The Avion My Uncle Flew

by Cyrus Fisher

  We plunged into the forest. Here we had a big advantage. Even at nuit, Charles knew this forest, knew his way. All I had to do was keep up with him and follow him. That was enough. The land under the forest was at a slope. We had to climb and the way became steeper every minute. Now and then, Charles would stop for a few seconds to let me catch my breath. My leg was beginning to hurt. More and more, I lagged behind.

  Charles came back to me and made me put one arm around his shoulder, and we continued in that fashion. Pretty soon, we came out from the forest and here Charles halted. I hadn’t realized where we were. Charles had headed toward the northeast, going at a diagonal away from the graveyard and le village. Now, instead of finding ourselves midway up the montagne, we were directly under the enormous rise of cliff, bare and craggy in the moonlight. High above us, a thousand feet, perhaps two thousand, was the long meadow land of the Langres family and the ruins of the Langres maison. I could imagine mon oncle up there, sleeping peacefully, perhaps dreaming of le jour when he would go volering in his avion.

  But how Charles ever expected us to mount that practically perpendicular face of cliff was beyond me. It lifted in front of us like an enormous wall, blocking further progress. I thought he’d become lost. And somewhere behind us, the dog tracking us, were Albert and le maire and maybe Monsieur Simonis, coming along steadily and surely, up and up, until they’d have us. I felt myself waver. I nearly slumped down to the terre—the earth—believing we were beaten.

  In the moonlight, Charles had a queer smile. “Ah, non, Jean,” he said, reaching down a hand toward me. “Ton oncle est là—” and with his other hand, he pointed upwards. “Viens.” I shook my head.

  I knew I couldn’t climb that cliff. He didn’t realize how whipped I was. I signified for him to va—to go on. I said, “Laisse moi. Laisse moi!” Leave me. Leave me.

  “Non,” he said.

  He put his hands under my arms and lifted me. “Viens,” he ordered, his chin shoving out, stubborn and square.

  And we didn’t go directly up the face of the cliff.

  Charles crossed through a creek and I followed, the water wetting us to the skin. We climbed up along a ridge, covered with second growth oak. We turned right, along the side of the cliff, with Charles pausing every now and then, considering the lay of the land, looking for something. It was getting on toward morning. The stars were growing paler and the moon was going down.

  Somewhere from below us, in that forest which covered the land like a black cloud, I heard the sudden yelping of a dog. It was le maire’s dog. They’d climbed closer to us.

  But Charles took his time. Pretty soon he found a kind of path, leading between two rocks each as high as our maison back in Wyoming. “Viens,” he said again, now confident. We took this path, if you can call it a path.

  I guess it had originally been made by goats, centuries ago. Probably people from the montagnes had come upon the path and used it for hundreds of years to descend to le village or to return to their homes in the montagnes, taking this short cut instead of the long way around.

  The path wandered back and forth up the side of the cliff. Once you were on the cliff, you saw it wasn’t simply a sheer rock, dropping away hundreds of feet to the forest below. No, it was weathered rock, crumbling, with pockets, with little cleared spaces about as big as a city lot where goats might have grazed. I heard the sound of water tumbling down. Birds flew up and lighted near us in the darkness and chirped brightly, as if they knew morning was about due.

  I suppose it must have taken us almost an hour to climb along that path to the top of the cliff, what with all our rests and halts. All the time, we had the terror of knowing those men were somewhere below. Perhaps le maire knew of the goat path. Perhaps even instead of wandering in the forest, looking for us, they’d found the path. The dog might have led them to it. Charles didn’t dare rest for very long at any stop. We’d come to a cleared space and I’d sort of tumble into the grass or against a pile of rock and take long breaths, feeling my lungs ache, my foot tremble and quiver from the effort of climbing. Next Charles would say quietly, “Viens—” and off we’d go for another five or six minutes.

  By and by the sky—le ciel—seemed to lose its darkness. A paleness spread over le ciel. The morning air turned colder, fresher. As we neared the end of the climb, we passed several trees, stunted and twisted. The sun lifted above the horizon, le ciel turning pink. We came to more trees, not much taller than we were. Dirt and rocks had tumbled from the ragged edge of the cliff above us. Charles hauled himself onto a rock—pulled me up after him. “Tu vois?” he shouted at me, above the wind, pointing downwards. In the morning light, I saw far below, coming along the faint line of path from the base of the cliff, Albert and le maire and the dog. They had found the path. It would take them a good fifteen more minutes, hurrying upward as fast as they could go, to reach us.

  The sight of them made me forget about my leg. We scrambled up to the top of the cliff. Here the ground was all broken, crumbling. Charles motioned me to go on toward the meadow where it was safer. I watched him pick up a piece of rock and lug it beyond the line of stunted trees, almost to the edge of the cliff. He let the rock drop. He threw a couple of others after it—peered over, hanging on to a tree. I heard him laugh. He ran to me, still laughing and said something in French which must have meant he’d either hit or frightened those men below by the rocks.

  When we gained the thick grass of the meadow, we simply tumbled forward in it, feeling it soft and sweet around us. For a couple of seconds we couldn’t have moved if Monsieur Simonis had jumped in front of us and commanded us to with his pistol pointing at us.

  “Aiy! Aiy!” said Charles, shaking the red tangle of hair from his eyes, getting up. A third of a mile or so ahead of us lifted the wooden platform of the runway, the avion on it, its wings shimmering like gold in the morning light. Behind the runway and the avion were the massive gray stone ruins of the maison Langres, trees green in the background. The meadow never looked more peaceful and inviting than it did that morning. Next to the wooden runway was the canvas shelter. We could see the canvas swelling and flapping in the wind.

  All that was like a magnet. I forgot how tired I was; I forgot my leg. At the same time, both Charles and I started running for it. Probably Charles didn’t let himself out full-speed, keeping me in mind.

  I wobbled along with him, determined not to give out on the last stretch. As we got closer we saw mon oncle was already awake and up and working. He was half sitting in the cockpit, one leg hanging outside, a wrench in one hand—and a white cup in the other. We shouted.

  He looked up, surprised. As we shouted we saw somebody with red hair pop up from the other side of the avion. It was Suzanne. She was standing on the platform with mon oncle, holding one of those earthenware pots. Evidently she’d awakened early this morning and fixed hot chocolate and a breakfast for him and tramped up here to give it to him. She waved at us, as did mon oncle, neither of them appreciating we were shouting warnings in dead earnest.

  All that shouting of ours, along with the running, left us exhausted when we reached the wooden runway, practically collapsing for want of breath. Never suspecting all the terror steadily marching up that cliff toward us, Suzanne bent over to good-naturedly jeer at her brother. She said he was a sleepyhead. Charles made gasping noises at her, pointing violently toward the cliff.

  At last, mon oncle recognized something was wrong. Probably I must have been a sight to be seen, wet from the creek, scratched by branches, muddy, my face red, my eyes no doubt sticking practically out of my head.

  “Hola!” he said. “What’s this? Don’t shout all at once. What are you trying to tell me about the mayor?” He set down his cup. He stooped, reaching a hand for me. “Porte Jean sur tes épaules,” he told Charles—put John on your shoulders. Charles grunted. He poussed—and mon oncle pulled, lifting me up to the top of the platform.

  “Voici,” said he. “Now, what is it—Ah! Take care, Jean!�
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  I was so weak, coming to him on the platform I’d nearly tripped on the sharp ax. Suzanne picked up the ax. Puzzled, she first gazed at me and next down at Charles. By now Charles had recovered enough breath to shout up at us, “C’est le maire, Monsieur Langres. Le maire est un traître!”

  “What’s this?” asked mon oncle. “The mayor is a traitor? Here, sit here, and explain why you are here.” He placed me on the side of the cockpit of the avion, where I perched, clutching a wooden strut.

  “They’re coming after us!” I cried, the terror of last nuit again filling into me.

  “Gently,” said mon oncle. “Perhaps I should tell you the detective was here earlier this morning—”

  “Detective?” I was so astonished I forgot my fear.

  Mon oncle nodded. “I did not wish to alarm you, so I did not tell you there has been an agent of the French government in St. Chamant for several days. It is more serious than I zink, Jean. If anyone has frightened you and Charles, we must immediately inform Monsieur Joubert, the detective, who—”

  Suzanne gave a scream.

  Mon oncle whirled. Monsieur Simonis appeared from around the ruins, and walked toward us, a pistol pointing at us. Monsieur Simonis had come up the montagne by the road, to head Charles and me off. “Bon jour, Monsieur Paul Langres,” he said, polite as you please, his green eyes glittering.

  Mon oncle produced an astounded sound from his throat—not even a word, simply a queerish little noise. Quick as a cat he jumped from the wooden runway, landing on his feet, and ran toward Monsieur Simonis with outstretched hands, to grab him, ignoring the pistol.

  “I will shoot,” said Monsieur Simonis calmly. But instead of pointing it at mon oncle, he pointed it up at Suzanne, smiling steadily as if this was the greatest joke in the world. “I will shoot the girl first, Monsieur Langres.”

  Mon oncle halted, slowly lifting his hands.

  Monsieur Simonis laughed. “Bien,” he said. He pointed the pistol at mon oncle.

  As someone from over near the cliff yelled, he lifted his head. We saw Albert running clumsily across the meadow toward us, the dog leaping after him. Behind, more slowly, followed le maire. Monsieur Simonis waited until the two men reached him. Le maire was puffing hard, sweat running down his fat face. Albert sighted up to the platform and saw me and shook his fist at me. Next he noticed Charles and stepped toward him. Albert’s mouth was bloody from the arrow. He looked perfectly horrible, scratched by the bushes, covered with muck and dirt where he’d fallen across the graves, hot and sweaty, with the black dye on his hair and moustache streaking his face. He made a grab at Charles—but Monsieur Simonis delivered an order, low and soft. Albert halted, grinning, just opening and shutting his big hands, as if waiting for the occasion to use them.

  Without moving the muzzle of his pistol away from mon oncle, in that falsely polite voice Monsieur Simonis told me, “There you are again, foolish American boy! You have caused me much trouble, you know.”

  Because he was speaking to me in English, mon oncle asked him in English, “What is it you want?”

  “What do I want?” said Monsieur Simonis, all the politeness fading from his voice, leaving nothing but a kind of dead coldness. His green eyes left mon oncle and searched the grounds and again jerked up to Suzanne and me and back to mon oncle. “Why, if you wish to know, my dear sir, I will inform you. I should like to use that spade of yours for an hour or so, which you have so conveniently brought up here. And I believe also I can use that ax, which the young girl is now holding. If you are sensible, my dear Langres, and don’t force me to shoot you immediately, I will request your services, too. And the boys appear quite strong. You and the two boys can proceed to the cellar and dig in a spot I shall indicate for a large sum of French gold which Monsieur Capedulocque and I managed to hide while I was gauleiter in this part of France during the war. Albert and I have waited much too long to obtain the money as it is. If only you had been reasonable enough to sell me this land—” And here his eyes got even greener. He laughed. I don’t want to hear that laugh again, ever. He didn’t finish his last sentence.

  Now mon oncle observed le maire. Mon oncle said the same thing Charles had shouted back in le village. With contempt he said, “Traître!”

  The traitorous mayor puffed out his flabby face. He tried to laugh. His laugh was weak. Charles was edging around the runway, and now he made a lunge toward Monsieur Simonis. Albert caught him, knocked him flat with one blow. Monsieur Simonis didn’t even appear to notice the interruption. Once more he looked up at us. He ordered, “Descendez! Get down. Vite! Hurry. Both of you.”

  “Oui, monsieur,” said Suzanne, with sudden docility.

  She acted as if she was scared of being so high. She balanced back and forth, holding the ax in one hand. I was trying to lift myself off the avion when I heard her whisper, her lips barely moving, “L’avion est prêt à partir!” which meant, “The airplane is ready to depart—” and the next instant, before anyone could guess her intention, she whirled around, swung down hard with the ax and—she chopped the rope in two which held the avion to the platform of the runway!

  There was one awful instant after that when I heard her scream, “Va, Jean! Va! Vole à St. Chamant!” The avion gave a jerk, throwing me back into the canvas seat of the cockpit.

  Have you ever ridden down a roller coaster? Well, the start was like that, mixed up with tearing shouts, with loud explosions from somewhere, with a yell from mon oncle, another from Charles. “Vole à St. Chamant!” Suzanne had screamed—fly to St. Chamant, as if she expected a miracle to happen; and all I had to do was clutch the sides of the cockpit and pretty soon find myself in le village. That’s the trouble with girls. They take too much for granted.

  I wasn’t hardly inside the cockpit, with my legs hanging down each side of that canvas sling serving as a seat, the air rushing against my face, before the avion had rushed clear down to the bottom of the slide. Next, it followed up the incline, still just as if I was in some kind of a crazy roller coaster. The thing was rocking back and forth, the wings fluttering, the wires humming, with the blast of wind increasing to a perfect gale. That little steering wheel was vibrating back and forth, hitting me in the face. With a jerk, I bounced harder down into the canvas sling. Next second, there was a tremendous rush of air under me. All the rocking and bouncing ceased. Suddenly, everything was very still. The avion had shot free of the runway.

  I looked down—and practically died, right there. We were off the ground. We were—that avion et moi—about twenty feet off the ground, sliding through the air from the momentum gained after the coast down the runway!

  The terre streaked by below me, like a length of green carpet. I saw the shadow of the avion scooting along, up and down the gullys. The dog was there, chasing after the shadow as fast as he could go, his jaws slavering.

  I humped into the canvas sling, hanging for my life to the side of the cockpit. All at once a gust of air struck us from the side. The avion lifted a little, like a sailboat hitting a swell. It dropped and sidled off, and turned into the wind again, the big wings curving gracefully. I risked looking down once more—and wished I hadn’t.

  The green carpet of grass had changed to yellow rocks. The dog was way behind our shadow, losing speed. Presently, trees flashed below us, lots smaller than trees ought to look; and after that, it was as if the whole world was dropping away. The avion leaves the mountain—l’avion laisse la montagne! Now, the avion flies in the sky—l’avion vole dans le ciel!

  A rush of air flowed upwards from the base of the cliff. It tossed the avion higher. This time, the avion rocked more violently, as if caught in greater swells. I felt my head spin. I thought for certain this was the end. This was the finish. It was fine for mon oncle to talk of building an automatic avion, one even a child could fly—but it was a different kettle of fish to be the first to voler in it. I’d trade places any day with the first child to climb up here and ask me to let him have it.

&nbs
p; Now the air was steady and direct in my face, as if I were in front of a strong fan. I opened my eyes. We were still in the air. We were going along, too, easy and smooth, those outstretched yellow wings like great comfortable sails. Why, I think those wings were almost alive. You could see tiny shadows ripple and dance on the surface where the air passed over the cloth. The wires had dropped to a strong even humming sound, as if they were settling down to their job.

  A bird winged past me. It turned around. It flew close to me, perhaps to see if it recognized the new bird or if there was any message to be received. We hit another puff of air. The avion tilted down, calm and gentle about it as if it knew its business now, correcting its position, the little wheel in front of me moving back and forth again, quite urgently. You’d almost imagine that wheel was trying to attract my attention.

  I gripped so tightly on to the wooden spars that I must have pressed fingerprints into them. I managed to shift a little—nothing happened. We remained on even keel, still soaring along steadily. I shifted more. I looked back. I saw the face of the cliff far behind me, like the prow of the most enormous ship ever launched, rising up and up, a thousand feet from the forest which was like a green sea.

  There—standing on the topmost edge of the cliff—was one man. He was about a fifth of a mile away, already receding, going further and further away each second. But in that brilliantly clear morning sunlight I could see enough of that black figure, like a black toothpick, to know it was Monsieur Simonis. Evidently he’d run after the avion as far as he could, leaving Albert and le maire to guard mon oncle and the Meilhac twins.

  Even as I twisted my neck, gazing back, floating along so high above the forest, a faint crack of noise came to my ears—like a tiny stick being snapped. A second later something whined and buzzed. There was a sudden plop—and about three feet to my left, a hole opened in the taut linen covering of the wing.