by Bryan Davis
The downward slide seemed an eternity, but when his feet finally landed in the crunchy matted leaves, he broke into a cold sweat and his legs turned wobbly, two strands of cooked spaghetti struggling to hold up a desperate boy. He didn’t have time to wait for them to recover. He lumbered through the leaves toward where his mother had landed. Grabbing armfuls of the torn parachute, he called feverishly. “Mom! Mom! Where are you?”
He finally found her lying faceup, partially covered with leaves. Her eyes were closed. Billy fell to his knees next to her body. “Mom! Can you hear me?”
He put his hands on her cheeks. They radiated soft warmth against his cold fingers, and her face winced. Billy started crying. “You’re alive! Thank God! You’re alive!” He could feel tears streaming down his cheeks, but he didn’t bother to wipe them. He placed one cold hand on her forehead and one on her throat to try to revive her.
She finally opened her eyes. What a welcome sight that was! Two eyes had never been more beautiful.
“Your face is dirty, Billy.”
Billy smiled through his tears. “Mom, do you know where you are?”
She nodded. “Somewhere in the West Virginia mountains. But that’s about the best I can do.”
“Can you get up?”
She braced herself against the ground with both hands and pushed while Billy cradled the back of her head to help. She sat and stretched her neck to each side as if trying to get a crick out. “Ohhh! I feel awful.”
“Did your head hit the ground? Do you think you might have a concussion?”
“I don’t remember. I know my feet hit first, but I don’t remember after that.” She reached her hands forward to signal for her son’s help. “Let’s see if I can walk. We have to find the plane right away.”
“Right! The plane! How could I forget?”
He hoisted her to her feet, and she tried to walk. On her first step she lost her balance, but she caught herself on Billy’s hands and stood on one foot. “Owww!”
Billy helped her sit down again, and she rolled up her pant leg to reveal a swollen ankle. “That’s the same one you hurt in the car. Do you think it’s broken?”
“I can’t tell. I’d better not try to walk on it, just in case.”
Billy stood up fully and raised his arms in the air. “Then how’re we gonna find Dad?”
His mother pulled on his pant leg and brought him down to his knees. She spoke softly and slowly. “You’ll have to hunt for him by yourself; I’d just slow you down.” She turned her head and pointed to a place higher on the hill. “Help me up to that clearing, and I’ll try to signal for help if anyone comes looking for us from the air. When you find your dad, then both of you can come back and find me.”
“You mean if he’s still alive.”
She put her hand on his shoulder and squeezed it tenderly. “He’s alive. He has to be.”
He watched his mother rub her ankle deeply with her free hand. She really believed! So shouldn’t he believe, too? And what about the slayer’s words? Was Dad really a good dragon? Just a few days ago he would have sided with his father no matter what. Now, with his father snatching away his foundation like it was just a thin, ratty carpet, he didn’t know what to believe. And besides, why should he trust in a fifteen-hundred-year-old prophecy, especially when it lived only in the memory of the one who relied on it?
Billy placed his hand over his mother’s and stroked it. His fingers trembled over her cold skin. “Mom, do you really think it’s true? He looked real bad, you know.”
“I know, but I’m not ready to consider the alternatives.”
“Okay, then. What about Bonnie? If we know Dad’s going to live, shouldn’t I look for her first?”
“You’ve got a point.” She shrugged her shoulders. “But I guess it doesn’t really matter. We don’t know which way to go in either case.”
“Then what do we do?”
She looked around and then stared, and Billy followed her line of sight. Downslope he saw hundreds of various sized trees, both standing and fallen. They were sparse enough to get a view of much of the mountainside. Everything looked the same, no matter which way he turned, tall, white and gray trunks, bare and skinny, with their shed leaves covering the ground as far as the eye could see. Although some of the leaves still held their autumn shape and yellow hue, most were flat and brown, creating a matted carpet that shifted with each gust of wind. He listened to their faint whisper and took in the mountain’s scent, a sweet, woodsy aroma, clean and cold, biting gently into his nostrils. He turned back to his mother and waited for her to answer.
“I suppose you should search for the road,” she finally said. “Getting help may be our best option.”
“Yeah, I don’t know if anyone on the radio understood my call. Maybe no one’s even looking for us. I saw the road while we were floating down. I think I can figure out which way to go.”
“Then you’d better get going. Your dad usually flies pretty close to a highway if he can, so it shouldn’t be too far. And you’d better hurry. It’ll be getting dark soon.”
Walter Foley loved the city’s fall festival. For him, next to Christmas, it was the most fun day of the year. As was his custom, he arrived at the park early to help with setting up the Boy Scouts’ dunking booth. Being a high-ranking scout in the local troop, it was his duty to help manage the festivities, but it was also his pleasure. Where else could he play carnival barker and poke fun at the various teachers who had bravely volunteered to become the objects of ridicule and the victims of an icy dip in a big washtub? But they knew the risks, and Walter had assured them that there were enough volunteers to make each chilly turn on the dunking platform a short one.
Walter grabbed one of the softballs out of a wicker basket and repeatedly tossed it a foot or two in the air, catching it in the same bare hand. Each smack of leather on flesh stung a bit in the chilling late afternoon, but it was a good sting, one that promised lots of fun.
As usual, the city council had timed the festival to coincide with the approach of Thanksgiving. Long ago, the founders of the city designated a community feast two Fridays before Thanksgiving; nobody alive today knew why for sure, but local legend tells the story of an early settler who fell off his horse on this very weekend over a hundred years earlier. He slid into a deep pit, and for six days he sat at the bottom eating nuts and berries that sympathetic chipmunks dropped in. Finally, a passing hunter noticed a gathering of chipmunks around the hole and investigated, finding the settler at the bottom, covered with berry stains, but very much alive.
The town celebrated the weekend of his rescue every year, hauling out a three-foot-high bronze chipmunk and placing it at the park entrance for six days. Everyone patted it on the head as they passed by or placed acorns at its feet in memory of the friendly chipmunks that kept the poor settler from starving so long ago.
This year, cold air dominated the weather, but not unusually cold for West Virginia in November, just chilly enough to give the festival its late autumn flavor. Somehow the sight of everyone bundled up made the evening more like a family get-together. Ladies in double-thick sweaters and men in lined jackets strolled from booth to booth, sometimes attached glove-in-glove and trailed by prancing children in knit ski caps carrying corndogs or half-eaten plumes of cotton candy. White puffs streamed out of red noses, laughter became contagious, and people ate, talked, and played together late into the evening.
Walter’s enthusiasm this year, however, was tempered by the worries of the day. With the strange bat creature at school that morning, and with Billy’s house burning down, people seemed on edge. Gossip buzzed around town. The police had interviewed Walter right after the firefighters finished saving what was left of the house, and they talked to everyone at school who knew Billy. The police wanted to interview Dr. Whittier, but nobody knew where he was. Walter told them that Dr. Whittier had gone to the airport while his goons burned down the house, but the rumor mill said there was no sign of him at the airport.
Not only that, the Bannisters’ plane had taken off without leaving a flight plan.
Theories bounced around town, sounding like plots from bad detective novels. One had Dr. Whittier as a foreign spy who had used a flying robot to snoop on kids, and when Billy stole it to take a joy ride, Whittier burned down his house to scare him into giving it back. Another had Billy as a genius kid who had built a new kind of flying machine, and Dr. Whittier as a government agent who was trying to steal the secrets for the military.
But nobody mentioned Bonnie. And it seemed that nobody cared about her part in the story. Walter knew she had gone with the Bannisters, but he didn’t mention that to the police. They didn’t ask. Besides, with Billy acting so secretive, Walter decided not to volunteer any more information than he had to. Billy was his friend, and they trusted each other. Anyway, Bonnie’s foster parents would report her as missing if they didn’t know where she was, wouldn’t they?
“Walter? Is that you?”
Walter spun around to find the owner of the familiar British accent. “Hi, Mr. Hamilton.” He smiled and pointed at his booth. “Are you ready to take the plunge?”
Mr. Hamilton shook his head, and his creased brow made Walter drop his tease.
“Walter, I regret that I shall not be able to participate tonight.”
“What’s the matter, Mr. Hamilton? Are you sick?”
“No, Walter.” Mr. Hamilton looked at Walter’s booth and sighed. “I know how much this activity means to you and your fellow scouts, but I feel I must ask you to come with me on an urgent matter.”
Walter tossed the softball back to its basket and paid close attention to his teacher. “Is it something about Billy? Do you have news?”
Mr. Hamilton put his arm around Walter and began walking him toward the entrance of the park. He kept his tone low. “Yes, I have news, a great deal of news, in fact.” He waited to speak again until they found a secluded area, away from the booths and still a hundred feet or so from the entrance. He stopped Walter and looked at him gravely, his deeply set eyes shaded in the dimming light. “Can you come with me to the school?”
Walter hesitated, sobered by Mr. Hamilton’s frown. “Uh, I guess so. What for?”
“I think the police are on the wrong trail, and word has it that you know the Bannister family better than anyone else. I need you to help me investigate.”
“And it can’t wait until tomorrow?”
“No. There’s more. I heard on the news that a plane was reported in trouble over the mountains, the same kind that Billy’s father owns. The police believe it went down perhaps ten or twenty kilometers east of Elkins. A sheep farmer in a place called Sully heard the laboring motor and saw a smoke trail.”
Walter suddenly felt sick to his stomach and light-headed. Mr. Hamilton grabbed him by the shoulders and held him up for a few seconds, just enough to keep him from falling. Hot blood surged back into Walter’s face, and he pulled away, waving his arms excitedly. “What can we do? Can we go and help them search the mountains?”
“Yes, but not yet.” Mr. Hamilton pointed to the cell phone on his belt. “I’m waiting for a call from someone who will give us a more precise location. We can drive there and join the volunteer search team.” He glanced around the park. “Are your parents here? Can you ask their permission to go?”
“They’re coming later. They’re probably still at home.”
Mr. Hamilton extended his hand, gesturing toward the park exit. “Then please come with me and phone them from the school. I must leave the cell line open for the call I’m expecting. I never bothered to purchase that call-waiting feature.”
Walter hesitated, but only for a moment. He had already set up the booth, and the other volunteers could work it without him. Billy needed his help.
Bonnie opened her eyes and tried to see past a dark, wrinkled ocean, a wet brown pile of stale-smelling leaves. She felt dizzy, confused.
While she lay prostrate, she mentally took inventory, asking each part of her body what was going on. Her lips held a damp leaf and she spat it out, leaving an earthy taste on her tongue. Her arms spread out across the soft, wet mat. Apparently she had tried to stop her fall but failed. Any pain? Yes. Her left wing ached, her right knee complained of a stabbing throb, and both of her hands reported a burning sensation. Not too bad.
Bonnie raised her head, lifting it out of the pile of leaves. She squinted and turned in every direction, gazing in a dreamlike trance. Now she could see the forest and the mountain downslope that served as her bed. The skies had darkened. Thick clouds obscured the setting sun.
Something in her brain prodded her. Get up! Get going! But why? She turned her eyes upward, trying to roll back the events of the day, but she was interrupted by the voice in her head. Run! Fly! Suddenly the sound of rustling leaves shook her out of her trance. The slayer!
Billy tramped hurriedly through the leaves, making his way down a relatively easy slope. His mother was probably right; the highway shouldn’t be too far away, but it had seemed like a skinny gray ribbon when he saw it from the sky. Just before he left his mother, using the notepad and pencil he kept in his pant leg pocket, he had drawn a quick map of what he had seen while drifting down. All he could do now was try to head in the right direction and hope to hear the sound of cars or see the flicker of distant headlights when darkness fell.
Everything looked so different at ground level, but he knew most highways passed through the mountains at the lowest points, so a steady downward trek had to be the logical way to go. Although he found a hiker’s trail, he knew it wasn’t wise to follow a path that probably wound through the mountains to reach vistas for sightseers. Down was the smart direction. He had to ascend a hump from time to time, but he was always able to find a declining slope again.
He had to concentrate. The torture in his mind was almost too much to bear. Did he have a father anymore? Would he be able to find his mother again? What about Bonnie? What would the slayer do to her? Did they even land safely? Like a hundred hammers his doubts pounded his emotions, and through welling tears, he ran on and on.
Bonnie burst out of the leaves and flew, crying in pain as she lifted herself a few feet off the ground. It was no use. After flying only a dozen or so feet horizontally, she fell again.
The crackling sounds of footsteps drew closer. Bonnie searched every direction for a hiding place. There was only one chance. Up! With every ounce of heart she had left she flung herself into the air. She grabbed a low branch, flapped again to sling herself to the next branch, and then rested, breathlessly waiting in the crook of the tree. The skinny trunk barely shielded her body, and she tried to hold back her panting gasps. She feared her pounding heart might give her away as she listened to the sounds below. A voice! She heard a voice!
“That’s right,” the rough voice said. “In my office. The doctor sent the sword last week. It’s in the panel I told you about.”
Bonnie listened for a few seconds before noticing a limping man hurrying across the slope as fast as his gimpy leg would allow. It was the slayer! He was talking on a cell phone and pushing through the leaves while looking around in every direction.
“Wait! Hold on! There’s something here.”
The slayer stopped, and Bonnie tried to squeeze her body behind the trunk and peer out as secretly as she could, painfully folding in her wings as tightly as possible. He was standing right where she had first fallen to the ground.
“I think I found where she landed. It looks like she flew again . . .” At this point he looked down at the palm of his hand.
What is he looking at? A compass? Yes, it must be a compass.
“She’s heading southeast, or at least she was.” He limped over to another area a few yards away. “She landed again right over here.” The slayer stopped and searched the area while keeping the cell phone at his ear. “I don’t see any other disturbed leaves, so she must have flown away.” He looked up and scanned the intricate matrix of branches. Bonnie tried to follow his
gaze, alternately watching him and the trees. A few were still decorated with rusty leaves, making a confusing patchwork in the dimming light, and the evergreen firs stood out as the living sentinels of the winter, but all the others stood naked and still in the stiff, cold wind.
“I think she’s around here somewhere. She was flying hurt; I could tell.” He kicked through the leaves and did a complete three-sixty scan before speaking again. “Get the sword and the book, and bring Randall and Jerry. . . . Yes, Jerry will be at the airport. . . . I don’t care how long it takes; just cruise highway thirty-three in the area I told you until you see me at the side of the road. I’ll get there eventually. My instincts tell me there’s an injured dragon around here somewhere, and I’m going to find her.”
Walter handed the office phone to Mr. Hamilton, who had stooped to read something on the desk. “My dad wants to talk to you.”
Mr. Hamilton took the phone and stood erect. “Charles Hamilton, here. . . . Yes, I am the same. . . . Carl Foley? You mean Crazy Carl Foley? . . . Of course I remember you. My days at Oxford weren’t that many years ago. You looked after my dear, sick wife while I gave Elizabeth away in marriage. I’ll never forget that. . . . Ah, I remember now; Walter was absent when we had our unit on heritage, but I should have guessed that this fine young man was your son.”
Mr. Hamilton listened for several seconds, rapidly nodding his head. “Yes, we’re doing some detective work. He is secure in my care. . . . Yes, we will be in touch.”
The teacher hung up the phone with a satisfied smile. “Your father has approved.”
“Good thing,” Walter said, “since I’m already here.”