Justin Fisher - Ned’s Circus of Marvels

“Understood.”

“For now we’ll say you’re a runaway. We get a lot of recruits that way and no one will pay someone like you much heed.”

Ned felt another flicker of anger. Why did the man dislike him so much?

“By ‘like me’ I guess you mean ordinary, right?”

“I had something else in mind, but ordinary will do.”

Ned had a pleasing vision of yanking Benissimo’s moustache, then setting it on fire with one of the Tinker’s gadgets.

“Tinker, a message to Oublier, if you will?”

“Right you are, boss!”

Ned seethed quietly as Benissimo’s head of R&D opened two windows at the back of the truck and picked up a large device shaped like a trumpet. Directing one end out of the window, he started to speak in a mixture of slow drawn out tones and revolting nasal snorts, all the while contorting his face and lips horribly.

“N e w … l e a d … f o u n d … F i d g i t … a n d … S o n s.”

A large gust blew up, swirling leaves into a pillar of spinning greenery, before launching itself over the forest’s canopy and away from the truck.

“What’s he doing?”

The Ringmaster gave Ned a withering glare. “Hush, boy, it’s an air-modulator. He’s harnessing the wind to send a message.”

“Who is he messaging?” whispered Ned in amazement, but they were too deep in concentration to hear him, or to reply.

The Tinker continued to work the machine, twisting dials and pressing its keys to change pitch. Finally something else happened. A dozen wind chimes, both crystal and wooden, started to sound on the truck’s roof. Outside a gust of wind was blowing in over the treetops. And then it came, in soft blowy whispers. A reply.

“H … U … R … R … Y .”

“Well, we’d better get to it then,” said Benissimo, “it’s time for tear down.” And taking Ned’s blood-key for safe-keeping, he charged out of the Tinker’s vehicle.

Ned followed closely behind, having no idea what he was talking about. But as Benissimo called for the troupe to gather round, he soon found out.

“All right everyone! Pull your tent pegs and fire up the engines …” he called. “We’re going home!”

***

Much further than the crow flies but only moments later, a meeting was held between a spy and his master. The master was holding an apple, which he cut carefully, his sharp knife making perfect incisions across its golden skin. He was a great dark hulk of a man, with a deep, unsmiling voice.

“Sister Clementine’s ‘ending’ was unfortunate. She was the closest we’ve come in years,” brooded the master.

“Yes … but now there is the boy,” whispered back his spy.

“A lucky turn of events. Tell me, does he know?”

“Not all of it, no. Bene has kept nearly everyone in the dark for fear of your watchful eyes.”

“And fear them he should!”

“How shall we proceed?” asked the spy from his shadow.

“Everything depends on the boy’s key. I believe it always has. Do you remember the tale of the Parnifer tree?”

“Vaguely.”

“You of all creatures should. In the story, the King’s son was taken by a terrible affliction and could not be woken. The King cried for a hundred days and a hundred nights, till his tears formed a river. By its banks, a tree sprang up from the ground.”

“The Parnifer tree.”

“Precisely. They say a single seed from the tree’s fruit could cure anything. The girl is like the seed. If she were to meet with the Engineer …”

The master put down his knife, before crushing the apple in his fist, its wet pulpy flesh oozing through his fingers.

“ The seed, must, be, crushed . I’ll send the devil himself if I have to.” He gazed for a moment at the fruit falling from his hand. “In the meantime, we’ll be needing some leverage. With the boy’s spirit-knot and enough time, we could do extraordinary things. I’ll leave that up to you. Watch, observe, slow them down if you can. When the moment is right, we’ll make our move.”

And with a silent nod, the spy melted into the shadows and returned from where he came.

There was all-round whooping and hollering and a happy trumpeting from Alice as the Circus of Marvels readied itself for departure. According to the Tinker, they always did their real travelling at night. When Ned stepped outside, he could see why. The very same fog that had rolled into Grittlesby had followed them again across the sea. Through the layers of rolling grey he saw the circus’s big top. Its red and white striped canvas was bulging as if it were about to burst, making it more than twice its normal size.

Even stranger though was the fact that the big top seemed to be floating thirty feet off the ground, as if it were some sort of hot-air balloon … Then Ned saw them through the fog …

Hanging from the big top, suspended in the air, was a series of buses and caravans that had all been joined together. Some were inside out, and others bent in half, all forming a huge metal gondola more than three storeys high through the middle and four at the back. It was all tethered together with great bars of steel and knots of iron rope. Walkways taken from the big top’s inner seating ran all over its hull, and Ned could see crewmen running along the upper deck, checking its rigging and shouting to one another over the roar of the engines. Not for the first time that day, Ned stood wide-eyed and open-mouthed, gawping up at this great metallic beast as against all odds it rose up through the fog. It was the stuff of dreams, a marvel of engineering, and Ned was lost in its every detail.

“Come on, josser, don’t just stand there! Wind’s about to change!” yelled Benissimo.

Ned’s body suddenly drained of blood as he was marched up a narrow walkway and into the airship’s belly. Inside were mismatched corridors of old and new. Not even his dad could have made any sense of it. Every room was different, latched together from some metal bus or wooden trailer, and yet it all seemed to fit perfectly, as though it had been built as a whole first and its separate four-wheeled vehicles extrapolated after. But it was dawning on Ned that impressive as it was, it was also uncommonly large; large and extremely heavy, and also extremely high. As he peered over the edge, his heart plummeted to his stomach. Being scared of heights was one thing; flying in an inflatable tent was quite another. He was already dreading Benissimo’s reply as the question left his lips …

“This thing, this flying machine … is it … safe?”

The Ringmaster stopped dead in his tracks and began muttering to himself.

“Why me? A blasted child and scared of his own shadow …”

“Oi, I am here, you know?” said Ned crossly.

“For your information, boy, this is not a ‘thing’, this is the Marilyn – the finest airship on either side of the Veil and as safe as a ruby in a crown.” Benissimo’s moustache was now twitching quite violently. “There are ‘things’ aplenty where we’re going that will offer up more than ample danger. Your fear of heights should be the least of your – or my – concerns.”

Ned sensed that it might be a good time to hold his tongue.

“Now, while you’re aboard, you need to follow a few simple rules. One – don’t touch anything. Two – don’t talk to anyone, and if anyone talks to you remember: you’re a runaway.” The Ringmaster paused to scratch at his chin. “On second thoughts, it might just be better if you stayed in your bunk. Don’t leave unless you absolutely must.”

Benissimo indicated a door to their immediate right.

“What about permission to breathe? You left that out,” Ned grumbled under his breath.