Eoin Colfer - Airman

Conor stood, craning his neck backwards for the view. The villagers lined the ridge like teeth in a vast mouth, more arriving every second to fill the gaps. They peered down to catch a squint of the Airman.

‘All of Kilmore is here,’ he groaned.

‘What? Did you expect to give away diamonds, build a heavier-than-air flying machine on the beach and stay a secret? You are the Airman, come to fight Bonvilain. He is not a popular man.’

‘Look, they’re lighting torches now. They have lamps.’

Linus tapped his temple. ‘I can’t look, boy. Blind remember. And, anyway, couldn’t you use a few lights?’

‘My God!’ exclaimed Conor. ‘Of course. Lights would be most helpful.’

‘Well then, invite those good folk to come down. After all, in a few hours none of this will matter. The queen will know the truth, Bonvilain will be banished and you will once again be Sir Conor of the Saltee Islands.’

‘Not necessarily,’ said Conor. ‘There is an alternative ending.’

Linus stood, brushing off the seat of his pants. ‘Not tonight, my young friend. The planets are aligned, the runes have been thrown, I found a four-leaf clover in the grass. Tonight, after three years, Conor Broekhart comes back from the dead.’

‘Perhaps,’ said Conor. ‘But for how long?’

Great Saltee

Two-year-old Sean Broekhart lay in his bed, but he was not sleepy.

‘I think he has a fever,’ said Catherine, touching the back of her hand to the young boy’s forehead. ‘Perhaps we should stay at home.’

‘Stay home,’ agreed the smiling Sean.

Declan stood in the doorway, shoulders broad in his dress uniform. ‘Sean is fine, darling. He thrives. Were he any stronger I would enlist him right now. If you don’t want to go, just say the words. No need to drag little Sean into your schemes.’

Catherine straightened a row of medals on her husband’s chest. ‘I have been saying the words since the invitation arrived. It’s so strange, don’t you think? This sudden desire of the marshall’s to celebrate Conor?’

Declan’s brow creased. A lot had changed in these past weeks. He felt more himself than he had in years, three years to be exact. And while he still felt gratitude for what Hugo Bonvilain had done for Conor and the family, he had concerns about the man’s methods, especially the tight rein he held over Little Saltee. Recently his men had begun to tell him horror stories about the prison.

‘It’s not strange, it’s natural. Hugo feels some guilt too. After all, his men were supposed to be guarding the king. That was always the problem with Nicholas, he did not want to live his life under guard. He was too trusting by far.’

‘Talk to Isabella, Declan. She is expecting it.’

‘You have already spoken to the queen about this?’

Catherine took her husband’s arm. ‘She spoke to me. Isabella has concerns too. She needs an ally that the men will listen to. You are the only one who can challenge Bonvilain.’

Declan did not want this burden. ‘The marshall is my superior officer and he has been very good to us.’

‘I don’t wish to wound you, Declan, but your mind has been elsewhere these past years. You have been blind to the injustices that grow commonplace on the Saltees. Nicholas’s dream was to create a Utopia for the people. That has become Isabella’s dream too. It is not Hugo Bonvilain’s. He wishes to be prime minister; he has always wished it.’

Declan admitted the facts like shafts of light through chinks in a heavy curtain. ‘I have heard things. Perhaps I can investigate.’

Catherine’s grip tightened on his arm. ‘One more thing, perhaps this is not the night to say it, but Victor Vigny, a traitor?’

‘They found letters in his apartment detailing the island’s defences. My own men were with Bonvilain when he found the bodies.’

‘I know all about the evidence, but I knew Victor too. He saved us, remember?’

‘He saved himself,’ countered Declan, then gently, ‘Victor was a spy, Catherine. They are a cold breed. We saw of him what he wished us to see.’

There were tears in Catherine’s eyes now. ‘Just promise me you will stand by Isabella, whatever she decides to do. Your first loyalty is to her.’

‘Of course, she is my queen.’

‘Very well,’ said Catherine, drying her eyes. ‘Now I must ready myself again. Why don’t you tell your son a story, put him off to sleep before the nanny arrives.’

Little Sean seized on the word. ‘Story, Daddy,’ he called. ‘Story, story, story.’

Declan squeezed his wife’s hand before she left the room. ‘I am here now, Catherine. I will take care of us all, including the queen.’

He sat on Sean’s bed, and as usual he could not gaze upon one son without thinking of the other, but he forced the melancholy look from his features and smiled down at the boy.

‘Well, Sean Broekhart, not feeling sleepy tonight?’

‘No sleep,’ replied Sean belligerently, tugging his father’s sleeves with small fingers.

So small , thought Declan. So fragile .

‘I think one of my stories might do the trick. Which one would you like? Captain Crow’s army?’

‘No Crow,’ said Sean, his lip jutting. ‘Conor. Tell me Conor story. Sean’s budder.’

Declan was taken aback. Sean had never asked about Conor before and for some reason, Declan had never anticipated this moment.

‘Conor story,’ insisted Sean, pummelling his daddy’s leg.

Declan sighed. ‘Very well, little one. A Conor story. There are many tales about your brother, for he was a special person who did many amazing things in his life. But his most famous deed, the one for which he earned the gold medal in the cabinet, was the rescue of Queen Isabella. Of course, she wasn’t a queen in those days, merely a princess.’

‘Princess,’ said Sean contentedly.

‘On this particular summer afternoon, Conor and Isabella had exhausted the fun to be had tracking an unused chimney to its source and decided to launch a surprise pirate attack on the king’s apartment…’

And so Declan Broekhart told the story of the burning tower, and when it was over and the princess saved, he kissed his sleeping boy and left the bedchamber with a heart that felt strangely lighter.

Saint Patrick’s Bridge

This is madness , thought Conor. Lunacy. There are so many things that can go wrong .

The engine could prove too weighty in spite of the aluminium casing. The propeller has not even been tested in a wind tunnel and could rip the nose apart as easily as propel the craft. The untreated muslin was lighter than the treated variety but may not deflect the air currents sufficiently to give lift. The steering was rudimentary at best and would allow no more than a twenty-degree turn and even that could pull the wings off. The wing tips may not provide enough balance for a take-off.

So many things.

Saint Patrick’s Bridge had become a cathedral of sorts. The villagers had made the trek down the steep path for the spectacle, and most were crowded into the natural amphitheatre above the shale outcrop. They wiggled into comfortable positions, opened baskets of food and chatted amicably while they waited. The rest lined both sides of Saint Patrick’s Bridge, holding their lanterns aloft, lighting a path for the Airman.

More expectations , thought Conor. As if overthrowing a military leader were not enough, now I must entertain a village into the bargain .

He made a final tour of La Brosse , holding an oil lamp close to the underside of each wing, searching for tears, smoothing down bumps. No more need for delay.

‘That’s your fourth final inspection, if my ears serve me correctly,’ said Linus from the shadows. ‘Go now, Conor, or you will miss the tide.’