Sky Run Page 19

  Alain sat cross-legged on the deck, just as the rest of his family did, and he recounted all that had happened to him, his abduction, his time in the Liberation Enlightenment Army as a child soldier, about the massacre (omitting the details as he didn’t wish to upset his sister) and how he had finally found us and we had found him, and how we had spotted the cloud-hunting boat a while back, but thought that we had lost it.

  ‘And where were you headed, Alain?’ his mother asked. ‘Where were you going to?’

  ‘We’re all going to City Island, ma’am,’ I said. ‘To school there. The government’s paying for everyone to get educated who wants to be. It’s all free and we’re enrolling. Peggy’s taking us there. She says it’ll change our lives, and give us big chances. Right, Peggy?’

  ‘It’s more than that, Martin,’ she said. ‘You’ll be able to understand and appreciate things.’

  The Cloud Hunters fell silent. I think it was that word – education. Education widened your horizons, but it also took you away from your roots, your background; it could turn the past and your origins into places to which you would never again quite belong.

  ‘Education, Eldar …’ Alain’s mother whispered to his solemn-faced father. ‘Remember what we said –?’

  ‘I know what was said,’ he snapped.

  Alain looked across at him.

  ‘Of course, I shall stay here now,’ Alain said. ‘Help with the boat, hunt the clouds …’

  His mother slowly shook her head. She turned to her daughter.

  ‘Beth, get your things.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Just do as I tell you.’

  She was the youngest of us all – apart from the baby. She couldn’t have been more than nine.

  ‘Dear lady,’ Alain’s mother said. ‘Can you take our daughter with you too?’

  Peggy looked horrified.

  ‘Another one? I thought I was just getting rid of one, not acquiring another!’

  ‘Mother, I’m staying here now. I’m not going with them.’

  ‘You must, Alain. It’s what we want for you.’

  ‘It’s not what I want.’

  ‘Yes, it is – isn’t it?’

  And the sad truth was that she was right. He’d seen too much and known too much to go back to being a Cloud Hunter; he had things to do, a world to change, and he needed to discover how to do it. He could go into government, become a politician, fight for the rights of the unrepresented minorities – the Cloud Hunters, the sky-roaming gypsies, the rootless and homeless, the dispossessed. You can’t unlearn what you know, and he’d learned too much already to go back.

  ‘But we’ll stay together … ?’ he said.

  ‘End of the term,’ his father told him. ‘City Island. You come to the western harbour and we’ll be waiting for you.’

  ‘And we’ll go cloud-hunting … ?’

  ‘Of course. What else would we do?’

  ‘All right. Mother, Father, Corbis …’ (Which, apparently was the name of the tracker.)

  They embraced each other and said goodbye. Alain took his sister’s hand and we returned to Peggy’s boat.

  ‘Alain –’

  ‘Father?’

  ‘The scars –’ He indicated those unavoidable, unmistakeable scars that all Cloud Hunters bore, running from eyes to mouth. ‘Wear them with pride.’

  ‘I will,’ Alain said. ‘Always.’

  And then the Cloud Hunters were gone, on their way.

  Angelica was holding the little girl’s hand.

  ‘You don’t have any scars, Beth, do you?’

  ‘I’m too young yet,’ she said. ‘But I’ll have them one day.’

  Yet I doubted that. I didn’t think she would. She’d be educated and absorbed into ordinary society – the first person of cloud-hunting origin not to go through the rites of initiation. No one would ever know where she had come from or who her parents had been.

  She cried when the boat vanished into the distance. She seemed quite inconsolable. Alain tried to comfort her, but nothing worked.

  ‘Beth,’ Angelica said, ‘would you like to hear a story?’

  ‘What’s it about?’

  ‘Rat-skinning,’ Angelica said.

  ‘Is it a true story?’ Beth said.

  ‘Yes,’ Angelica said. ‘At least it is in places.’

  In my opinion, that’s about the best you can expect from any story – if it’s true in enough places, then even if the rest is lies, it somehow becomes true all over.

  ‘Come and sit on my lap and I’ll tell it to you.’

  ‘OK, Angelica,’ I said.

  ‘Martin! Not you.’

  ‘Only joking …’

  Beth sat by her and Angelica told her the story. The next time I looked into the sky, the Cloud Hunters could not be seen. They had evaporated, completely.

  Peggy stood looking at us all.

  ‘It’s getting a little crowded on this boat,’ she said. ‘Still, never mind, we’ll be there soon. You start up the solars then. I’m taking another nap.’

  And she went back down below.

  23

  city island, at last

  MARTIN STILL SPEAKING. BUT HIS LAST CHANCE:

  City Island was hard to miss, even long before you set eyes on it. You just followed the traffic. First there was us, sailing alone, and then we found we had company; a couple of craft appeared, heading in the same direction. And then, after a few more hours, there was real traffic, and the sky was filling with boats of all sizes and kinds – gunboats, garbage barges, cruise liners, factory boats, whalers and deep-sky trawlers, towing nets of writhing sky-fish. There was everything. I even saw a tiny rowing boat, which I’d never seen before. No solars, just one person and two big-bladed oars, with which you paddled your way across the sky.

  Small satellite islands appeared. On one tiny isle sat a storage container, the kind you see on cargo ships. Somebody had given it windows and painted it green. Writing on its side read: MADAME ACUSHLA: FORTUNES TOLD AND FUTURES READ.

  ‘Peggy,’ I called, seeing her emerge from the hatch after her nap, ‘shall we get our fortunes told?’

  ‘At ten Units a pop? I’ll tell you your fortune for free.’

  ‘What is it then?’

  ‘If you don’t start cooking soon, we’ll all go hungry.’

  ‘That’s not proper fortune-telling, Peggy.’

  ‘It’s as good as anything they’ll sell you.’

  ‘OK, I’ll start cooking in a minute.’

  ‘What do you know? The boy can take a hint now. Well, that’s progress.’

  I went and put a stew on and left it on a slow boil, then came back up on deck.

  It was amazing. There were little islands all around us now, and on each one people had set up stalls and shops, or they were hopping from boat to boat on tiny craft, peddling whatever they had to sell.

  ‘Peggy – what is it? What’s going on here?’

  She was leaning on the rail, watching the free show, as were the others too.

  ‘Market,’ she said. ‘Must be market day.’

  ‘They all traders?’

  ‘Of one kind or another.’

  ‘Oh, look!’

  Perched on a rock was a statue – a silver statue. But then, as I watched it, it came alive with abrupt, mechanical movements, changed its position, and froze again.

  ‘Angelica, did you see that?’

  ‘It’s just a sky-performer,’ Peggy said, unimpressed.

  ‘Can we give the statue some money?’

  ‘You got any?’

  I flicked a couple of cents towards the statute. Its mechanical, robotic hands moved in flashes, snatched the coins from the air, made a gesture of thanks then froze again, and we sailed on.

  A rowing boat drew up alongside us and without even asking, hitched on a tow line.

  ‘Oh great,’ Peggy said. ‘A busker now. Hey, you. Get that grappling iron off my deck.’

  But the man in the boat ignored her.
He picked up a small guitar and cleared his throat.

  ‘A little song, ladies and gentlemen, of my own composition. One to bring the tears to your eyes.’

  And he started to sing. But he was so out of tune and off-key that he didn’t just bring the tears to your eyes, he brought quite a lot of pain to your eardrums too.

  ‘That’s it,’ Peggy said. ‘You’re going.’

  And she unhitched the grappling iron.

  ‘How about a sign of your appreciation, folks?’ the busker shouted. ‘Something in my cap?’

  ‘Try sticking your head in it. Goodbye!’

  And off he drifted to annoy somebody else.

  ‘Useless,’ Peggy said. ‘He can’t play and he can’t sing. Why is it people are always attracted to professions they’re no good at? And the things they are good at, they don’t want to do.’

  ‘Yes. Why is that, Peggy?’ Gemma asked.

  ‘The perverseness of human nature, I guess,’ she said.

  The busker, meanwhile, had latched onto another boat, and I heard his voice fade behind us, sounding as if he were strangling cats.

  The market went on for two kilometres or more, full of colours and produce and sky-flowers and everything you could ever need. There was a boat with caged singing sky-fish, which warbled and whistled, and fluttered their fins.

  ‘Cruel,’ Angelica said. But there were people buying them, cruel or not.

  It was quite a spectacle, and you didn’t need to spend a cent to enjoy it; it was enough just to see it and to be there.

  ‘Dust babies. Dust babies. Come and buy a dust baby. Never needs feeding. Never grows up and leaves you. Never breaks your heart. Never needs feeding or changing. Never cries or wakes you up. Sleeps through every night. Buy a dust baby.’

  ‘Peggy, what’s a dust baby?’ I asked.

  ‘I have no idea. A baby made out of dust, I suppose.’

  ‘Who’d buy a dust baby?’

  ‘Nobody I know.’

  But the woman went on crying her wares, and there her dust babies were, set out for sale, with painted smiles on their faces, and wrapped in bright cloth. And a boat stopped, and somebody bought one. Then off they went, with their dust baby, looking pleased with their purchase, though I didn’t know why.

  Then we came to a corridor of sky-boats bearing red and white painted poles. Haircuts, their signs read. Teeth pulled. Ears cleaned. Nails trimmed. Corns removed. Blisters burst.

  And down from them was a big sky-ship flying a red cross flag. Private Hospital. Free Initial Consultation. Cosmetic Surgery. Remodelling. Cloud-hunting Scars Removed.

  ‘Never seen that before,’ Peggy said. ‘Thought it couldn’t be done.’

  ‘It can’t,’ Alain said, his fingers touching the scars on his face. ‘They might fade a little, but they never go. And even if they did go from your skin, they’d still be there inside you.’

  And then we were by the food stalls, and the smell made your mouth water.

  ‘Shall we stop and get something, Peg?’ I asked.

  ‘I thought you were cooking,’ she said.

  I was, but my stew didn’t smell as good as this. Still, it would have been a shame to waste it.

  Eat at Joe’s. Drink at Pete’s. Chow Down at Ibrahim’s. Finest Delicacies at the Souproom Mush – Gourmet Roadside Dining. There was food for every taste and palate, from around the whole sky-world.

  We bought a few snacks to eat with the stew that was simmering down in the galley, then drifted on.

  We passed a boat full of actors, who were putting on a play, staging it on the upper deck, while their audience watched from boats floating in the sky around them.

  Next we came to Speakers’ Rocks, where people commandeered a sky-rock each and tried to drum up an audience while they ranted and raved and expressed their views on the state of the world and what should be done about it.

  On we went. The market stalls were fewer and further between now. We came alongside boat-building yards, where luxury sky-yachts were being constructed for wealthy owners. Then we heard the thumping of electric music, and we passed Night Club Island, which was shrouded inside an artificial globe that kept it in permanent darkness. Some people were leaving, making their way to sky-cabs, blinking in the light, while others were just arriving, all dressed in fine clothes, many looking weird and wonderful, and they nodded to the doorman, passed the approval test, and went inside to join the party that never came to an end.

  ‘I’ve never seen anything like this, Peggy. This is unbelievable. Is this what we’ve been missing?’

  ‘Martin,’ Peggy said, ‘believe me, you haven’t been missing anything. Those people in there right now –’ and she pointed to Night Club Island – ‘are haunted by the feeling that somebody, somewhere else, is having a better time, and something’s happening that they’re missing out on. And that’s how it goes. Once you start thinking you’ll be happier somewhere else, you’ll always think it, no matter where you are.’

  And she went down below to rest.

  But I didn’t agree with what she’d said. Life had to be better elsewhere sometimes. Or why were we going to City Island? That had been her idea, not ours. I hadn’t even wanted to go there to start with. Though I did now. In fact, I was getting quite excited.

  And then finally, there it was. We could see it, actually see it, in the distance, its towers and skyscrapers, its minarets and mosques, its churches and cathedrals, its temples and memorial tombs, its harbours and coastlines, its jetties and sky-marinas. Moored there were thousands of sky-boats, with more coming in, and many leaving. The sky was dense with traffic, and shimmering light danced in the sky, reflected off structures of glass and of shining, polished stone. City Island just gleamed like a jewel in space, some great, multi-faceted diamond. And as we approached, its colours changed in the light, iridescent and luminous, as if the island was inside a kaleidoscope, being turned by an unseen hand.

  I’d never even imagined anything like it. It was like sailing through a long, empty sky, and suddenly stumbling across paradise.

  We had arrived at the promised land.

  24

  gemma takes the wheel

  GEMMA TELLS THE REST OF THE STORY:

  And there it was. We gathered at the prow, staring at the sights, with Martin almost falling over the rail from curiosity. But how were we ever going to land? I’d never seen so many boats. There were floating signs in the sky. KEEP RIGHT. KEEP LEFT. NO ENTRY. THIS WAY FOR DOWNTOWN. THIS WAY FOR C.I. HARBOUR. COMMERCIALS ONLY.

  ‘Peggy –’

  She’d come back up on deck.

  ‘All right, I’ll take it.’

  She took the wheel. I was fine with sailing in the open sky, but not with this congestion.

  ‘Where are we going to land?’

  ‘We’ll find somewhere.’

  We followed other boats like our own, the small, private ones.

  CITY ISLAND DOWNTOWN SKY-BOAT PARK: 20 UNITS A DAY.

  ‘How much?’ I said, when I saw that sign approaching. ‘We’ll only be able to stop for about five minutes.’

  ‘That’s for rich people who can’t even be bothered with a short walk. We’ll go to the public moorings. They used to be free.’

  ‘How long since you were last here, Peggy?’ Martin asked her.

  ‘About ten of your lifetimes,’ she said.

  ‘Oh, let me work that out …’

  ‘Just call it a long time and save yourself the trouble.’

  ‘Has it changed?’

  ‘Near unrecognisable,’ she said. Then, ‘Ah – there.’

  Two signs mounted on a headland directed us to either MOORING: SHORT-TERM or MOORING: LONG-TERM.

  ‘Which are we, Peggy? How long’s long and how short’s short?’

  ‘Now there’s a question to keep the philosophers busy. I don’t really know. I’m only tying up long enough to drop you all off and see you settled, then maybe get some supplies, then back home.’

  ‘Aren’t
you going to stay a while?’ Martin asked.

  ‘Yes, stay longer,’ Alain said.

  ‘Yes, please,’ Beth, his sister, said.

  ‘Stay forever,’ Angelica told her.

  ‘Why don’t you, Peggy?’ I said. ‘Why not?’

  She gave one of her sad old smiles.

  ‘Well, maybe I will a few days, but I’ve got an island to take care of, and greenhouses that need tending, and who’s going to put old Ben Harley in his place and save him from his follies and his private stash, if I’m not there to do it?’

  ‘But who’s going to look after us, Peggy?’ Martin said, and he sounded four years old again, just like years ago.

  ‘Marty, I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but you and Gemma – as we’ve been sailing along now – you’ve learned pretty much to look after yourselves.’

  ‘Have we?’ Martin said, sounding surprised. Then he went quiet and got thoughtful. Because Peggy was right. We could look after ourselves. But it was thanks to her that we could do it.

  ‘Peggy,’ Alain said. ‘Look there.’

  There were more signs. SHORT-TERM MOORINGS: UP TO 3 DAYS. LONG-TERM MOORINGS: OVER 3 DAYS.

  ‘Short-term should do it,’ Peggy said. ‘Three days is fine.’

  So we turned to port and followed some other small craft towards the short-term mooring park.

  As we did, I looked behind us. Just turning to starboard was a large sky-ferry, a brand-new, real comfortable-looking one. And I saw that the decks were lined with children, many of them our ages. There had to be a couple of hundred of them at the very least. They saw us and started shouting and waving, so we waved back. Then they headed off for the long-term moorings. As the boat levelled off, I saw its name on its side. It was called ARTEMIS. And along its hull, in bold letters, under its name, there was painted: CITY ISLAND SCHOOL. FREE BUS. SERVING ALL THE OUTLYING ISLANDS AND SETTLEMENTS.

  And I just went cold.

  ‘Peggy …’

  ‘Uh huh?’

  She was making out like she hadn’t seen it.

  ‘Peggy – did you see that?’