The Boy Who Could Fly Without a Motor

by Theodore Taylor

  "And you'll probably have breakfast with the president and first lady in the morning."

  "Will you be there?"

  "I doubt it very much. If anybody discovers I was photographed with you, I'll be assigned to Arkansas."

  Jon had begun to like Hiram K. Forbes, and he said, "I'll keep our secret, but I won't tell the president how I fly."

  The agent sighed and thanked him and shook his hand as White House people rushed to the DC-3 stairway to greet the first human to fly without a motor.

  Agent Forbes said that Secret Service agents would be taking care of him as long as he was in Washington. Jon had read about them in Popular Science. They followed the president everywhere he went. They even watched the chefs cooking his food before the president could take a bite.

  Two stern-faced Secret Service agents got into the limousine with them, and Jon noticed two other black cars, one ahead and one behind, loaded with men in black suits. Even a Martian might not get better protection, Jon thought.

  Soon Mrs. Jeffers, Jon, and Smacks arrived at the White House and were offered a snack before being shown to the Lincoln bedroom. Mrs. Jeffers said, "Never in my life did I think this Nebraska girl would sleep where the Lincolns slept."

  There was a temporary crisis when she asked a maid for all the safety pins in the White House.

  It had been another exhausting day for Smacks, and he jumped into the bed between Jon and his mother, perhaps the first four-legged creature ever to nestle down on the fancy spread under which Abe and Mary Todd had spent their nights.

  Jon thought the mattress was hard. Maybe it was the original one?

  EIGHTEEN

  JON HAD SEEN PHOTOS OF PRESIDENT and Mrs. Roosevelt in the Chronicle and had listened on Sunday nights to his famous "fireside chats" on the Jeffers's new Philco radio set. The family listened to his program so regularly, it was like going to church.

  He'd also seen President Roosevelt in the newsreels at the picture shows on the mainland whenever his parents took him. The president had a nice smile and wore rimless glasses. He seemed to care for all Americans.

  Jon hadn't seen or heard Mrs. Roosevelt much, but she seemed nice, too. He remembered seeing her in the Fox Movie-tone News, touring a poor section of the country called Appalachia. His mother had said, "She's a different first lady; nothing fancy about her. Look at that plain dress and that little hat"

  And now here he was at the White House, soon to meet Franklin and Eleanor Roosevelt.

  AT BREAKFAST, JON told of his adventures flying over the lighthouse and the Cacciatore Roma, and how it all started with the Chinese magician, but not how he actually flew. He thought Ling Wu might forgive him for everything except betraying the secret of levitation. Telling that would bring on the flaming straw and the shark.

  Along with the president and the first lady, the admirals commanding the navy and the Coast Guard—as well as the generals commanding the army and the Army Air Corps—attended the breakfast. These were the men in charge of defending the United States of America, and people flying around without motors were a definite threat to the country's well-being.

  The man in charge of the FBI was also there. He had a face like a bulldog and a body like a warthog, just as compact. His name was Hoover.

  The president explained Jon's buckets to those at the table by saying there was some type of temporary imbalance with Jon's system, but one of the world's foremost neurosurgeons, Dr. Leon Buxtehede, had assured him a solution was soon to be found. Jon would by no means have to carry gallons of red lead around the rest of his life. Everyone nodded solemnly.

  Jon and his mother sat opposite President Roosevelt and the first lady. Smacks was beneath the table, having been fed in the kitchen. Everyone was as nice to Smacks as they were to Jon and his mother.

  The president said, "Now, Jon, you have to tell us how you do it."

  "I'm sorry, sir, but I can't. I took an oath never to reveal that secret."

  "Come now, Jon, your secret is safe in this room," said the president.

  The navy admiral insisted, "Tell us."

  "Yes," said the army general.

  The FBI man named Hoover ordered, "Boy, tell us. Or else."

  Mrs. Roosevelt interrupted. "Stop it, Franklin—all of you. Jon is only nine."

  "All right, Eleanor, we'll discuss it later," the president said.

  Then he smiled at Jon. "I can't wait to see you fly."

  "Neither can I," said Mrs. Roosevelt.

  The admirals and generals and Mr. Hoover took their cue, and all agreed that they, too, couldn't wait.

  "The whole world is waiting, Jon. More than two hundred newspaper reporters and radio reporters and photographers will be on the lawn at ten-thirty to see you fly without a motor. The movie newsreel people will be there, too. You'll be on the screens of every movie theater in the country within three days, then overseas," said the president.

  The Coast Guard admiral said, "It boggles my mind to think that one of our Coast Guard children achieved this unbelievable feat."

  It wasn't until that moment that Jon considered the possibility that his aerial brain cells might not be working this morning or might even refuse to cooperate. He began to get very nervous.

  The first lady said, "Well, now that breakfast is over, I'll take you on a tour of our house, so my husband can get a little work done before your historic moment."

  Jon, his mother, and Smacks followed her into rooms that would never be seen by the average citizen. Jon's mother whispered into his ear, "Tell the president in private how you fly."

  The buckets banging against his knees, he whispered back, "I can't." How would she feel, nailed to the back of a shark?

  The tour ended in the Oval Office, where the president did his hardest work and made decisions that affected the entire world. FDR smiled and said, "Jon, now will you tell me how you do it?"

  Jon panicked, blurting, "I have to go to the bathroom," clearly the dumbest answer ever given to any chief executive of the United States of America.

  Mr. Hoover followed Jon into the bathroom and grabbed him by his left ear, growling, "You better tell the president how you do it, or I'll throw you in jail for as long as you live."

  "Owww!" Jon yelled.

  Just then the Coast Guard admiral entered and said loudly, "What are you doing, J. Edgar?"

  Mr. Hoover scowled at the Coast Guard admiral. "Russian communist agents could kidnap him."

  "Hardly," the Coast Guard admiral said. "I'll have a boat patrolling the lighthouse day and night."

  NINETEEN

  THE PRESS HAD BEEN GATHERING ON THE lawn since eight o'clock. At last count there were more than three hundred people, including correspondents from around the globe. Chairs to accommodate the president, the first lady, Jon's mother, and Jon himself faced the batteries of cameras, microphones, and print reporters. A White House aide held Smacks's leash.

  The president introduced Jon and Mrs. Jeffers, even Smacks.

  As quickly as he could, Jon told the story of Ling Wu for the sixth or seventh time. He then answered questions—but not about how he flew—for a good fifteen minutes, until President Roosevelt's press secretary stepped forward and told Jon to proceed with the demonstration.

  Holding the buckets, Jon waited until the press secretary tied one end of a fifty-foot yellow line to his ankle, the other end to an anvil. There was such a hush over the audience that only the sound of cawing crows could be heard. The press secretary whispered, "That anvil will be a museum piece someday."

  Jon closed his eyes and called upon five hundred million cells to lift his feet off the ground. He dropped the ballast buckets and shot up into the air like a rocket to oooooohs and ahhhhs from the audience, and then thunderous applause.

  He flew around the lawn at the end of his tether and was photographed with the president and the first lady. Although a war had recently begun in Europe, Jonathan Jeffers captured headlines around the world the next day.

  Jon an
d his mother, who had now been joined by Bosun Jeffers, stayed on in Washington for another six days of sight-seeing. Several shoemakers offered to provide Jon with lead-soled shoes, but he decided that twenty-five pounds of lead on each foot would become very tiresome, especially since he only weighed fifty-two pounds. Jon decided to keep carrying the buckets for the time being, until Dr. Buxtehede could come up with a solution. And anyway, he liked the shoulder muscles he was developing.

  When the Jeffers returned to San Francisco, hundreds of people were there to greet them, including the press and Hiram K. Forbes. He hadn't been reassigned to Arkansas, after all. The photo of him and Jon had remained a secret and was now in a safety deposit drawer at the main branch of the Bank of America, hidden from the eyes of White House busybodies.

  There was a hurriedly assembled parade. The Jeffers sat in the back of a long open Cadillac, waving to the crowds along Market Street, just like Lindbergh had done eight years earlier. There was a reception in the mayor's office, and Jon received the key to the city. The Coast Guard Command saluted him with a luncheon. There was a huge dinner at the Mark Hopkins Hotel, with every notable in town attending, including Dr. Buxtehede, who whispered to Jon, "Come see me tomorrow."

  The next day, Dr. Buxtehede was waiting for Jon and his parents in his office. He put on a brave smile when (hey entered, shook hands all around, and then admitted, that despite twenty-hour days and endless conversations with his colleagues all the way to Boston and across to London, he'd had no success.

  Mrs. Jeffers said, "Oh no, oh no."

  "However, there is one last hope before I have to open your skull, Jon. Two nights ago I spent an evening backstage at the Pagoda Theater with a very old Chinese magician named Shue Ming, which in English means 'speak bright' He knew all about Ling Wu but not how to contact him."

  Mrs. Jeffers said, with deep frustration, "Where is that man?"

  Dr. Buxtehede continued, "I took notes. Shue Ming believes there is a cure for what you have, Jon, that dates back five thousand years. He said you will have to swallow a mixture of scales from the Purple Carp, dust from the paws of the Horrible Bear, and a tear from the Great Idol of Kokmong."

  Aghast, Mrs. Jeffers asked, "Fish scales?"

  Bosun Jeffers asked, "Where are these things? We'll get them."

  Dr. Buxtehede held up a hand. "Wait!" He consulted his notes. "Two thousand years ago the sacred Purple Carp was removed from the Forbidden City pool because of threats that heathens would steal it."

  There's that word again, Jon thought.

  "It is now believed to be in the cold depths of Sun Moon Lake, at the foot of the Thangla mountains, in Tibet."

  "And the Horrible Bear?" Jon asked.

  "He is in a mountain cave not far from Sun Moon Lake."

  "And the Great Idol of Kokmong?"

  Dr. Buxtehede took off his glasses. He had very warm brown eyes, like Jon's. "He is closer, in the South China Sea. On the island of Kokmong, of course."

  "How will we get the Purple Carp scales, the bear dust, and the tear from that Kokmong idol once we get there?" Mr. Jeffers asked.

  "Shue Ming said that only Ling Wu can obtain them," said the doctor.

  Jon's hopes vanished. He'd let the whole world know that Ling Wu existed. He had broken all the oaths except one. He deserved every terrible punishment that Ling Wu had threatened to use. The only thing he could do, if he could even summon the magician from wherever he was, was to ask Ling Wu to have mercy on him, the nine-year-old heathen who had the brains of an ant.

  "Thank you for all your help," he said to Dr. Buxtehede.

  The kindly neurosurgeon replied, "I hope you find him."

  "So do I," said Jon, with thoughts of carrying red-lead buckets or wearing lead-soled shoes as long as he lived filling his mind.

  After five days in San Francisco, the heavyhearted and sad-faced Jeffers, and Smacks, went to the Coast Guard landing and boarded the steam tug for the trip back to Clementine Lighthouse.

  There was a big bag of mail waiting on the tug. Every living relative of the Jeffers had written, some asking if they could come and spend time at the lighthouse. The bosun shouted, "Are they all craZy? Our table only sits four!"

  There were hundreds of letters to Jon. Everyone wanted to know how to body fly. There was even a letter from Eunice Jones: You're famous! Just to think you're sleeping in my old room! You must have had help from those ghosts. I've got to talk to you.

  TWENTY

  ON THE WAY BACK, THE BOAT GENTLY rising on the sparkling, cold blue sea, the Jeffers talked about Jon's problem.

  His mother said, uncomfortably, "Son, we know about your imagination—how big it is. Did you, did you..." She stopped and took a breath. "Did you invent Ling Wu and somehow teach yourself to fly?"

  Bosun Jeffers, with a grave face, tried to finish her thought. "Not being natural for humans, it somehow..."

  Jon shook his head. "Ling Wu is real, believe me."

  The Jeffers fell silent. Feeling defeated, they stared down at the deck. Their only son was ill physically—and maybe mentally, too.

  Before too long, the tug arrived at the dock. Wishing that it would steam on past Clementine, steam on forever, and not return him to his old lonely life, Jon untied the rope that attached him to his seat, picked up his buckets once again, and followed Smacks's leap to the dock.

  The memories of the night flight over the Cacciatore Roma, Hiram K. Forbes and the Roosevelts, the White House lawn, and Dr. Buxtehede were still very fresh in Jon's mind.

  FOR THE NEXT thirty-two days Jon trudged up and down the fifty-four steps to Clementine's cove, carrying the buckets of red lead, and trying to summon Ling Wu. He thought the isolated cove might help his telepathy signals reach the great magician.

  He also climbed the 155 inner and outer lighthouse steps to the platform, resting at every 10 steps. Perhaps Ling Wu would hear him from up there.

  But tears usually flowed before he reached the top. The buckets seemed to weigh fifty pounds each. The bosun had wrapped padding around the wire handles, but Jon had worn creases in his palms and now wore leather gloves. He'd lost ten pounds, which he could ill afford.

  The bosun volunteered to strap his son on his back, carry him to the cove, and secure him with a rope near the dory rock. He even offered to do the same up on the lantern platform.

  But Jon decided both plans were risky. If Ling Wu saw his father en route to either mental-message-sending location, the magician might forgo his visit.

  Using telepathy, Jon pleaded every day with Ling Wu to return to the cove rock or the lighthouse or any other place on which the magician might choose to alight. Meanwhile the Coast Guard boat circled the cove around the clock to keep the Russians from kidnapping Jon. During the day his father also kept watch with his telescope.

  At last, on the thirty-third day, Jon discovered Ling Wu sitting at the exact same spot on the rock beside the dory where Jon had first met him. His skin was red with anger. He'd changed clothing. His gown was now a shining green; his pants were coal black; his shoes were silver-colored, as was the tiny hat on his head.

  He said, "You miserable heathen, you tick on a cow's back—"

  "Where have you been, Ling Wu? I've been trying to call you for more than a month."

  "None of your insignificant business where I've been."

  "I'm in deep trouble, Ling Wu."

  "I know you are. You didn't listen. I knew you wouldn't listen. You upset your brain cells flying back from that fishing boat without practice. I warned you to be careful."

  "I apologize."

  "That's not enough. Not only did you not listen, you broke your vow. Are you ready for dragon's bile and flaming straw and the shark's back?"

  "Please, don't do that to me!" cried Jon in alarm. "Please forgive me, Ling Wu. I made mistakes. Don't boil me in dragon's bile. Don't sentence me to a lifetime of carrying weights around so I don't go to the moon. I plead guilty. I was lonely. The whole world was passing me b
y. I had no friends except Smacks. I felt trapped on this rock."

  Ling Wu looked west, toward the horizon.

  "Have you ever been lonely, Ling Wu, really lonely?"

  The magician looked north, toward San Francisco. Then he looked up, with his silly spyglass, at the lighthouse, at Jon's father. "Hmh."

  "Please, Ling Wu. There's an old magician in Chinatown who said he knows the five-thousand-year-old cure."

  "Shue Ming?" Ling Wu asked scornfully.

  Jon nodded.

  "He knows nothing! The best of Shue Ming is turning kerchiefs into doves."

  Jon wasn't interested in Shue Ming's best, nor was he interested in Dr. Buxtehede opening his skull to adjust his misbehaving brain cells. "Please, please, O great, great magician, I'll never fly again, I—"

  Ling Wu's eyes, which matched the green of his gown, bored into Jon's soul. "This is not about flying, insignificant beetle. It is about your word to me, which you have broken. Repeat after me: I, Jon Jeffers, will never again speak the name of Ling Wu. I will honor my bond of silence."

  Jon held up his right hand, as if being sworn in at the Celestial Court. In a voice as clear as a trumpet, righteous as a psalm, truthful as the Three Kneelings and Nine Knockings, Jon repeated each word: " 'I, Jon Jeffers, will never again speak the name of Ling Wu. I will honor my bond of silence.'"

  Ling Wu nodded.

  Jon waited, then said, "Is that all? Can I stop levitating now?"

  "No, miserable ant, you cannot stop levitating now. You must think before you can do that."

  "Think of what?"

  "Think of what I have told you."

  Desperately, Jon thought back over all Ling Wu had said to him when they first met. Words about soaring, about levitation, about hawks and hummingbirds, about—

  "Kites!" cried Jon.

  "Now, unworthy, you begin to use your brain," said Ling Wu.

  "But what do I do now?" begged Jon.