by John Everson
“Cool it, David,” came the gruff rebuke from the couch. So he had. His dad was watching some tedious TV show with a group of old men sitting around a table. They talked about things like “stock growth” and “strategic ventures” and “capital,” though they didn’t say of what state. David grabbed for the channel changer.
“Don’t touch that, David,” his father had warned.
But he had touched it.
He picked it up and methodically punched every button that he could.
Twice.
His dad didn’t even yell that loud. One big, hairy hand grabbed David’s own and relieved him of the remote control. The other heaved him up by his pants and levitated him straight to bed.
David didn’t like visiting his father much.
Then again, he couldn’t say that living with Mom was any picnic either. She was always yelling at him, and sending him to his room.
Just before coming on this trip, she’d been sitting at their kitchen table, smoking a cigarette and talking and laughing on the phone with her friend Rachel. She had been promising all day to play Nintendo with him, and instead she was on the phone for an hour! He had given up on the video game, and started idly punching around a beach ball he’d dug out of the hall toy closet. When it bounced over the kitchen chair and knocked Mom’s can of Coke into her lap, she’d stopped laughing. She hissed something into the phone, set it to the side and said the two words he had come to know so well: “You’re grounded!”
When she’d brought him to the airport and left him with the stewardess to chaperone on the plane flight to his Dad’s, he thought she looked relieved to see him go.
If he could, he’d divorce the both of them himself. He’d heard of a kid doing that somewhere, but he had no idea how. Lawyers’d cost a lot of money, he figured. Way more than the $3.82 he had in his pocket. He pushed his hand in there and felt the change, warm and slippery against his hip. He stole a glimpse at his dad, who seemed to have hair in all the wrong places. It stole out and over the elastic collar of his Vikings sweatshirt, snuck through the pleats in his gold watchband, and even peeked out of the sides of his ears. Dad had tiny hairs poking through the holes in his wide-pored and pudgy nose, and a couple of stray silver hairs strained above his thickened eyebrows. But above those eyebrows rose the creeping lines of bare flesh. If you looked at the top of Dad’s head, you could see right through the hair to the scalp beneath. David felt a rush of disgust overcome him, and turned back to the window. Dad was gross!
The frost on the window had lengthened since just moments before. An intricate webwork of crystal and lace traced patterns of winter across the inner glass of the double-paned – but somehow still flimsy-looking – airplane window. David stared at the filigree, following its paths and crosscuts, marvelling at its delicate beauty. He raised a finger to the window, tracing the currents in the pane of snow. But as his finger touched the window, the frost on the other side of the glass jumped.
“Hey, watch it!” a tiny voice bellowed.
The frost beneath the pad of his index finger suddenly swirled, twined and coalesced. And just above his finger, a small figure grew. It was white, but with glints of red and blue and green. It looked like a man, but a tiny one. Really tiny. Not more than an inch tall.
David yanked his finger away from the glass.
“Hey, who are you?” the boy asked. His voice trembled a little as he spoke.
From behind the rustle of the newspaper his father shushed him. “Who’re you talking to, Davy? Keep it down. People are sleeping.”
David repeated his question in a whisper. “Who are you?”
“They call me Kyla Kulmavoetud.”
“What kinda name is that?” David asked.
The tiny creature grinned. His teeth were crystal sharp, his eyes flashed the blue of frozen air. David could almost see right through him.
“It’s a name that says what I am – icy, numb, cold as snow. I’m a frost sprite.”
The sharp-looking creature waited a beat for the import to sink in.
“Having a nice flight?” the sprite asked. Its tone didn’t sound as friendly as its words.
David wasn’t sure if he wanted to answer. Did the “don’t talk to strangers” rule apply to inch-tall frost sprites? So he shrugged.
“Not getting on with the old man, eh?”
David shrugged again, but this time a pair of tears instantly brimmed in his eyes.
“You don’t talk much, do ya, kid?”
David rubbed his eyes quickly, then leaned forward towards the window. In a low whisper, he asked, “Can you do magic? Will you give me three wishes, like Aladdin?”
“Do I look like a genie, kid?” The sprite gestured at his miniscule, nearly transparent waist. “Ice and snow. The size of a quarter and not half as hard.”
The boy’s expectant expression fell.
“A frost sprite can’t change the world,” Kyla said. Then winked. “But we can change how it looks. Shall I show you the treachery of clouds? Maybe make you the dance partner of a dragon?”
David drew back a bit. Shook his head. “I’d fall!”
“Qui-ettttttt,” his father growled again.
“I’ll fall,” David whispered to the sprite.
“So what if you do? Anyway, you won’t if you’re with me.”
“Like Superman when he took Lois Lane…?”
The sprite arched an eyebrow of ice, then reached through the glass. “Take my hand.”
David looked at the ghostly palm extended towards him.
“I’ll crush it!”
“Take it.”
David glanced at his father, and then at the passengers around them. Nobody seemed to be paying him and his conversation any attention. Shrugging to himself – what did he have to lose? – he touched a finger to the sprite’s magical palm…
…and was suddenly standing outside the airplane! And he was tiny! The sprite’s crystalline hand fit snugly in his own, and the window where he’d just been looking out seemed as tall now as the Sears Tower. He squinted, trying to see back in through the window, but the interior of the plane was a shadowy world of black and grey compared to the sparkle and glint of the white ice and smoky air that floated all around them.
“Come on,” exclaimed the sprite and with a quick crouch-turned-leap, yanked David off the wing of the plane and out into a haze of chilling snow.
“Yeeeeoooooaaaaaaahhh!!!” screamed the boy as they fell through a whirlwind of clouds. The air was cool, but not too cold on David’s neck. He finally stopped his screaming and realized that, while they were in the middle of the sky without a parachute, they weren’t actually falling. He took a deep breath; it tasted full and sharp and sweet, not claustrophobic and sour, like the air he’d tasted for the past week. He giggled suddenly and extended his arms to fly. He was free! David howled again, this time with delight. The sprite only nodded, his icy teeth glinting in the sun.
What would Dad say if he could see me now? David thought, and then looked back to see the plane. Already it was disappearing in the rolling heavy cushion of cloud. His elation vanished as quickly as it had come. His heart trembled with panic. How would they get back? The plane was moving fast!
“Wait,” he cried out. Flipping away from Kyla, he began to dogpaddle his way toward the plane. He struck out with his hands and feet, kicking the way they’d taught him at the community pool. The cotton yielded easily at his clawing arms and pounding feet, but it didn’t feel as if he was moving forward. The cloud wasn’t thick enough for his hands to really push against anything to move himself forward.
Behind him he heard the frost sprite laugh.
He kicked hard and struck out with his hands cupped, but they only came back damp with moisture. It was as if he was waving his arms in the backyard, pretending he was a bird. He could wave them all he wanted, but he never left the ground.
A tear of frustration rolled down his cheek, and then something cold whooshed past his face. He couldn�
��t see anymore! The world was a white blur of watery fluff. Not only was he not getting closer to the plane, he was not keeping his head above the clouds.
He was falling!
The white tendrils wound around his arms, covered his face. It was almost too thick to breathe. He gagged on its chewy, sno-cone wetness, choked on fear and fog. He opened his mouth to scream again, but found that he didn’t have enough air in his lungs to make a sound.
Closing his eyes and balling his fists, David quit sky-swimming, and really began to cry. It was a weak, defeated yowl. His tears were almost indistinguishable from the icy water that was streaking across his face, but cry he did. He curled into a ball and hugged his legs. He hated everyone. Everything. The world was too mean to him. So just let him drop like a rock to the ground. What did he care? At least he wouldn’t have to sit in Dad’s stuffy apartment anymore, or hear Mom yell and complain like Erkle, the Carrington’s yappy schnauzer next door.
“It appears I have made a sorry mistake. The child is quite obviously a chtschlept. A wimpering chimp. A quitter.”
The voice was close, almost in his ear. David opened his eyes to see Kyla floating along beside him, head on his hand, elbow pointed at the clouds beneath them. He looked as if he was lying on a living room floor watching TV.
David’s eyes grew wide and his mouth began to open in a grin. But then he stopped himself, and stubbornly looked away. He’d had enough of frost sprites, too. He began to hum, louder and louder. As off-key and jarring as possible. He closed his eyes and hummed the sprite and the rest of the world away.
“Hmmm. Well, it’s a long way down. Hours maybe. You don’t fall very fast when you’re this size. I think you’ll come down somewhere near Chicago. If that’s where you really want to go. I’ll go part of the way with you, in case you change your mind.”
David refused to meet the sprite’s gaze. He was enjoying the black anger that had taken hold of him. “Don’t give him the satisfaction,” is what his mom would say. And he didn’t.
Except…
The sprite didn’t say another word, and after a few minutes of quiet, David wondered if he was still there. He couldn’t see anything – this was worse than being in the bathroom after taking a long, hot shower. He couldn’t see a foot in front of him. Everything was white. And that was scarier than being in dark. But pulling his arms resolutely across his chest, David vowed not to turn his head. He would be scared “like a man,” as Dad was keen on telling him.
Then again, why would he want to do something that Dad told him to do?
Suddenly he broke through the ceiling of clouds, and David could see a lot farther than a foot in front of him. He could see for miles and miles and miles. And that was worse than everything being white or dark, because now he could see how high he was. How completely helpless. And he could hear the wind whistling in his ears as he plummeted through the open air. He was picking up speed.
“Ahhhhh!” he shrieked, and jerked his head around looking for the frost sprite.
Kyla was still lying in the air next to him, one arm supporting his head, his elbow resting on an invisible pillow of air.
“Can I be of some service?” the icy man grinned. David didn’t think he sounded helpful at all. His voice was frigid. But who else could he turn to?
“Help!” David yelped.
“What would you like me to do?” Kyla asked, wickedly ignoring the boy’s plight.
“Stop me from falling!”
Kyla tilted his head, glancing first at David, and then below, measuring the distance between the boy and ground. He looked bored. Finally, with a shrug, he extended his arm.
“Take my hand.”
David snatched at the crystal man’s frosty palm.
The whine of air in his ears abruptly quieted; David knew that the sprite had stopped their fall.
“How come you can fly and I can’t?” he asked, after catching his breath.
The sprite stared without expression at David. His eyes were now black stones set in shards of glass.
“We do have some magic. Now, where would you like to go? To the top of a mountain? As far from your father and mother as possible, yes? To the North Pole?”
David shook his head. “No, it’s cold there. How about someplace warm. Like Hawaii?”
The sprite threw his head back and laughed. “You’d be swimming right through me in about two minutes if we went to Hawaii. What do you think I’m made of, plastic?”
David’s face fell. “You’d melt, huh?”
“Let’s just say I wouldn’t be very solid company.”
The sprite put a finger to his forehead and tapped, once, twice, five times.
“Ever fly like a bird?”
“Not before today,” David giggled.
The sprite gripped David’s hand tighter and swooped down and to their left. David could see the geometric outlines of fields and subdivisions below, colored like a brown and white checkerboard quilt. Then, directly in front of them, he saw it.
Brown and black, with eyes of golden, untouchable fire. It looked as large as a plane, but its wings were flapping fast and hard, and no plane David had ever seen had wings that did that.
It was a robin, just like the kind that had divebombed his head last year in the backyard because he’d disturbed a nest of babies in the hedge. David fingered his forehead absently, where the mother robin had pecked a bloody, painful hole before he had managed to roll to the ground and escape.
They flew alongside the robin. Inches from that sharp, pale orange panting beak. Slowly its eyes swiveled to track them, never pausing an instant in its flight. David cringed, but the sprite laughed.
“You’re only an inch tall once in your life, right? Live a little. Wouldn’t you like to wrap your arms around that bird’s neck and squeeze? Hard?”
David shook his head and the sprite laughed.
They moved in closer.The bird opened its beak to bite.
“Noooooo!” the boy shouted, as the yawning blackness of its maw stretched wide to descend on his head. But the clack of its beak closing came a second later from beneath them. Then they were astride the bird, grasping oily smooth feathers as the surprised creature swooped up, then dove down, trying to dislodge its unwanted passengers.
With a firm but reassuring grip, Kyla held David by the upper arm, pushing the boy’s face down into the musty black fuzz of feathers at the angry bird’s neck. The ground swam dizzily closer as the bird shrieked and flew madly at the earth.
“We’re going to crash!” David cried.
“Hold on,” the sprite whispered in his ear, and then he was gone.
David looked up and saw the sprite spark like a dart of light in front of the bird. The bird squealed and banked to the left, then cawed and swooped to the right. But no matter which direction it moved, the sprite was there, dancing an irritating, airy jig just out of reach of the bird’s beak.
David could see a look of madness enter the bird’s golden eyes. The kind of look a mouse made when it was caught in a trap behind mom’s couch. David felt sorry for the mice, even though it was he who set the traps. Mom couldn’t look at a dead mouse, she said, so he had to take care of the rodents. Otherwise they’d get in his Captain Crunch and he wouldn’t have anything left for breakfast.
Finally, after what seemed like hours of frantic dodging and diving, he felt the bird’s wings slow their frantic pace. They were really barely treading air when the frost sprite tapped a finger on the tip of the exhausted bird’s beak and then flipped himself end over end to land astride its neck.
“So where do you want to go?” Kyla asked, and pulled sharply on a neck feather with his left hand. The bird flinched. David felt a shiver in the twisting spine beneath him, but the bird seemed to change its course accordingly.
“Dunno,” the boy mumbled, thinking about the look in the bird’s eye. He kept seeing the mice he killed, and feeling the bad pit in his stomach that he felt every time he emptied a trap. The same pit he felt whe
n he entered his dad’s apartment last weekend.
“Maybe we should let the bird go.”
“After the trouble I just went through to tame him? I should say not. Now come on. What would you like to see? The top of a mountain? The Frost City of the clouds? An ice dragon?”
David considered for a moment. He wondered if his dad had even noticed his absence yet. Would he be worried about him? Or would he just go on reading his stupid paper? He shook a tear from his eye and blinked. He was free now. He could go wherever he wanted, and not have to worry about what Mom or Dad would say.
“Let’s see them all!”
“Now you’re talking, kid. But we’ll need to change horses. This old bird will never make it to the top of a mountain. Ready?”
Before David could finish a shrug, the sprite had whisked them off the bird’s back and high into the air. David felt a pang of relief as the bird shot away from them in the opposite direction, happy to be free of its passengers.
“Mountain first,” the sprite announced, and David gripped Kyla’s cold hand tighter in his own.
Time seemed to stretch shorter and wider as they swam through curls of cloud and bursts of blue sky. The sun melted to purple on the horizon, and then David saw the peak. It was below them!
Mt. Everest coming up.”
David had fantasized before about climbing a mountain. In his dreams he was tall, strong and bronze, with muscles bulging from his arms and a steely, macho glint to his eye. He would hammer and pick his way up the cruel granite face, leading a band of other climbers up from below. When he reached the top, he’d plant a bright yellow flag and stand proudly surveying the world below him; he would be the tallest man on earth. When he pulled the other climbers up with a rope, they would thank him and tell him he was the best. The strongest mountain climber ever.
But when David and Kyla landed on the top of Mount Everest, there wasn’t much about it that resembled his childish fantasy.