Eoin Colfer - Airman

‘Yes, of course, you are right. I should leave, immediately. It must seem silly to everyone. All this preparation for such a small journey.’

Linus stepped into the lamp’s glow. The light caught him from below, casting ghostly shadows along his thin face.

‘You are wrong, boy. This is a momentous journey. Historic.’

Conor buttoned his aeronaut’s jacket. ‘Not historic, I am afraid. There will be no official record, no photographs. Nothing is acknowledged without at the very least a fellow of the Royal Society. Every week a new crackpot appears claiming to have flown.’

Linus raised his arms high to the watchers, like a conductor acknowledging his audience.

‘Every man, woman and child here will remember what is about to happen on this beach for the rest of their lives, no matter what the history books say. The truth will never die.’

Conor strapped on his goggles and hat. ‘Linus, if something happens – something unfortunate – will you find a safe way to contact my father? He must know the truth.’

Linus nodded. ‘I will find a way, boy. This old spy has a few tricks up his sleeve, but I have faith in you.’

Conor climbed the short ladder to the pilot’s seat, positioning himself carefully on the driver’s bench.

Something on his jacket clinked against the frame. It was the winged ‘A’ symbol.

‘I don’t suppose I need this any more,’ said Conor, unfastening it. ‘Bonvilain knows exactly who I am.’ He tossed it twinkling over Linus’s head to the boy known as Uncle.

‘A keepsake for you, so that when people tell you that this never happened, at least you will know different.’

Uncle polished the winged ‘A’ on his shirt. ‘Thanks, Airman. I was hoping for the goggles, but I suppose you’ll be needing those.’

‘Unfortunately, yes. But you can have this pair if I come back, in return for one last favour.’

‘Anything,’ cried the boy, already imagining strutting along Kilmore quay, goggles at a jaunty angle on his crown. ‘So long as it doesn’t involve bathing.’

‘No. No bathing. I need two of your tallest boys to stand at the wing tips. They must be strong, and they must be quick on their toes.’

Uncle summoned his two tallest boys and positioned them as Conor had asked.

‘These two are so thick they make the village idiot look like Sherlock Holmes,’ Uncle confided to Conor. ‘They’ll run straight into the sea if you want.’ Then to the two lads: ‘Run fast, won’t ye, buckos. Hold the wings level and I’ll swap those diamonds for two bars of toffee.’

‘Righto, Uncle,’ said one.

‘Toffee,’ said the other, who looked a lot like the first.

‘They can stop before the water,’ said Conor, fixing his goggles. ‘I need them to run alongside and keep the wings balanced. As soon as I lift off, they let go. Can they do that?’

‘Of course they can, they’re not thick,’ said Uncle. ‘Sorry, they are thick. But not that thick.’

Conor nodded. ‘Good, Uncle, if things go badly for me tonight, I want you to stay with Mister Wynter, he will pay you a decent wage.’

‘Will he make me bathe?’

‘No, he will debate the matter with you until you decide to wash.’

‘Ah. One of those. Very well – for you, Airman. Though I may have to murder him in his sleep.’

‘Fair enough.’

I waste time talking with this boy. Time to be off.

Conor braced his feet against two wooden blocks and stood, leaning forward to grasp the engine’s crank. The engine had always run well enough on a block in the tower, but that was the way of things. Engines ran well until they were needed.

The engine caught on the second revolution, coughing like a sick dog then spluttering forth a roar. The crowd cheered, and Conor felt like doing the same. Stage one complete, now if he had done his calculations correctly, the vibrations would not tear his aeroplane apart for a while at least.

After an initial burst of enthusiasm, the engine settled to about ten horsepower, spinning Conor’s revolutionary propeller and sending the exhaust fumes streaming over his shoulder. The aeroplane bounced and reared, eager to be off, a wild beast on a tether.

This can never work. I have no speed control. This frame cannot last for more than five minutes.

Too late for doubts now. Too late.

Conor strapped on his harness, then released the brake lever and the plane leaped forward, bumping over the shale surface.

In his peripheral vision, Conor saw Uncle urging one of the runners on with strokes from a switch. With one hand, he buckled his harness across his chest, while the other struggled to keep the tiller straight.

You should have buckled your harness before releasing the brake. Idiot.

The ocean was approaching fast, and he had not sufficient speed. He urged the craft forward with jerks of his torso, and tried to ignore the smoke and oil spattering on his face and goggles.

You should have fixed an exhaust pipe to the body. What were you thinking?

Lanterns sped past on either side, speed trails blurring one into the next. It was all he could do to keep the aeroplane between the lines. The vibration was terrible, rattling his backbone, clicking his teeth, rolling his eyes in their sockets.

Some form of absorbance is needed. Cloth padding, or springs.

This was not the time for ideas. The aeroplane, though just brought to life, was already dying. Rivets popped, material ripped and ribs groaned. It had minutes left before the engine shook it to pieces like a dog shaking a rag doll.

Conor’s feet found the pedals on the floor and he pushed forward, angling the wings. The aeroplane lifted a fraction, then dropped to earth. He pushed again and this time the lift was greater and the vibration decreased. No longer could he feel the bump over each stone transmitted through the wood into his rear end, which was a relief.

The water loomed black before him and then underneath. Conor vaguely registered his two runners splashing into the ocean, then he was airborne and away.

I am flying a machine , he thought. Can you see me, Victor? We did it .

Great Saltee

Marshall Bonvilain had arranged for the dinner to be held in his own apartments, which was very unusual. None of the guests had ever been in the marshall’s rooms before this night, and they had never heard of him extending an invitation.

Bonvilain’s tower was separate from the main palace, further south along the Wall, and had been occupied by his family since its construction. It had the distinction of being the tallest structure on Great Saltee, and sat grey and imposing on the skyline like a reminder of the marshall’s power. He could often be seen on his balcony, brass telescope screwed to his eye, keeping a watch on everything, making the entire island feel guilty.

The dining room was sumptuous, decorated with swathes of Oriental silk and painted paper screens. The table itself was circular and low to the ground, surrounded by thick cushions.

When Queen Isabella and the Broekharts were ushered into the area, it felt as though they had stepped into another world.

Catherine was especially amazed. ‘It’s so… It’s so…’

‘Cultured?’ said Hugo Bonvilain, stepping from behind a screen. In place of his usual sternly cut blue suit and Templar stole, he wore a Japanese robe.

Bonvilain could not help but notice his guests’ surprised faces. ‘This is a Yukata Tatsu robe. Tatsu is the Japanese word for dragon, embodying the powerful and turbulent elements of nature. I spent a year in Japan in sixty-nine, as personal bodyguard to Emperor Meiji, before my father died and I was called back. Emperor Meiji insisted I take some of Japan home with me. I rarely have it taken out of storage, but this is a special occasion and I thought you might like to see a more relaxed marshall.’