Sometimes his father despaired. ‘Wouldn’t you like to make a friend? Perhaps play in the mud, get yourself dirty?’
But Conor’s mother was delighted that their son had inherited her own love of science. ‘Our boy is a scientist, Declan,’ she would say as she helped him to cover a wing, or carve a propeller. ‘The race for flight will hardly be won in the mud.’
Conor made a lampshade for the light in his room. A paper screen painstakingly decorated with depictions of da Vinci’s flapping-wing device, a Montgolfier balloon and Kaufman’s theoretical flying steam engine. Heat from the bulb rotated the shade at night, and Conor would lie in bed watching projections of these fabulous machines drift across his ceiling.
One day, he would think dreamily. One day.
CHAPTER 3: ISABELLA
Conor was fourteen by the time the teacher and pupil were convinced that manned flight was within their grasp. They had built a hundred models, and several life-size gliders, all of which had ended up stamped to pieces and piled on to the bonfire. Their efforts fuelled not only the fire but the island tavern conversation. There was general agreement that the Frenchman was a lunatic, and it seemed as though the Broekhart boy was going the same way. Still, it was a nice diversion of an evening to go watch a grown man jump off a high wall flapping his paper wings. And still the king footed the bill. Bringing in experimental engines from Germany, special wood from South America.
Magic wood, sniggered the tavern wits. Brimmin’ with fairy dust.
Not that the Saltee islanders complained overmuch about how Good King Nick spent his diamonds. Even if he wasted the odd pouch on a French birdman, life on the Saltees was better than it had been for generations. There was work for all who wanted it. And schooling too, with scholarships to Dublin and London for the bright sparks who didn’t fancy working for a living. The infirmary was well stocked with instruments to poke and prod at a person’s organs. If you can scream, then yer alive, as the saying goes. The sewage pipes were working, carrying all the waste out to sea, which meant sickness was down. Rats were a thing of the past, on Great Saltee at least, and Bonvilain’s Holy Cross Knights were held on a tighter leash. There was no more of the random beating or imprisonment without trial that the marshall, God bless him, was so fond of. There were grants available for home improvements, and plans for telephone wires between Great Saltee, Little Saltee and even mainland Ireland. So no one was too upset if the king wished to indulge himself in a little scientific tomfoolery. It wasn’t as if the Frenchman was ever going to fly. A man in a bird suit is still a man.
Weight and wingspan were Conor and Victor’s main problems. How can something float on air if it is heavier than air? By forcing air over the wings quickly enough to generate lift, which negates the force of gravity. To generate lift you need big wings, which are heavy. If you use small wings, they must be flapped with a machine, which is heavy. Every solution presents a dozen problems.
In spite of more than three years of failures, Victor believed their method was correct.
‘We must learn control, before we fly with an engine. Gliding is the first step. Lilienthal is our model.’
The German aviator Otto Lilienthal had flown over twenty-five yards in his glider, the Derwitzer. He was Victor and Conor’s latest hero.
La Brosse never lost hope for more than five minutes. These minutes were usually spent stamping on the latest failed prototype. After that, it was back to the schoolroom and more plans.
Finally, Conor built a model that his teacher approved of. The student held his breath, while the master studied his work.
‘You know that this can never fly.’
‘Of course,’ said Conor. ‘The airman is an essential part of the ship. His movement steers it. He pushes the horizontal rudder left, the ship banks right.’
‘So we can’t test your model.’
‘No. Not unless you know an extremely intelligent monkey.’
Victor smiled. ‘I seem to remember talking about flying monkeys once before. At any rate, monkeys are intelligent enough stay on the earth, where they belong.’
‘What does that make us?’ wondered Conor.
Victor picked up the model, swishing it through the air, feeling the craft’s urge to fly. ‘It makes us visionaries, jeune homme. A monkey glances up and sees a banana, and that’s as far as he looks. A visionary looks up and sees the moon.’
Conor smirked. ‘Which resembles a big banana.’
‘Oho!’ said Victor. ‘You would mock me? Your teacher? For such impudence you must pay.’
The Frenchman tossed the model on to a cushion and made a run for the sword rack. Conor was there before him, drawing out his favourite foil, which also happened to be Victor’s favourite.
‘Oh, black card, monsieur,’ said Victor, selecting a slightly shorter épée for himself. ‘Taking a man’s blade. How long will you hold on to it, I wonder.’
Conor backed over to the training mat, never taking his eyes from his teacher.
‘En garde!’ shouted Victor, and attacked.
In the early years, when the sport was new to Conor, the Frenchman would call instructions as they fenced.
Thrust, parry, riposte. Footwork. Move your feet, you lead-footed islander. Again, here comes my thrust, so parry. Feet, Conor, feet.
No instructions any more. Now the Frenchman struggled to stay in the fight. There were no pulled thrusts or forgiving slaps with the side of a blade. This was as war.
They battled the length and breath of the chamber, even moving out to the balcony.
He is a veritable devil, thought Victor. Not a bead of sweat on his brow. Only fourteen and already he outstrips me. But the old dog has a few tricks in him yet.
‘That is the best model you have built,’ panted Victor. Riposte and counter riposte.
Conor did not reply. Never lose concentration. If your opponent makes jokes about your mother, bat them aside as you would a clumsy lunge. Insults will only make you bleed if you allow them into your heart.
‘I think you should name this one,’ commented the Frenchman. Parry on the foible, backwards glide and riposte.
Victor’s swipe knocked a bonsai tree from his terrace; below a donkey snorted his complaint.
Victor is desperate, thought Conor. I have him. Finally. He leaped from his leading foot, attempting a fleche attack, which the Frenchman barely managed to parry.
Victor fell back on his left foot, but kept the tip of his blade centred.
‘I think you should call her the Isabella,’ he said.
The name distracted Conor for barely a second, but this was ample time for Victor to breach his defence. The teacher quickly dropped low, thrusting his sword upwards for an easy passata-sotto. Had not the blades been buttoned, Conor’s heart would have been pierced from below the ribs.
‘Touché,’ said Victor gratefully, resting for a moment on one knee.
Groaning, he hoisted himself erect then returned to the cool shade of his chamber.
Conor followed dully, moments later sliding the foil into its leather sleeve on the rail.
‘Why would you say that?’ he asked quietly.
Victor shrugged. ‘Does it matter? You dropped your guard. Our friend, the flying monkey, could have defeated you.’
Conor did not appreciate the humour. If anything he seemed irritated by it.
‘It was a low trick, Victor.’
‘I am still alive, so it was a good trick. You, on the other hand, have a ruptured heart.’