“So, you’re Otto Lunardi’s boy, then?” one of the machinists asked.
“Yes, I am,” he said.
“D’you think your father would give me a raise?” someone asked, and laughter rose from the table.
“I’ll be sure to put in a good word for you,” Lunardi said. “But he’s a stingy old goat, I can tell you.”
This brought more laughter, but it wasn’t against Lunardi this time, and even I couldn’t help smiling and giving a quick sniff of amusement.
Meals were a delicious but quick affair aboard ship. No one really had time to linger, except those coming off watch and willing to trade sleep for company and some friendly gab. Anyway, I’d lost my appetite, even though there was crème caramel for dessert, served with fresh Brazilian strawberries and vanilla cream. I nodded good-bye to the other crew and made my exit, relieved to get away from Lunardi.
I wished he’d come to the table bold and cocky, crowing about his position, complaining about the ship and his cabin and the discomfort he now had to endure compared to his palatial mansion ashore. But, no, it looked like he might be a decent fellow, and that made things worse somehow.
Upstairs, the first-class lounge was filling up as most of the passengers finished off their dinner. All the gentlemen were in black jackets and wing-tip collars and bow ties, and the ladies in long evening dresses and jewels. Mostly it was the ladies in the lounge, as the men seemed to prefer the smoking room where they could take their drinks and talk about important matters like profits and the price of things.
At a table by the windows sat Miss Simpkins and Kate de Vries. I was stunned at the way Kate looked. Kate was like a different person altogether in her silk gown. She wore her hair up this evening, and around her throat was a simple sparkling necklace. Her shoulders were showing. When I’d met her this morning she’d been a girl, and now she was suddenly too much like a woman. Beside her, drinking tea, sat Miss Simpkins, her hair in some kind of terrifying hive. Kate saw me and smiled, and her smile I recognized at least. I nodded as I made my way to the bar to replace Jack Mobius.
“Watch out for the woman with the scary hair,” he whispered to me as we traded places.
“I know all about her,” I whispered back.
“Said her tea tasted like a fish had bathed in it.”
“Should have taken the poor fellow out earlier,” I told him. “Then she wouldn’t have known.”
“Night, Matt,” he said with a laugh.
Baz came up later to play the baby grand. A marvel it was, all alumiron if you can believe it, and weighing only a few hundred pounds. And Baz was a wonder himself, the way his hands waltzed and tangoed across the keys.
“This music’s too loud,” I heard Miss Simpkins complain. “It’s too raucous. Completely inappropriate for young ears.” A few minutes later, she stood to leave, and Kate reluctantly stood as well. Kate caught my eye and held it for a moment, like there was something she wanted to tell me. Miss Simpkins, I noticed, took her time walking out, pausing to look at the paintings and glance at the last red wash of the sunset on the ocean. She walked like someone who expected people to watch her, and funnily enough, a few of the men were. They seemed to find her pleasing, and I suppose she was an attractive woman. I guess they hadn’t talked to her yet. Maybe they didn’t think her hair was as scary as I did.
Kate had a lot of lovely mahogany hair, and it was piled up on the back of her head. But it was her eyes I liked best, the way there always seemed to be something going on behind them, sparks and swift gusts. A right little thunderstorm in her head.
A table of gentlemen had struck up a conversation with Miss Simpkins about one of the paintings, and Kate casually left her chaperone’s side and walked across the lounge to the bar.
“Good evening, Mr. Cruse,” she said.
“Would you like anything to drink, miss?” I said. “Hot chocolate, tea, brandy?”
She smiled. I decided I’d try to make her smile as much as possible.
“How long are you on duty here?” she asked.
“Till midnight, miss.”
I was trying to stay polite and professional.
Over her shoulder, I saw Miss Simpkins turn and see Kate. She came striding over.
“Shall we retire, then, Kate?” she said, cocking a suspicious eye at me, as though I’d just tried to drug and kidnap her young charge.
“Good night, Mr. Cruse,” Kate said to me.
“Good night, ladies. Sleep well.”
I was sad to see her leave—and frustrated too. How was I supposed to find out more about her grandfather at this rate?
The evening went on. The lounge filled as people arrived from the smoking room and cinema after the late show ended. I served coffee and tea and then more port and sherry and scotch and brandy. Baz’s playing got more and more passionate, and there was ragtime and honky-tonk, and then Mr. Lisbon whispered in his ear, and Baz began playing Bach funeral music, sitting stiff and waxy and doing his best to look like a cadaver. One by one the passengers left the lounge to return to their staterooms for the night.
Midnight was coming on, and I was alone in the lounge, wiping down the counters when I heard a thunk in the message tube. I lifted out the canister and saw from its markings it was from the Topkapi stateroom. I unscrewed the top and unrolled the note.
Two hot chocolates, please.
Kate de Vries
Smiling, I finished cleaning up and then steamed some milk and melted the chocolate and mixed in the sugar and put a dollop of whipped cream on both and some chocolate shavings. I put them on a tray and set off for the stateroom.
I’d been expecting Miss Simpkins to open the door and was surprised to see Kate standing there. She was wearing one of the burgundy dressing gowns that came with the stateroom, and I was glad to see her hair was down and braided. She looked young again, after being all grown up at dinner.
“Hello,” she said.
“Where should I put them, miss?” I asked, stepping inside.
She looked around before pointing to one of the coffee tables. “There, please.”
“Where’s Miss Simpkins?” I inquired.
“Oh, she’s been asleep forever.” She pointed at the closed door of a bedroom.
“Who’s the second one for, then?” I asked, nodding at the hot chocolate.
“You.”
I blinked. “Thank you, miss, but I can’t.”
She looked genuinely surprised. “But I thought you were off duty now.”
“I am. But I’m crew, not a first-class passenger. I can’t just sit down in your stateroom!”
“I don’t see why not, if a first-class passenger invites you.”
She seemed quite miffed, and I understood then that hers was a world where she got her own way and nothing was impossible. For a moment I almost disliked her. Could she even imagine how other people lived? Could she guess how it felt to be poor and miss an opportunity because of a rich man and his son?
“It’s not really allowed for crew to fraternize with passengers, miss,” I said stiffly.
“Well, it seems a silly rule,” she said, but she gave me an apologetic smile. “I don’t want to get you into trouble. I just wanted to talk some more. It was a bit intriguing, where we last ended up, wasn’t it? Aren’t you a bit curious?”
“I am,” I said, sharing her smile. “Of course I am. But what about Miss Simpkins?”
“Don’t worry about her. She hardly ever wakes up before she’s had nine hours.”
I wasn’t altogether reassured and knew I couldn’t stay long. I shuddered to think what would happen if I was spotted coming out of her stateroom after midnight.
I noticed that all the curtains were drawn back and that a wooden tripod had been set up before the windows. Atop it was a camera, a great boxy thing with an accordionlike lens. Wooden crates were set out nearby on the floor, containing all manner of flasks and receptacles.
“Is that all yours?” I asked.
She nodded. “It’s a bit of a hobby of mine. I’m quite good.”
“What is it exactly you’re hoping to take pictures of?” I half knew the answer.
“You’ve never seen them, then?” she asked me.
“No.”
From the coffee table she picked up a small but fat leatherbound notebook, held together with a ribbon.
“It’s my grandfather’s log,” she said. “It’s all in here, what he saw. He made some sketches too.”
Outside, clouds scudded past, ablaze with moon and starlight. The warm smell of chocolate filled the room. The ocean whispered through the open windows.
“Kate?” came a sleepy voice from behind the door. “Is that you?”
A jolt went up my spine. Miss Simpkins. It sounded like she was getting out of bed.
Kate pressed the journal into my hands. “Take it. I know I can trust you. Read it and bring it back to me when you’re done.”
Inside Miss Simpkins’s bedroom I heard the sound of slippered feet moving over the carpet.
“Kate? Are you there?”
I hurriedly put the journal in my pocket, grabbed the tray, and high-stepped it out of there.
“I’ve put a bookmark where he first sees them,” Kate told me.
“Good night,” I said.
Kate smiled at me as she closed the door.
I stood in the deserted hall for a moment, looking at the notebook. It had been on the balloon when I’d swung over, a year ago. Maybe it had been among the things scattered across the gondola floor. Maybe I’d even seen it as I’d crouched over Mr. Benjamin Molloy. It seemed strange to be holding it now in my hands, wind-warped and rain-swollen. I took the tray back to the kitchen then went to my cabin and started reading.
THE LOG OF THE
ENDURANCE
The journal’s spine was cracked and flabby, and there was a hair ribbon round the book, holding it all together. Moths danced around in my stomach as I climbed up to my bunk and stretched out. Baz was on crow’s nest duty until four. I turned on my reading lamp. I untied the ribbon and carefully turned back the cover. The pages were all scabby, as if the book had been soaked by rain then baked in the sun.
The pages were covered with small neat lines of ink: date, position, wind speed, altitude, observations. There was a little preface telling about how he, Benjamin Molloy, planned to do a complete west to east circumnavigation of the globe in his hot air balloon. I read quickly over these first pages, not because they weren’t interesting but because I could see Kate’s bookmark up ahead, and it made my stomach feel swirly, wondering what was written there. It was hard to concentrate on the stuff beforehand.
Kate’s grandfather had started out in Cape Town to catch the jet stream and traveled quickly eastward over the Indian Ocean. But over Australia his luck ran out, and he got shunted off course to the northeast.
There was no sign of panic in his log. His days were busy with keeping the balloon shipshape, managing his supplies and provisions, taking weather readings and bearings. He described the countries and landscapes he was sailing over. Some days there were just coordinates and weather conditions, other days he had lots to write about: birds, the changing light, the landscape of the passing nations beneath him, the creatures below the ocean’s surface. He seemed interested in everything.
I was keeping an eye on his coordinates and realized he was drifting along a flight path not too far off the
Aurora
’s route from Sydney to Lionsgate City. With every day his course veered more to the east, as he tried to catch favorable winds at different altitudes. Not for the first time I felt a sense of dread for him. I loved being aloft, but to be completely at the mercy of the winds, with no other means of power or steerage—it was a frightening thought. Obviously Kate’s grandfather had a stouter heart than mine.
I lost track of how long I’d been reading, I was so caught up in the day to day journey. There weren’t a lot of clues, but little bits of the man crept through, even in his log. He liked watching the weather; he hated the tinned baked beans but ate them because they were nutritious and portable; he enjoyed Shakespeare; he loved his granddaughter. He mentioned her often in his log.
Must remember to tell Kate
, he wrote. Or:
Will send Kate a postcard when I set down in Cape Town.
With a start I realized that Kate’s bookmark was just a page’s turn away.
I put the journal down, climbed off my bunk, and went down the corridor to have a pee. At the sink I splashed cold water on my face. Not that I was sleepy. It just seemed like the thing to do when you were up in the wee hours of the morning, reading the log of a strange, doomed voyage.
Back in the cabin, I slid down into the warm furrow of my bunk and took a glimpse at the stars outside my porthole. With a deep breath, I picked up the journal and turned the page.
September 2
15:23
An island in the distance (171?43? west, 2?21? north) veiled in mist. Possibly volcanic given the cone-shaped silhouette it presents. It looks a tropical place, with a crescent-shaped beach behind a green lagoon, and densely forested.
Sighted two albatross foraging over the ocean, plucking fish and squid from the water’s surface with their long hooked beaks.
17:45
Closer to island now. Huge flock of albatross in distance. Most unusual to see so many together. Perhaps island is nesting ground. Their coloring is odd, no dark coloration on their wingtips or bodies. Their plumage seems a misty white, so that against cloud and sky they are scarcely visible. Only when they are against the ocean or the island can I make them out with any clarity.
18:02
Not birds.
It sent a tingle through me, those two words, and I had to look up from the book. I imagined Benjamin Molloy peering through his spyglass, his hand tightening around the gondola’s rim. What was it he’d seen that told him these creatures weren’t birds?
Their wings are not feathered. I was mistaken about their beaks; they have none. Considerably bigger than either magnificent frigate birds or albatross. One of the creatures broke from the flock and made a slow circle of the
Endurance
, quite high at first, then spiraling down closer to the gondola. It seemed very curious. Its body is easily six feet in length and closely furred. Its forelegs seem to turn into wings, like a bat’s, with a single protruding claw at the wing’s leading edge. The span I would estimate as eight or nine feet across. Its rear legs are stubby but with wickedly sharp curved claws. I feared for the balloon, should he collide with it. How can such a creature stay aloft? It looks too heavy. It is fiercely agile in the sky, dipping and spinning and diving with ease, its wings infinitely versatile. It fairly seems to leap through the air. Saw scarcely anything of its face. A gleam of sizable incisors on upper and lower jaws. A flash of intelligent green-flecked eyes. Then it veered off, hurtling back toward its fellows.
An undiscovered species?
I turned the page and there was a picture, a pencil sketch. Just looking at it made my heart flutter, and I had to sit up and catch my breath. He’d put the rim of the basket in the foreground, and the silhouette of the island in the background to give a sense of scale. The creature’s wingspan was huge. He was a deft hand, the grandfather, that was certain. Couldn’t have had much time to get it down, but his lines were swift and assured. It was the strangest-looking thing, half bird, half panther.
September 4
13:25
I have dropped into a calmer stratum of air so I can hover over the island and observe them. They float. They face into the wind and scarcely need beat their wings. I watched one move not a muscle for hours, sleeping maybe, bedded down on the air itself. They cannot weigh much.
Across the next two pages were drawings of skeletons.
The first one was human, I saw that clearly enough, the rib cage, the hips, the skull atop the neck. Next to it was a skeleton that looked at first glance not so very much different. Except the hands. The bones of the fingers were all long and flared. It was freakish to look at, until I read Benjamin Molloy’s caption underneath:
Bat
. Next to this was a third skeleton, and it seemed some sort of bizarre combination of the two. Shortened legs, like the bat, and instead of arms, the same weirdly flared finger bones of the bat. But the skull on this one was no bat’s; nor was it human. The skull was flatter, with sharp teeth. Smaller, yes, but certainly no one would mistake this for a bat, and never for a bird. The drawing were made with scientific care, all shaded and with a length scale to the side. He was a clever man, Kate’s grandpa, no questioning that. Seemed to know something about everything. Underneath were all sorts of Latin words.
September 5
09:15
Still playing the air currents around the island so I can watch them. They have a great curiosity for my balloon, circling high, but rarely drawing too close to the gondola. Difficult for me to see their bodies or faces more clearly. They seem wary of me; the sight of my spyglass makes them scatter in an instant. I wonder why?
With a start I realized that these creatures could have been responsible for damaging his balloon. Had they tested the material with their sharp claws, torn enough little gashes to make it sink?
17:47
They do not land. In all the time I’ve been observing, they haven’t landed in the trees or on the water. They feed low over the island, preying on all manner of birds. They are voracious hunters. They also eat fish, strafing the water and plunging their rear claws into the sea as they brake. They come up with fish or small squid. They lift them high then flip them up to their mouths and take them whole. Sometimes they drop their prey and then dive down and snatch it into their mouths.
September 6
11:17
I have counted twenty-six of the creatures.
I wish Kate could see them, the way they gambol and swirl through the air. I’ve never seen an animal look so at home in its element. Like dolphins or porpoises or whales, they clearly love to play. Why has no one ever seen these before? Their natural camouflage is excellent, but with so many airships aloft now, surely someone else must have seen these creatures? Or are there very few? Are these the only ones in existence?
On the next page was another sketch, of a great flock—or a herd, I wasn’t sure what to call them—of these things circling over the coast of the island.
September 7
13:40
They birth in the air.
One after another, one of the creatures–a female I now realize—would soar to a great altitude, seven thousand feet or so. I increased my lift so I could rise with them and keep watch. The female put her head to the wind and angled her wings so she was hovering. Then something dropped from her hindquarters. It happened so quickly all I was aware of was a small dark bundle plunging away from her. At first I thought it was merely her droppings. But I quickly realized it was too large. And the female’s behavior was most curious. Immediately she went into a dive too, keeping pace with the falling object.
The object wobbled in the air and seemed to enlarge, even as it fell past me. It was spreading its wings. It was no bigger than a kitten, but its wings, as they unfurled, were many times the width of its body. Out went the wings, instinctively angled so that the newborn’s plunge began to slow dramatically. After a moment or two I saw the wings lift and push tentatively, then again, and again, each time with more force.
It was flying.
From the moment of birth, it knew how. How could such a thing be possible? Incredible! But then, does not the newborn whale, born into the element of water, know instantly how to swim? Why could it not be so with this creature, then? Only air and not water was its element.
The mother flew close alongside its child, as if giving advice, monitoring its progress.
I watched more females make the climb to the birthing altitude and then release their newborns into the air.
The sixth birth was different.
The newborn fell, and only the right wing unfurled to its full length. The left seemed stuck, or crimped somehow, and the newborn went into a spiral, out of control. It could not pull up. The mother flew around it frantically, but there was nothing she could do. She made a sound I had not heard them make before, a plaintive shriek. Down the newborn fell, flip-flopping in the air. Finally its wings were both out, and I thought it must be slowing, though it was impossible to tell from so high above.
I lost sight of it above the dense foliage of the island. I waited and watched the skies for a time but saw only the mother circling overhead. No sign of the newborn. It must have fallen to its death.
I wonder how many must die like this, unable to learn the air instantaneously.
Of the fourteen births, this is the only failure.
The newborns frequently cling, upside down, to their mothers’ bellies to nurse, and she flies for both of them.
September 8th
12:51
All are feeding today with a new kind of urgency. Are they on some kind of migration? I wonder where they’re going? Where they come from? I suppose the sky is their home; they need no terrestrial haven. Perhaps they simply move from hemisphere to hemisphere looking for the warmest skies, and the birthing season coincides with their arrival in southern latitudes.
19:35
They’re departing. Would like to follow, but they’re too fast. With tailwinds, I would estimate eighty knots. Amazing creatures.
Gone now.
Weather changing.
Maybe it was me, but I thought he sounded pretty dejected. When I turned the page I felt a bit queasy. Most of the handwriting was smeared, by torrential rain, I supposed, and I could make out only a few words. It seemed a tropical storm had overtaken him and kept him in its fist for some time. I think I saw the word
damage
in one entry, and a mention of a problem with the envelope. A hot flush swept my back. Was he leaking? Had the creatures torn his balloon, or was it just the storm?