice friends, but rather than think him rude these people smiled.

Look at young Broekhart with his head in the skies. No surprise there – was he not born in the clouds?

A pig crossed his path, and Conor bumped into its filthy flank.

‘Sorry, Princess,’ blurted Conor, his thoughts mixing with reality.

The drover scratched his chin. ‘Who are you calling Princess? Me or the pig?’

Conor apologized twice, once to the pig and again to its owner, before hurriedly continuing across the yard, this time with his eyes focused on the here and now.

‘Porkchop says she’s free on Wednesday,’ the drover called after him, much to the amusement of anyone within earshot.

Conor took himself and his burning cheeks round the nearest corner, which was not the way he wished to go, but at least he was out of the drover’s sight.

He rested against the wall for a moment, until his scarlet embarrassment faded, ignoring the passing traffic of militia, civil servants and merchants. A couple of Bonvilain’s knights stumbled by, obviously drunk, plucking whatever they wished from the market stalls. No payment was offered and none asked for.

Conor heard an unfamiliar sing-song accent waft through an open scullery window.

‘… so very handsome,’ the voice said. ‘Gretchen, you know that little German princess, with those ears and the estates, she would kill, kill, to have afternoon tea with Prince Christian. But he is with the choosing your Isabella. She should be honoured. If you to ask me, he will making all the talking today. He will not the coming back. Christian does not like the boating, with the big waves and sick making.’

Christian would do all his talking today.

Conor came close to panicking in the street. He felt sure that the struggle to keep such powerful emotions under control must surely have resulted in some disfigurement of his forehead.

I must talk to Isabella now.

He would go to the princess. Tell her that the spring-loaded glider had been a bad idea. He would gather some flowers, and wrap them in paper, and on the paper a poem.

Pathetic. That sounds pathetic even to me, and it was my idea. I am no poet. If Isabella likes me, it is not for my poetry.

He would go to her, and be himself. Just remind her of his existence before Prince Christian charmed her off to Denmark. Maybe tell a joke. One of Victor’s.

What’s happening to me? he asked himself.

Conor had always thought that the most powerful emotion he would ever experience was the thrill of scientific discovery. To do something that no one in the history of the world had done. What could compare to that?

But then he began to see Isabella through different eyes. He noticed how she brightened the classroom with her jokes and attitude, and even her constant insults and threats of torture seemed somehow endearing. He realized that her brown eyes could make everything else in a room disappear. He wished the mornings away until she appeared in the classroom.