The Boy Who Flew
Page 15
Polly mended the bullet holes with patches of green silk so that by the time the kite was ready it looked even more like a moth.
They all stood at the edge of the graveyard to watch.
“Go, Athan,” said Mary, holding the wires of the electric box, her face streaked with oil and tears. “Good luck.”
But I knew I didn’t need the luck. I knew it would fly. I always knew it would fly.
So as I dreamed, the engine buzzed, the grass whizzed under my feet, and I flew, over the marker, over the cemetery, over the hearse, higher than I had ever been.
Than anyone had ever been.
Slowly I rose to float over the city and its builders. The golden blocks of stone laid out for the hungry stonemasons, the slates for the roofers. The great squares and circles stretched into the countryside, all roads leading to the city.
Above me the heavens. Above me space and freedom and glory.
But below me, everything I loved.
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First published in the UK in 2019 by Nosy Crow Ltd
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Text © Fleur Hitchcock, 2019
Cover and chapterhead illustration © Ben Mantle, 2019
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