The Avion My Uncle Flew (24 page)

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.

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.

Monsieur Simonis was shooting at me!

13

LE JOUR DE LA FÊTE

Maybe he shot again, I don't know. The avion was going too fast, leaving la montagne too far behind for me to hear. By now, I was getting somewhat accustomed to riding along through le ciel in an avion. I recognized at least for a little while I was tolerably safe. That little wheel in front of me moved again as the avion tilted into the wind and gently rocked back on even keel.

I saw the wheel move every time the avion did. I remembered a little of what mon oncle had told me. I took hold of the wheel, and in a way, it was like riding a bicycle. I mean, I sat astraddle the canvas sling, my legs dangling below the avion, holding on to the little wooden steering wheel as if it was a pair of bicycle handle-bars. I pushed the wheel forward to see what would happen. I considered I'd given it a gentle push—but whoosh! I thought the whole bottom of my stomach was going to cave in as the avion suddenly stuck its nose down and dived.

I let go that wheel as if it was a hot iron. I clung to the frame. Well, mon oncle had been right. The avion tilted upwards again, even and smooth, the way a horse does when you've accidentally raked it with spurs, jumping suddenly, then quieting down again after teaching you not to be too impetuous. I suppose by now we'd been voler-ing five or six minutes. Maybe less—it's hard to judge when seconds seemed to last half an hour.

We were coming down in a long flat slant. A mile or so ahead of me, I could see le village unfolding, like a tiny flower growing and opening up in the middle of a crumpled green sheet. The rush of wind was so strong in my face, my eyes watered. I had to keep blinking them. I tried the wheel again. This time I was careful not to shove it forward more than half an inch.

The avion now was docile as an old mare. It dropped its head a trifle; it merely picked up more speed. Next, I hauled back on the wheel. The avion lifted upwards, its speed slacking off. If it hadn't been for the fact that those men had mon oncle and the Meilhac twins back on the meadow, perhaps right now shooting them, or making them dig for the stored treasure, I might have enjoyed that ride as I gradually lost my fear. I turned the wheel to the left—the avion swung toward the left, with no trouble at all. When I twisted the wheel to the right, the avion did the same thing, although the wind came more from this direction, and we rocked a little, the great wings rippling, the wires stretching tighter, the humming noise coming more sharply.

Of course, without a motor we didn't voler nearly as fast as an avion hauled along by an engine and a propeller, but it seemed to me we were traveling a lot faster than I'd realized. When I looked down the next time, I saw that le village had opened up. It was closer to me. The church steeple looked about a foot high. I could see people swarming out in la rue. Off in the distance, men working in the vineyards and fields had dropped their rakes and hoes and were looking up, shading their eyes. In that clear air, I heard their shouts—every noise distinct, but far away. I had the impression of being a giant, walking hundreds of feet above le village and checkerboard fields and meadows and streams, with a crowd of tiny human beings way down below me, everything in reduced size, the voices reduced in volume, a cow about an inch long making a lowing sound that came up to my ears almost as a squeak.

I heard a faint put-putting, very much as if a little model airplane motor was traveling along somewhere a couple of feet below me. I peered across the other side; I saw a little automobile colored green, the size of those pressed iron toy automobiles which kids half my age buy in toy stores. As I watched, I saw the smallest arm imaginable lift up from that little figure in the toy green automobile. It was Dr. Guereton's green automobile. Probably he'd had an early call and, returning to St. Chamant, saw the avion, thought mon oncle was in it, and believed he was waving to him. I tried to shout down at him, “Hey! Stop. Reste là!” wanting him to wait there until I could get this thing to terre—to earth. An automobile could get back up la montagne in a hurry—almost to the top.

But it wasn't any use to shout. I was too high. By now, I must have been voler-ing nearly eight minutes or more. I began to be worried. The avion had been too well designed. It wasn't coming vers la terre—toward the earth fast enough to suit me. I didn't dare think of what might be happening all this time back there on the meadow behind me. When I peered over on the other side, I saw the avion was now passing directly above le village. I could hear the tiny cries of people below me but they couldn't hear my shouts at all. It's a funny thing, that noise will travel
upwards
a lot better than down. I saw the oxcart and the ox, plain as could be, right in the middle of la rue where le forgeron was starting toward la montagne. Le forgeron was standing up in the oxcart, jumping up and down, waving both hands. He probably thought mon oncle was in this avion, too, just as Dr. Guereton did—just as everybody else no doubt did. At least, one thing was proved: le village could see mon oncle hadn't been a muddlehead when he boasted about his avion.

But the thing wouldn't stop. It kept on, sailing away as if it enjoyed the experience. Le village slipped behind me. The avion crossed the stream, about four hundred feet high, the cows now larger in the field, their frightened moos coming more loudly. I became desperate. I could see myself going around all morning in this avion, giving all the time in the world to Monsieur Simonis and his gang on that montagne. I shoved the wheel forward; I shoved it forward as far as it would go. The avion gave a sickening lurch. I shut my eyes. The wind roared in my ears. I clenched my teeth, determined to keep the wheel shoved forward until we were a few feet above the ground.

But just as mon oncle had told me, his avion wouldn't continue diving. It lurched downwards ten or twenty feet, speed increasing—brought up its head with a kind of thump, the wings trembling, the wires screaming with the strain—and flattened out, shaking itself, the wheel jerking in my hands as if it was attempting to inform me I was to let it go. Now we sailed over the bridge, the long stone fence unreeling under me. I shoved harder on the wheel. Once more the avion lurched down—came up—lurched down again—wallowed—the wood groaning, the linen covering drumming loudly from the pressure of air.

We passed over the cow field and I twisted the wheel. The avion wheeled around and came back toward the cow field, low and lower, in a series of jerky dives and leaps, fighting to keep clear of the ground as if it was alive. That avion may have been built only of wood and wire and cloth, but mon oncle's brain had gone into it; and right now, in the air, that contraption had twice the sense I had. It knew it wasn't supposed to fling itself headfirst on the ground. It did all it could to coast down gently, despite my fever of impatience to reach earth—la terre—and find help in a hurry.

A tree appeared. It got bigger. Cows enlarged. They ran. The tree increased in size and shot up from the ground. The avion faltered. A gust of wind hit it. The avion tilted and seemed to give out a sigh and headed straight for that tree. I twisted the wheel to the right. As though it was making its final effort, the avion awkwardly wheeled a little to the right—hesitated about fifteen feet off the terre—dropped—slammed into the tree with one wing and after that there was an almighty crash and thunder. Somewhere a cow was mooing very loudly and for the next few seconds or minutes I didn't know what was happening at all.

When I opened my eyes, at first I thought I was out of my mind. You remember that blind peddler—well,
I thought I saw him bending over me
, asking me questions in French, and he wasn't wearing his glasses! I must have given a kind of yell. I shut my eyes. Next, when I opened them, Dr. Guereton was kneeling before me. The peddler wasn't anywhere around. I'd been dreaming. I saw a blur of more people and found I was sitting propped against the trunk of the oak tree. Near me was one wing, tipped upwards, like the sail of a boat. Half of the other wing was wrapped around the oak tree and lower branches, the torn cloth snapping in the wind. When I attempted to move, pain sheared me from my left shoulder to my elbow. Now I noticed my left arm was crooked, bent out of shape. Dr. Guereton touched it. I yelped. He said gently, “C'est cassé. Cassé.” He was telling me it was broken. Broken. My arm was broken.

People were crowding around me. Men were running from the fields, climbing the stone wall. They were lifting up parts of the avion, exclaiming to themselves. Dr. Guereton was asking me a whole string of French words I didn't understand. Right then, le forgeron came leaping across the field, his black beard fanning out in the breeze. His big arms cleared a way through that crowd. He got to me. I was never so glad to see anybody in my life as I was to see Monsieur Niort.

I wriggled away from Dr. Guereton. I didn't care if my arm was cassé. I didn't care about anything but to make it clear to Monsieur Niort that mon oncle and the Meilhac twins were in mortal danger. He shoved closer to me. He was the first one in all that crowd who had enough wits in his head to realize mon oncle never would have allowed me to make this first flying attempt with the avion. He roared, “Où est ton oncle?”

I cried, “Mon oncle est sur la montagne avec le Nazi!”

“Quoi?”
bellowed Monsieur Niort.

“Oui!”
I said.
“Le Nazi est sur la montagne! Aussi!”

He started back, making a noise like thunder. There wasn't an instant when he didn't believe me. He realized I'd never have taken off in that avion if something grave wasn't taking place right now up there sur la montagne. He jumped up. He spread out his arms, calling tout le monde to attention. He shouted. He bellowed. He got the facts across to them, too, this time.

“Mon automobile!” yelled Dr. Guereton, starting to run, forgetting all about me.

“Hey!” I said, as the men streamed away from the tree, toward the road and the automobile. It wasn't my idea to be left behind. I managed to get to my feet, feeling dizzy and weak. Women of le village took hold of me. I shook free of them. I started running, the excitement pounding through my blood. I saw men piling into Dr. Guereton's green automobile. “Hey!” I yelled with all my breath. “Hey!”

It was like hearing thunder again when my name, “JEAN!” was shouted. Le forgeron jumped from the automobile. He grabbed me and he said, “Je ne laisse pas Jean!”—I will not leave Jean! His arms were big around as small barrels. He cleared that wall, carrying me with him, in one leap. I know it's hard to believe. All I can say, I
know
he did, because I was there. He laid me gently on a man's lap and stepped on the running board, and off we drove toward la montagne.