The Story of Cirrus Flux by Matthew Skelton Read Free Book Online Page B

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    They each press a coin into the outstretched hand of the ferryman, who stands at the prow, and then hurry up the stone steps, away from the river. They pass through a dim passageway into a cobbled courtyard and from there enter the Guild: an enormous hall lined with columns and marble busts. Blank-eyed visionaries stare down at them from their plinths along the walls.
    The two men pay little attention to their grand surroundings, but follow a footman up a wide staircase to the top of the building, where an impressive doorway stands before them. The doors are made of ancient oak, and a godly hand can be seen emerging from a bank of clouds carved into the center of each panel. A Latin motto runs along the top:
Ligatur mundus arcanis nodis
—“The world is bound by secret knots.”
    The doors swing open and the two men enter a cavernous room filled with blazing light. A long table sits in the middle of the chamber, underneath a glass roof, through which the moon is faintly shining. The table is surrounded by some of the most eminent men in London. There is just one woman.
    A man in a red jacket is addressing the table.
    “The Breath of God. Think of it, gentlemen,” he says in a loud, cannonading voice. “It is the most subtle, elusive force in all existence, the paragon of elements. Many a brave sailor has gone in quest of it. Imagine being able to tap its source, to capture and contain it. Why, we would be like gods! We would have all the power in the world at our disposal!” He bangs his fist upon the table. “We want it, gentlemen, and by thunder we shall have it!”
    A gust of wind whips round the side of the building, and the fires that burn in the hearths along the walls roar with their approval.
    “But how do you propose to find it?”
    It is barely a squeak of skepticism in the large room, but enough to make the man pause, a wineglass half raised to his lips. His eyes search the table until he finds the owner of thesmall voice: a cartographer in a frock coat with numerous pockets, from which he pulls a collection of tightly scrolled maps.
    “The Breath of God is rumored to exist beyond the edge of the world,” continues the cartographer, “further than any man has traveled. Venturing upon such an enterprise would be folly, surely?”
    The president of the Guild takes a deep breath and returns his glass to the table, spilling a quantity of wine on the tablecloth.
    “Folly?” he says. “Then why, sir, are the French, the Spanish and the Portuguese all looking for it? Why do they send their ships to the furthest reaches of the globe? Terra Australis Incognita? Is that what they are searching for? Why, it is but a ruse! They are searching for the Breath of God!”
    “But the Southern Hemisphere is ringed by a band of ice and fog,” insists the other man. “It is, by all accounts, impassable.”
    He unrolls one of the maps and spreads it across the table. The paper reveals a filigree of finely drawn lines that dissolve into emptiness the nearer they approach the Antarctic. The bottom part of the map is a gulf of uncertainty.
    “Who will guide us to this mysterious Aether?”
    The president glances at the door and his lips curve into a smile. “Why, sir, I know the very gentleman,” he says. He motions toward the two latecomers. “May I introduce, sirs, Mr. James Flux, First Lieutenant in His Majesty’s Navy.”
    Thirty years old, fresh-faced and clean-shaven, James approaches the table.
    Heads turn to greet him.
    “Why, sir, he is no more than a boy,” says someone on the left, a man with cheeks like marbled cheese. “And certainly no gentleman.”
    James feels a wave of antagonism surge toward him, but he plows on through the stares of their defiance. His hair is a mass of dark curls, and the buttons on his newly brushed jacket gleam in the firelight.
    “Lieutenant Flux, I assure you, is no boy,” says the president of the Guild. “Why, in his young career he has already charted an