by E. R. Mason
The Glass Hummingbird
E.R. Mason
Copyright 2011
All Rights Reserved
All characters in this book are fictional, and any resemblance to persons living or dead is purely coincidental.
ISBN: 978-0-6155232-4-8
Chapter 1
Cassiopia Cassell awoke from a deep, wonderful sleep. In her dream, it was autumn, and the breeze had become almost too cool for a picnic. The leaves on the trees in the valley below blossomed with color. She stood on a green hillside, looking up at the weeping willow atop it. A cloaked figure waited there, a man dressed in the simple brown cloak of a monk, the hood shielding his face. Light seemed to radiate from him. Cassiopia climbed the hill to greet him. Clearly, he was a source of wisdom. He would expect a question. It would need to be profound to warrant his consideration. She stopped and bowed her head in respect. “Can you tell me, what is the true nature of the universe?” she asked.
“Tell me first about love,” he replied.
“I’m sorry. I don’t know about love,” she answered.
Below the shadow of the hood, she glimpsed his smile. “You will,” he said. “You will.”
A sudden gust of cold wind made her turn away. When she turned back, he was gone.
She searched the landscape and the chill returned. She hugged herself and realized one shoulder hurt. The sound of howling wind broke into her dream. Her eyelids fluttered open, but her eyes refused to focus. There was a sore spot on the left side of her forehead. She touched it and found a bump. Struggling to awaken, the world became a white blur. Her eyelids felt heavy and uncooperative. She forced them to open fully and tried to make sense of the snow-covered cliff in front of her. A twisted sculpture of metal and wire drew a frame around her vision.
Her mind began to catch up. The twisted metal was the fuselage of an aircraft. She was still strapped in her seat. Snow and a bundle of wire lay in her lap. Other drifts of snow filled the isle beside her. An icy wind cut at her face.
Memory of the crash began to force itself upon her. It began with smoke in the cabin. The right engine failed. The pilot changed course, because of something about drift-down. A slow descent began into clouds, followed by a massive impact beneath the airplane. The right wing struck something. They spun and crashed and slid, and crashed again.
Wide-eyed Cassiopia looked for her companion, Scott Markman. He was still in his seat in the isle next to her, bent over and unconscious, his head covered with a layer of snow and frost. What remained of the aircraft’s front dividing wall and instrument panel was in his lap and against his chest. She thought to scream but looked around and found no one to hear. Jerking sideways, she reached for Scott, but her seatbelt restrained her. She wrestled to unhook it, and stiffly made her way to him, brushing the snow away, and gently lifting his chin. There was a bad cut and bruise on his forehead, but it was not bleeding. There was a pulse in the carotid artery. He was encased in twisted instrument panel and wreckage. She pushed forward on a section of it to no avail.
In shock, she looked again for help. There was nothing but wreckage and white wilderness. The front of the aircraft was completely gone. She was standing in an open fuselage under assault by the elements. Her fingers were numb, her breath creating mist. At the front, the aisle was blocked by more broken instrument panel and twisted metal.
Her cell phone. It had been in the briefcase with her laptop. Scrambling back to her seat, there was no sign of it. She got down on the floor and looked underneath. There was a package of energy bars that had been in the briefcase. Papers from the case were strewn everywhere. She pushed herself up and climbed around the cabin searching frantically. It was no use. Those things were gone. She looked outside at the threatening weather. Maybe out there somewhere. She clambered clumsily over the seats and ducked beneath hanging wire bundles to get out.
It was snowing. The black rock of a jagged cliff rose up in front of the wreckage. On the right, a snow-covered hill disappeared upward into clouds. On the left, twenty feet away, the ledge dropped off sharply. She leaned into the wind, pushed her way around the wreckage and staggered along the hillside. The right wing was completely gone. Behind the tail of the aircraft, a trail of snow-covered jagged metal marked the path they had taken down the side of the mountain. Aircraft parts and trash were strewn everywhere. There was no sign of the cockpit or the pilot.
Cassiopia wrapped her arms tightly around her in the howling wind. Where was the baggage? It had been stored in the rear. She made her way through the waist-deep snow to the baggage door near the tail. The vertical section of tail was sheared off, the metal skin of the back end badly wrinkled. She found the baggage door, but it was jammed tight. Her fingers were too cold to try to force the frozen latch. She pushed back through the snow, climbed back in next to Markman, sat facing him in the isle seat, and began to cry.
Markman groaned and moved his head slightly. Cassiopia sat up. “Scott?”
Nothing.
She placed her hand on his shoulder. “Scott, can you hear me?”
Markman managed a second groan.
“Scott, we’re in big trouble. We crashed. The pilot’s gone. It’s freezing. We’re in the middle of nowhere.”
Markman fell back unconscious.
Cassiopia hugged herself and looked around. They couldn’t take the cold for long. Scott was in bad shape. He was in jeans and a sweatshirt. She had only her slacks and a sweater. She stood and worked her way to the rear of the cabin, moving things aside as she went. There was a thermos and an empty gallon jug near the tiny sink at the rear. The aircraft’s back panel was crushed and out of place, leaving a hole where the metal kinked outward. Kneeling on the cold floor, she peered through the opening and could see a portion of the luggage. A long red bar clipped to the floor nearby pulled free. She wedged it into the opening and with her body weight on the bar, the back panel bent further and peeled open. She crouched over and reached in to pull out a duffle bag. Inside were clothes and a jacket. She hurried back to Markman and covered his upper body and head with the jacket. There was a black hooded pullover and gloves for her. She wrestled them on and searched the chamber for more. A second satchel appeared to have been the pilot’s and had more clothing and paperwork. Behind it, was her carry-on. Inside she found her jacket and clothes.
Cassiopia put her fears aside and continued to search. Crawling halfway into the opening, she found a rolled up canvas sack, and along with it a folded canvas tarp. She backed out and opened the sack. Tools. A treasure chest. A hammer, pliers, screwdrivers, hacksaw blade, duct tape, and other invaluable items. She hurried back to Markman and blanketed him with more of the clothing. She pulled on extra socks, and a second pair of slacks, and wrapped herself in her jacket. The wind was beginning to howl even louder. Gusts occasionally slapped at the side of the fuselage. She looked at Scott. She had to free him or he would not make it. She worked her way back to him, braced herself and tried to push the twisted metal off his chest. It would not budge.
There was only one way. A lever. She had seen a piece of metal spar sticking out of the snow back by the tail. There was no room inside to place it, but there was a round Plexiglas window alongside Markman. If she could maneuver it through there, she could apply pressure directly to the panel holding him. There was no way to remove the window. She would have to smash it, then reseal it somehow.
Cassiopia climbed outside once more. Ignoring the swirling snow, she made her way back to the tail and found the spar. She wrestled it from under debris and found it long enough. With a struggle, she dragged it back to the window, dropped it in the snow and wiped frost away to peer through the window at Markman’s unconscious form.
Determined, she went inside
and retrieved the hammer from the toolkit. Outside by the window, she positioned herself and hit it with all her might. At first, the hammer just bounced off, but with persistence small cracks began to form. Ten minutes of pounding and finally the outside layer shattered. She began the same attack on the inner pane. Another ten minutes and only jagged edges remained. She tucked her hammer inside her jacket and lifted the spar to align it and slide it in, being careful not to bump the sleeping form. When the end of the spar hooked underneath the tangled mass, she backed away and pulled down on the end.
The pile of wire, wood, and metal holding Markman moved back and forth, but only a few inches. Cassiopia hung her entire weight on the end of the spar, but it was not enough. She stood ignoring the harsh weather and thought for a moment, then went back inside to the tool pouch. She stored the hammer and pulled out a folding knife. At the rearmost seat, she cut the seatbelts off of their mounts and snapped the two pieces together into one seven-foot piece. She tied a small loop in each end and returned to her improvised lever. Sliding one loop over the high end of the spar, she worked her right foot into the lower loop and stood and bounced her full weight on it. The pile of wreckage moved back and forth even more, but still not enough.
Back inside, she found the debris had moved farther forward so that some of the pressure was off Markman’s chest, but his legs remained trapped. The spar still rested through the fractured window, captured in place. Her weight was not enough. More weight was needed, but there was nothing nearby to use.
Cassiopia searched outside the aircraft. She waded through the snow toward the tail section. A short distance behind it an outcropping of rock followed the mountainside down. She pushed her way along, making a path as she went. The rock outcrop bordered a mountain stream frozen over with white icicles. She hammered the ice with her foot, and to her surprise it broke away revealing running water beneath. She searched for loose rock but found only large boulders.
Keeping a hand near her face to block the swirling snow, she climbed the hillside, following the trail of wreckage. A short way up, she stumbled, fell, and almost rolled back down. A wheel from the aircraft was hidden under the snow. It was too bulky to be worth dragging back. She continued up and finally kicked something under the snow. It was a small fuel cell, the size of a suitcase. It was empty but intact, except for ragged holes where tubing had once been.
She looked back at the stream, and then back at the empty tank. Grabbing the tank by one of the open holes, she dragged it down the hill to her lever. Inside, she collected more seat belt harness and tore off several sections of duct tape, using it to make a harness for the tank. Returning outside, she suspended the tank from the end of her spar-lever.
The long hike began. Using the thermos and the gallon jug, she began to fill the empty tank with water from the stream. It was a frustrating task. A layer of ice kept forming in the plastic jug. It had to be broken up each time to pour, but with each trip the tank began to exert more weight on the spar-lever. After a half hour of mind numbing wading through the snow, it was nearly full. The wreckage holding Markman was under tension and pushed back slightly farther. Cassiopia stopped to catch her breath and gather herself. She moved into position and slipped her foot back into the original harness still hanging from the end of the spar. Bouncing slightly for momentum, she stood on the harness, adding her weight to that of the full tank.
Instantly an explosion of noise and motion filled the air. The spar sprung down and up and then crashed to the ground, throwing Cassiopia backward into the snow. The fuel tank swung wildly, smashing against the side of the fuselage, sliding away. The spar banged down against the airframe, barely missing Markman.
Cassiopia quickly pushed herself up into a sitting position. She half crawled and half ran around to the front of the plane. The wood and twisted instrument panel lay flat in the snow at her feet. Markman, still strapped in his seat, was free.
Chapter 2