6.2

 The day sparkled. Some days in Paris had that special quality. It brought the painters out into the streets and park and coaxed writers from their garrets. As the friends walked along the boulevard, the alchemist blinked at the unaccustomed light.

"It's a lovely day today," he said with some surprise to his friend Fabien.

The Parisian had known the Italian long enough to realise the significance of this utterance. He laughed. "How many days has it been since you set foot outside?"

Maggiormente shrugged. "Not so long, I don't think."

Eduardo snorted. "Three days."

The alchemist pondered this. "Are you certain? Surely it has not been that long."

"It has." Eduardo shook his head. Brigitte had begun plaiting his mane again. "I tried to get you to come out with me yesterday, but you wouldn't."

"I don't remember that."

Fabien laughed again. "I wonder that you remember to eat."

"Oh, I don't forget to eat. I am Italian after all." Maggiormente slapped his belly. "As my dear friend the poet Alessandra says, while you eat, you do not age."

"Very wise."

"Of course when he does decide to eat," Eduardo added with an air of smugness, "It's usually the middle of the night."

"That's when pasta tastes the best," Maggiormente said, but joined in his friend's laughter. "When I'm working on a new process, I cannot pay attention to anything else."

"That is the danger of alchemy." Fabien nodded as if to confirm the sagacity of this observation. Anything that interfered with regular meals surely had to be dangerous.

"The danger of alchemy," Eduardo said as Brigitte bounced up and down on his back, "is that sooner or later something will explode."

"Sciocco! You will make Alain think alchemy is something dangerous."

Eduardo looked up at the alchemist. "Are you trying to say it's not?"

Maggiormente waved his words away. "Every employment has some kind of risk."

"I've never heard of accountants exploding their desks."

"Oh, it must happen sometimes—"

"Here we are," Fabien interrupted. They stood before a garage with a small sign that said only Mécanicien Delon in a small precise script. "Maurice! Es-tu lá?"

A shout of oui resounded from within but the speaker could not be seen. The small group approached closer but could not see the man. "Where are you, Maurice?"

"Up here!" In the rafters of the garage Maurice worked on a pulley. "This infernal pulley seems to have developed a most irritating squeak and it annoyed me so much I had to fix it while I should have been working on something else."

"No hurry," Maggiormente said. Now that he had come out into the sunshine he found himself in no hurry to return to the smoky workshop that was his flat.

"I'll just be a moment, monsieur," Maurice said, wiggling the wheel of the pulley. "I think this bacon fat has done the trick.

"Mmmmm, bacon," said Eduardo, lashing his tail. Brigitte squealed with delight as the tip of the tail brushed her leg, tickling her delightfully.

"Bacon fat," the alchemist scolded. "Don't beg for treats."

"I never beg," Eduardo said with a sniff.

"No, you wheedle."

"What is wheedle?" Brigitte asked.

"Begging under another name," Fabien said with a laugh.

Eduardo narrowed his eyes and showed his teeth. "Wheedling is a dignified way of acquiring what one wishes to have."

"Sounds like begging to me." Fabien chortled.

"So what have you come to wheedle from me?" Maurice said, swinging down from the rafters. "I assume you need something, eh?" He stuck out his hand to the alchemist.

"Buon giorno, I am Maggiormente."

"Delon. What can I do for you?"

"I need a motor, monsieur."

6.1

 "Charmant!" Brigitte hugged the lion even more tightly. Eduardo's tongue hung out now as he panted.

"Ma cherie," a stern voice called. "Let him go, you are squeezing him too tightly."

"Alain!" Maggiormente clapped his friend on the back as the two embraced. Eduardo shook his mane and used a paw to rub at the location of his tender assault while Brigitte cooed nearby.

"A glorious day in the city of lights, eh, Alessandro? Where are you two bound?"

"Ah, now that is a good question. You can assist us, I am certain, my friend." The alchemist clapped his hands together in anticipation. "Is there a motor market nearby?"

Alain Fabien raised his eyebrows. "Mon dieu! A what?"

"We are in need of a motor. Where does one buy a motor?" Maggiormente frowned. "I have not had to buy a motor before."

"What sort of motor?" The Frenchman rubbed his chin. "A big one, a little one?"

The alchemist considered this. "Any kind of motor would do, I suppose."

"Perhaps a small one," Eduardo intervened.

Fabien pondered. "Perhaps we can borrow one?"

"From where?"

"Can we return it safely?" Eduardo growled, chafing a bit at Brigitte's attempts to plait his mane into little pigtails.

"We just need to test our fuel," Maggiormente said with a shrug.

Fabien nodded. "Surely that won't be a problem."

"The hole in the ceiling says otherwise," Eduardo said quietly.

Fabien regarded him with one eyebrow raised. "That is another matter. Perhaps we should find somewhere for you to purchase a motor."

"Do you have an idea of where?"

"Yes, come. Brigitte, leave Eduardo's mane alone."

"Papa! May I ride on Eduardo's back?"

Fabien and Maggiormente looked at the lion, who flapped his wings gently. "It will be all right, I suppose," Eduardo said at last. Brigitte shrieked and grabbed handfuls of his mane and struggled aboard his broad back between the wings.

"Can we fly?"

"Flying is undignified," the Venetian lion growled.

"I know a man who has repaired motors for the glass factory near here," Fabien explained. "If he does not have a motor to sell you, perhaps he will know where you can get one."

"That would be ideal. I need to test my new elixir." The alchemist stroked his beard with pleasure. Things seemed to be going well.

"Elixir? I thought you were working on a fuel." His friend frowned, puzzled.

"Oh yes, but it is so much more than that!" The alchemist swelled with pride. "This could be an incredible advance in the world, an explosive concoction—"

"Emphasis on the word 'explosive'," Eduardo interjected.

"You are too pedantic," Maggiormente huffed.

"Mme. Gabor will not be so pedantic when she sees the hole in her ceiling."

The alchemist waved his hand at this trivial detail. "Nothing revolutionary has ever been accomplished without a little collateral damage. It is infinitesimal in the grand scheme of things."

"You're not going to start a fire?" Alain Fabien looked rather nonplussed at the emerging details of the experiment to date.

"No, no, nothing like that," Maggiormente reassured him.

"Only the occasional explosion," Eduardo agreed while Brigitte cried, "Wheee!" on his back.

"Well, if it's only the occasional explosion—" Fabien grimaced.

"Oh, it's hardly to be noticed!" Maggiormente explained. "In a motor, such an explosion will be contained. It will only be part of the thrust of the engine. I am nearly certain."

"Nearly?"

6.0

 Alessandro Maggiormente examined the hole in the ceiling with some surprise.

"Did you expect that to happen?" Eduardo said, shaking plaster dust out of his mane. He gave a good flap of his wings, too. A little white cloud surrounded him.

"I did not. This is a very good sign." The alchemist rubbed his beard with satisfaction. There was somewhat less of his beard than there had been a few moments before and the remainder had a singed edge to it, but he did not appear to notice.

"I am not sure Mme. Gabor will agree." Eduardo curled his tail around his feet.

Maggiormente frowned. They both turned toward the door expecting to hear the sound of their concierge's feet tapping their way up the stair, but there was only silence.

"She must be away," Maggiormente said, waving away any concern with her opinion. "We need to test this in a proper way before the Exposition."

Eduardo raised one eyebrow. "How much more of a test is required?"

The alchemist laughed. "I know it has great power, but can it be contained? I shall have to see if it will make a useful fuel."

"Perhaps you should try that outside."

Maggiormente nodded. "I suspect so. I need some kind of engine as well."

"What sort of engine?" Eduardo stretched. He hoped it meant a trip outside away from the unpleasant smells of alchemy.

"Oh, any sort will do," the alchemist said. "Where do you suppose one obtains an engine?"

"Market?"

"Is there an engine market?"

"Perhaps there is an engine area of the local market."

Maggiormente considered this. "Perhaps there are shops that sell them. They must come from somewhere."

Eduardo got his fez. "Let's go looking."

"Ah, yes. We are sure to find some shop or market." The alchemist patted his pockets, frowning again.

"What are you looking for?" Eduardo's tail lashed around him, his usual sign of impatience.

"Money. I am always mislaying this abominable French money."

"Let's go. I'm sure we can make some sort of arrangement with a shopkeeper." Eduardo headed toward the door.

"There'll be no cakes if I do not find some money."

Eduardo paused. "Have you checked the wardrobe?"

"Oh, here is my wallet!" Maggiormente retrieved the leather case from the depths of his coat.

"Cakes!" Eduardo bounced. It was an unusual sight.

The two of them bounded down the stair and into the street. It was another lovely day in Paris, a fact that had eluded the alchemist until now. He blinked in the sunlight. "This sun almost reminds me of home."

Eduardo sniffed the air. "But it doesn't smell like home."

A passer by stared at the Venetian lion and at the alchemist, too, then crossed hastily to the other side of the street. Most of the people in the neighbourhood had become accustomed to the sight of the large winged lion and no longer shrieked in alarm or ran away.

There were few, however, who welcomed the two of them. Most left a wide berth around Eduardo. Perhaps it was his very large teeth or his rather long claws. Doubtless the growls he emitted when irritated did little to calm nerves.

Not everyone was unnerved by the large creature, however, and the piercing scream that filled the air now did not indicate alarm.

"Eddie! Mon cher!"

A small girl shot out of a doorway and wrapped her arms tightly around the lion's neck while vociferously cooing at him. Eduardo took this acclaim with surprisingly dignity and did not bite the head off the child.

"Bon jour, Brigitte." Eduardo had to gasp the words as the child continued to squeeze his neck a little too tightly. "Where's your papa?"

Happy Holidays

The Saturnalia is our cue for a little holiday break: we'll be back after the first of the year with new adventures as we return to Paris and the alchemist Maggiormente and his Venetian lion Eduardo, as well as some new and potentially explosive adventures with propellants. We're happy to announce that the previous serial The Mangrove Legacy is now available at Amazon. Join Lizzie and Alice for their adventures with kidnappers, cheese, improving books, pirates, disguises and at least one improving book. Enjoy your holidays whether they include Hogmanay or the Epiphany or something else entirely.

5.9

"I bet the damn bird wants some brandy," Helen's father said with something approaching friendliness in his voice.

Helen rubbed the raven's chest feathers to reassure it, but Tuppence remained agitated. Her clicks and croaks demonstrated her displeasure as she ruffled her feathers repeatedly.

"What the devil is the matter with the bird?" Her father's words sounded more harsh than his voice. The brandy had certainly mellowed his mood.

"Papa, that's medicinal. I think you should save some of the brandy for an emergency."

He gaped at her. "If being consumed by a cloud of starlings isn't an emergency, I'd like to know what does qualify."

"Certainly fire or an explosion," Helen retorted.

"As long as we're clear on the issue." Her father harrumphed. "Here, give some brandy to that damned bird and calm her down."

"She doesn't need or want spirits, Papa. She's distressed about the starlings."

"As am I." He took another swig and stared down Helen's disapproval. "Wait, she's distressed in what way? She's not pitying those little blighters, is she?"

"No, Papa. She was in even more danger than we were."

"How so?"

Helen smoothed the shiny black feathers on Tuppence's head. "Have you never seen a flock of starlings go after a crow? They might well have turned on her, had they not been flummoxed by the unexpected meeting with the ship."

"So she pulled up sticks and legged it—or should I say, took wing—for her own safety. Pity she couldn't have warned us sooner."

"She tried, Papa." The raven croaked more quietly now.

"Well, what disaster shall we face next?" Helen's father at last put the brand away, but he seemed to have retained its cheery effects well enough.

"It depends upon the weather along the coast," Helen admitted. "However, I suspect that the rest of our journey may prove free of disasters and even drama.

"I see nothing but blue skies ahead," Romano added from his seat at the controls.

"I don't know that I would trust such an assessment," Helen's father said, but he lounged idly in his chair, seemingly unconcerned for the moment.

As predicted however, the remainder of the flight proved to be without incident. The day continued fine, clouding over once or twice but there was never so much as a drop of rain discernable. Even the winds were gentle and mostly helping to ease the ship's passage rather than fighting against it.

"I think I'd rather have a disaster," Rochester grumbled after awaking from an unexpected nap.

"Papa, don’t say that." Helen scribbled in her log book, trying to recall the important details of the murmuration, searching vainly for clues to its formation in hopes that they could avoid such an experience next time.

This is what it meant to be a pioneer, Helen reflected, paving the way and recording history as it unfolded. A sense of awe filled her. It was an awesome responsibility.

Her father interrupted her thoughts. "I am finding air travel to be rather tedious."

"Papa, can't you enjoy the landscape?"

He folded his arms. "When I look over the side of the gondola I start to feel dizzy."

"Well, don't look directly down, as that will happen. Look out across the way."

"There ought to be some kind of entertainment to while away the hours."

"We could try fitting a quartet into the gondola next time," Helen said, closing her log with a sigh.  "But I suspect we would find things a trifle crowded if we did so."

"I have a better plan."

His smile had a devious turn to it, so Helen assumed the worst. "Dare I ask?"

"I think sheep's or pig's bladders, filled with something noxious—"

"Aren't the original items already noxious enough?"

"You've never had haggis. Then we wait until we're passing over a small village and go low enough that we can bung them at the people passing below."

"Papa, I am doing my best to make air travel respectable."

"You’re no fun anymore," he said, laughing heartily.

5.8

 Helen looked quickly around the gondola but could see no sign of her raven. A pain stabbed her heart. She had had the bird since childhood, ever since she had found the fledgling had tumbled beneath the towers of the old house.

With Thompson, the head groom, they had been able to return the small heap of feathers to the nest high in the blackened ruins, but the bird had remembered the girl's kindness and often flew down near her as she gamboled among the fallen stones and timbers.

Over time, the friendship grew apace and Tuppence began to follow her around and finally all the way home. While she would often fly away for days at a time in her younger years, the raven always returned. Eventually, she would not part from Helen for more than an few hours. The two had an unusual bond.

Helen's father had named the creature whose croaking often seemed aimed at his grumbles. He didn't see why the bird should offer its two pennies to every conversation, but after the outburst, the name stuck and Helen became more curious about the bird's language.

The mood of her speech she found simple enough to parse. The raven's animated body language also contributed to her understanding. Helen learned to appreciate the different croaks and click, whistles and whatnot. Amusingly the bird had learned to make a noise uncannily like her father clearing his throat, which irked him more than anything.

Gradually she had discovered that Tuppence understood her better than she imagined, responding to questions and performing small tasks like finding her horse in the meadow and a good shelter for them both when they were caught out on the moors in a sudden gale.

"A hundred years ago," Helen's father found it amusing to claim, "They would have hanged you for a witch."

There were some in the town who regarded the pair of them with something approaching suspicion. It irked Helen who knew the close friendship between the two of them relied on careful observation and repetition of patterns.

All very scientific!

But this ought to have been an indication of the further path she followed. There were those who continued to think flying machines were unnatural, who considered the very idea of human flight to be some horrifying kind of hubris.

Encountering these reactions, Helen had often been inclined—uncharacteristically—to agree with her father that the world had more than its required share of ignorant and small-minded people.

Unlike her father, however, she generally thought that they could be won over. Helen's hope was that pioneers of flight like herself (and, grudgingly she thought, also the Lintons) would make the idea not only acceptable but popular and one day flying in a dirigible would be no more unusual than riding a horse.

In fact, it would be far superior as ships could carry a much greater number of passengers than any horse-drawn vehicle. The whole of the future could open up before them with new opportunities for travel around the world!

Of course they would have to sort out little things like flocks of birds sharing the airways, too. Surely that was the nature of exploration.

But where was Tuppence?

Signor Romano occupied himself with brushing the little bodies and feathers away from the console. "Everything seems to be in perfect working order, signorina."

"Excellent, excellent," Helen said teetering across the gondola as a gust of colder air jostled the ship. "Have you seen Tuppence?"

"No, signorina."

"Papa, I don't suppose—"

"One of the damn things is in my pocket!" Her father threw the offending creature out of his hand. They were all surprised to see the little black shape unfurl its wings and swoop out from under the curves of the ship and disappear in the wake of its colleagues.

"I hope to never see another starling." Her father harrumphed as if to put an end to the issue. He looked a bit shaken however, and Helen thought something bracing might help.

"There's some brandy in the medicine kit," she said and her father flung the cover back immediately and grabbed the bottle by the neck. "Papa!"

He ignored her protest and drank a swig from the bottle's neck. "Best thing."

"Papa, that's enough."

"You want some?"

"No, Papa. Signore?" Romano shook his head and continued to clean feathers from the dials. "Well, I can't imagine what has happened—"

A familiar croak reached the gondola and Helen turned with a smile. "Tuppence!" The raven sailed in and perched on Helen's chair, shaking itself and clicking loudly.

5.7

The cloud of starlings engulfed the airship. There were hundreds, perhaps thousands in the murmuration, darting through space, swooping and diving through the air, but they had not expected to meet such a large object in their path.

The three humans instinctively ducked and wrapped their arms around their heads. A cacophony filled their ears.

The wings were disturbing somehow as they brushed their hair and limbs. The eerie feeling of feathers whispered against them, sometimes augmented by the thump of small bodies as the birds misjudged the path.

The worst had to be the beaks. The tiny little beaks were pointy and hard. One seldom gave thought to the fate of the caterpillars and moths who met their grisly end between the starling's mandibles, but it must indeed be gruesome, Helen couldn't help thinking.

She attempted to make her way toward where she thought her father had been sitting. Her progress remained slow. It proved difficult to know for certain what direction she was heading.

"Papa!" she cried.

No sound came but the cacophony of the starlings. Helen continued with determination, one arm over her eyes to protect them, the other outstretched, feeling for something solid.

The horrible racket! Helen recalled watching the black pools of starlings pulsing overhead as she stared up from the moors as a child. They were rare inland, usually only seen in the warmest months. Helen had never imagined being in the centre of that maelstrom.

She took another step and thought she had just heard a promising sound through the unceasing din. Moving carefully she thrust her hand into the storm.

From everywhere, tiny beaks and feet scratched her skin and feathers ruffled against her clothes. There was something unsettling about it. Unintentionally Helen began to dredge up from her memory some lines about a starling.

Who had written the lines? A German composer, she seemed to recall. Was it Mozart perhaps?

Hier ruht ein lieber Narr,

Ein Vogel Staar…

As she staggered through the cloudy cacophony, Helen tried to remember how the rest of the poem went. Snatches of words bubbled up as she fought her way across the gondola, rhyming pairs but not their context. Todes bitter Schmerz, which she was quite certain rhymed with Herz but there was not much more welling up from the memory banks now.

Her distracting ruminations gave way when she caught a shouted and incoherent phrase that had to be her father's voice. "Papa!" she cried once more, struggling forward further.

All at once a hand gripped hers and pulled her toward him. Father and daughter embraced with relief.

"These devil birds will put us all in our graves!" He shouted even though their heads were very close together.

"They don't mean to do it, Papa. We're the interlopers here in the sky."

"Damnation! You didn't warn me there'd be such perilous effects."

Helen winced from a particularly sharp beak blow to her head. "Honestly, Papa, I had not anticipated this sort of quandary."

"You should have planned better," his voice rasped in her ear as he flailed one arm helpless against the horde.

"Papa, the odds of this kind of happening were miniscule—"

"So you did calculate the risks?"

Helen sighed and tried to ascertain whether it was just hope or if the sound of the murmuration were beginning to lessen. "At least now we have a new problem to solve based on actual experience."

"The problem could be solved by staying out of the sky!" her father barked.

She ignored him. "Listen! I think the worst of the flock has begun to pass."

The racket assaulting their ears continued, but it did seem to be growing somewhat less. Helen lifted her head from her father's chest and made a quick reconnoiter of the gondola. The swift black shapes continued to flit through, but it had become possible to see individual birds rather than just the black mass of bodies. A few unfortunates lay on the floor of the gondola. She hoped some of them were merely stunned from having run into the sides and the equipment.

Helen cocked her head anxiously, but the engine continued to hum on with blissful regularity. She sighed. That was a relief. But another though occurred that had her glancing quickly around the ship.

"Tuppence!"