Dave scurried toward the old airport building, head down, shoulders slumped. Muddy water splashed his worn docksiders with every step and streaked the cuffs of his jeans. He stole a quick glance skyward, then looked down at his feet again. The rain had slowed to a spit just moments earlier, and he knew that Mayfield's single grass strip was sure to be flooded once again.
When he finally reached the concrete landing, he stamped his feet before entering. The door groaned in disapproval when he pulled it open to enter the dimly lit flight planning room. He dropped his flightbag next to a battered cigarette machine and unzipped his jacket before noticing Bob Thompson, his instructor, emerging from the repair shop doorway.
Going flying today?
Dave returned the smile and shook his head. This was great, not only was the weather outside miserable, but his instructor, the amateur comedian, had to rub it in. "I was kind of planning on it," he said. "Has anyone walked the field to see what it's like!"
Someone in the far corner of the planning room paused from filling a Styrofoam cup of coffee just long enough to chuckle at the question.
"No seriously. . .has anyone!" He put his hands on his hips, stuck out his lip. "Maybe if we wait an hour or so it will dry out."
As he spoke, his voice became louder, took on an edge, as if in search of conviction. As if he were actually trying to will the swampy air strip to dry by setting a deadline. He raised his eyebrows, waited for an answer.
"We'll just have to wait around and see," was the best one he got, and with that Bob turned and disappeared into the repair shop.
End of discussion.
Dave sighed and settled into a seat by the window. Nothing to do but wait now. He had ventured inside the repair shop once before to find Bob, but only once. And it had been an experience he wasn't eager to repeat. Inside, he'd found the entire instruction crew and a few of the more experienced pilots. They were playing cards and reading magazines, laughing and joking, lost in easy conversation.
But when a pair of card players noticed Dave in their midst, the domino effect flew into motion, a hush of whispers filled the room, and then it went dead silent, as if he'd been struck deaf right there in the repair shop. In a single motion all eyes turned to him as if in damnation. He had simply sucked in a deep breath, asked his question, and shuffled out of the room as quickly as he could.
He stretched back on the old vinyl couch and stared out the window at a sky the color of wet slate, pondering his situation. It wasn't a pretty picture and after a few moments, he closed his eyes. At this rate, he thought, it might take forever to get my license. Heck, if this weekend weather keeps up, I might never get it. Bet Walton airport with their newly paved 2,000 foot runway is just booming with business. I knew it, Should've just spent the extra money and got my training there. Nice flight planning room, great facilities, and even someone around to fuel the planes for you. Now that's service for your dollar. Instead, around here I train in the newest plane in the lot ... a 1966 Cessna 150. A real modern flyer.
"You got nothing but time, boy."
Dave opened his eyes and looked in the direction of the voice, his misery forgotten momentarily. The nameless coffee drinker who had laughed at him from the shadows earlier had pulled up a wooden chair, and was sitting by the window. His weathered hands cradled a still steaming cup, as if he were stealing its heat to warm his bones. He grinned at Dave and his face was like the old leather from a pair of worn work boots- scarred and cracked and tired. The man was ancient, a hundred years old if he was a day, and Dave's mind flashed him an image of an old, crusty gator coming up from the swamp for a feeding.
"You got nothing but time, boy," the old man repeated.
The slow drawl poured from his mouth like molasses. Dave had to wait for the completion of each word. Suddenly the old guy smiled, and a fire light up in his eyes. He spoke quicker now. "Plane will fly just as well tomorrow."
Dave nodded his head, wondering. What in the world is this guy rambling about, and why in the heck is he smiling at me that way. He tried to remember if he'd ever seen the old man before, but couldn't. He knew he had to say something soon or it would be rude, but he didn't have a clue as to what to say in response. He remembered his experience in the repair shop and searched for something witty and profound. Something someone older and wiser might say, not a nineteen-year-Old College freshman.
"What!"
Not exactly Shakespeare, but it just slipped out.
The old man's smile slowly melted into a look of concern. "I've been watching you, boy. You're not bad, got some real promise, but listen to me ..." He leaned forward, touched
a hand to Dave's knee, but pulled it back when Dave flinched. ". . . you got to respect the ether. it can turn on you like a rabid dog."
The man's eyes were riveted on Dave now, as if trying to be certain that the words spoken were finding understanding ears. Dave wriggled nervously, surprised into silence again, and the vinyl squeaked beneath him. After several long moments, the man finally did break the stare. He turned and looked out the window in the direction of the woods that lined the east end of the grass strip.
Immediately, Dave looked over his shoulder and thought, this is my chance. I could slip away before he ever noticed I was gone. I could take a walk to the hangar. But he made no move to leave. Instead, he remained sitting, watching the mysterious old man.
A few pilots walked into the room, accompanied by a fellow student pilot Dave recognized. He waved a hello and they responded with the same and a few good-natured comments about the weather, and then they drifted off leaving Dave alone again with the old guy.
Dave cleared his throat and the very sound gave him the courage to speak. "Excuse me, sir. What did you mean about the ether and the rabid dog stuff"
The old man returned his gaze from the window, opened his mouth to speak, hesitated, then finally did. "A long time ago I lost a good friend to haste. It's what kills pilots, that and not respecting the ether." He shifted in his chair, searching for comfort. "1934 . . . I was twenty three and full of spit and vinegar, was flying up the coast with a friend to do some soul searching. You see, I was the only flyer in the family,and they didn't quite understand the obsession but you do don't you, boy?. just getting a view of the land, doing some sightseeing."
Dave nodded his head but said nothing.
"The land was clean back then, not so much concrete and road. A pilot nowadays could close his eyes and have a decent chance at landing, with all these roads in the way. No, sir, back in those days, we slept under the wing and cooked over an open fire."
Evidently, the old man had quite a liking for the sound of his own voice, because he chuckled at his last comment until his voice cracked. "His name was Danny Richards, but everybody called him Kansas 'cause that's where he grew up. He was tall as a tree, could barely get into the plane, in fact. But, boy, could he fly. I met him in a field he'd landed in after doing some dusting for a couple of farmers. I'd seen him in the air and dropped in to see what he was flying. By the time we got through talking, he and I decided to fly east and take a look at the Atlantic Ocean for ourselves. Told his folks and off we went that very same day.
"Well, it wasn't that long before we ran into some real nasty storms and the old bird got to bouncing all over the sky. Kansas would just laugh like a kid on a roller coaster but I was always too busy trying to keep the Jenny's nose in front and the tail in back to get any pleasure out of it."
The old man stopped talking long enough to take a swig of his coffee. He cleared his throat and continued. "One time, when the fabric on the right wing started to tear I thought we were goners for sure. The rain was coming down so hard that day I couldn't see the ground and lightning was crashing all around us, like it was trying to knock us down. I shouted to Kansas to find a place to land and he pointed to the right side of the plane. I rolled her and brought the nose down to take a look and there it was. The ground was no more that fifty feet away and we were in a steep right turning dive. I pulled up hard on the stick but there was something pushing back. Kansas had taken the controls and signaled for me to cut the power back. We dropped down 'til about ten feet when Kansas pulled back and stomped on the rudder. We snapped in line and floated onto a strip of grass surrounded for miles by trees."
The man slapped his palms on his knees, and the sound jolted Dave enough to make him flinch. But still he remained safely inside the wonderful cocoon of the old man's tale. "I had never seen anyone land a plane in those conditions, no mind that it was a better landing than most do on a sunny day. Kansas . .. he was just born to fly, that boy was."
Dave leaned closer, mesmerized. He wanted more of the story. He imagined himself in this same world fifty years ago, doing the same things this man spoke of, flying to the same places. He watched the man's eyes as he spoke, they were dancing with intensity, and somehow he didn't seem so ancient now.
The old man leaned back in his chair and turned toward the window. His eyes searched there, and his lips pierced as in disgust. When he turned back, he placed his hand onto one of Dave's knees. This time Dave let it stay there.
"The next two months were some of the best of my life. We flew to the Atlantic all right, then ran up the coast to Maine. Beautiful country up there. Flew through some of the worst weather you'd Ever want to see, too, but back in those days you had the wind at your tail and you had yourself a river to follow ... "
A coughing fit interrupted the story.
And a few seconds later, after he wiped his mouth with a stained red hankie, he remained silent, drifting in his own thoughts, before going on.
"You'll know what I mean soon enough, boy. Anyway, we would earn our keep by giving rides when we could find a circus and Kansas spent a few days here and there in Pennsylvania crop dusting. Eventually, though, we started working our way south for the winter months. Plus Kansas wanted to head home for a few days. We talked about starting a business selling planes down in Florida because the weather was friendly for flying down there. We talked about returning up north some day to see Canada. We talked about a whole lot of things."
"Some time later, we put down in the exact same field in the middle of nowhere that Kansas had found that stormy day some months back. It was a Saturday morning and the sun was poking in and out of the clouds and the wind was light."
"We talked about it some and decided it was as good a time as any to take that trip to Kansas to see his folks. But by the time we got everything packed up and the Jenny ready to go the clouds had come in and a light rain began to fall. I cursed the weather and headed for the shelter of an old pine to wait it out. Kansas had other ideas, though. He shouted something crazy about getting up and checking the weather and with that he propped the plane and headed down the field. I did my best to wave him off but that baby roared past me and the Jenny rose into the air like a great bird. At the same time, the ground shook with mighty thunder and the western sky became black as night. The wind started to whip and the rain came on like a train. Right away, I could see Kansas was having trouble keeping her steady but I thought if he just found the sense to turn right around the landing might not be pretty but he could surely make it. And that's when it came!"
The old man suddenly stopped talking. Dave found himself staring slackjaw, holding his breath in. Darn it, he thought, don't you dare stop now. The man's gaze drifted to the window, to the far end of the field. His head tilted slightly as if straining to hear a distant whisper.
"Please go on," Dave pleaded. "What happened next? What was it that came!"
"It dropped out of the sky like a hand reaching down from above the clouds. It looked like a child's top spinning and twisting crazy across the sky."
"My, God," Dave whispered. "A twister?" The old man nodded and there might have been a tear in his eye. "It swirled around and around and Kansas almost made it, tried to bring the plane down into the trees in a big hurry, but it caught him. It pulled that plane up into it's black belly and never let it go. That twister swallowed him whole, is what it did, and they never found Kansas or the Jenny anywhere. Later on, I built my house next to that field in the middle of nowhere and by and by it gave seed to a town. And I named that field after the town that Kansas was from-"
Something caught his attention outside in the drizzle and the old man got to his feet with a grunt, never finished his sentence."Got to go, boy, my ride's here."
Dave smiled with genuine admiration and reached out to shake the man's hand.
"That was one heck of a story, mister, he said, pumping the man's hand. "Thanks for sharing it with me."
"You are quite welcome, boy. Glad to do it"
Dave held up a finger to hold the man's attention and said, "Just one more thing, though. What'd you name the town ? Where'd Kansas come from!"
The man smiled one last time and let a single sentence escape his lips in a hush.
"I named the town Mayfield, boy." with that the old man waved over to the window and set down his now cold cup of coffee on the window sill. He dropped a hand on Dave's shoulder as he moved past. The man looked old again, an ancient warrior.
Dave sat there for a moment, long enough to see the old man walk past the window toward the east end of the grass airstrip. Then he got up and ran out after him, his mind filling with more questions, but the old man was halfway across the strip. When he drew near, the man stopped and looked over his shoulder, if knowing the boy would be there.
"Respect the ether boy. Have patience."
He turned away, continued walking, and his silhouette grew hazy, then faded away completely into the drizzle at the end of the runway. Dave stood there watching, wondering where the old man's ride had gone to, where the old man was heading, and how he had vanished into a rain that was barely a drizzle. And then, at that very moment of wonder, a gust of wind blew across his face like propwash from a plane. Dave sprinted into the airfield, splashing through ankle deep puddles, and looked toward the east end and then back to the west.
Nothing.
There was nothing there.
And then his eyes fell down toward the ground and he saw it. The fresh impression of tire tracks pressed deep and clear into the muddy runway surface. Tracks that ended abruptly halfway up the runway.
