The Flying Sorcerers

As the boat approached I could see my two sons pedaling wildly on the windmakers, pushing the boat closer and closer. Occasionally one of them would stop or pedal backwards for a few seconds, and the Cathawk would shift ever so slightly in its direction.

Purple was hanging in the rigging again. He was fiddling with the neck of one of his airbags — apparently he was releasing the gas in calculated amounts to control their descent.

He was shouting too: “Where is my ground crew?!! Where is my ground crew?!!” The boat sank sideways through the air.

On the ground, Trone and his men were running around wildly, the big Coppersmith shouting orders, the others trying to take up positions around the landing cradle.

“Okay,” Trone was shouting. “Bring “er in — right over the cradle — and we’ll grab the ropes!”

“No! No!” Purple shouted back. “You bloody blind fools! You have to come out and grab the ropes where they fall and pull the boat over the landing rack! Then you pull it down! We can’t control it that fine!” He swung around in the rigging, “Wilville, Orbur, throw down the mooring ropes!”

Trone shouted at his crew, “Move out! Move out! They can’t get it over the landing rack — we’ll have to do it for them.” His ragged group of men ran down the slope toward the Cathawk’s trailing ropes. They were waving gaily in the wind. Wilville and Orbur were pedaling as hard as they could just to keep the boat in place.

“Grab the ropes! Grab them!” Purple exhorted the ground crew. “We’ve got to come down on the landing cradle or we’ll snap the keel.” Boys and men were running hither and thither, trying to catch the trailing ends of the ropes, but the constant wind across the Crag kept snatching them away.

One boy, very light, grabbed onto a rope only to find himself lifted into the air. He let go, and fell back to the ground.

Other controllers were having troubles too. They would seize a rope only to find themselves dragged across the hill. It was Trone who saved the day, by pouncing on one of these men — four other controllers pounced on top of him, and the Cathawk came to a jarring halt in the air.

The other ropes were slowed enough then to allow other men to grab them. It was great sport, with ground crew and villagers alike chasing after every rope still waving free, but at last nearly every rope had a controller or two hanging breathlessly onto the end of it.

Trone released his rope then — there were three other men on it — and shouted to his crew, “All right, pull it up the slope — over the landing rack!”

Shouting and cheering, the men dragged the Cathawk along, like a child with one of Purple’s tiny airbags. The villagers waved excitedly at the heroes above. Wilville and Orbur had ceased their pedaling and were waving back, big foolish grins across their faces.

The flight controllers were just positioning the airboat above the landing rack when one of them called, “Wait! — If Purple leaves in this boat, our tokens won’t be worth anything.”

The others looked at him, “So what?”

“We’ve got to do something about it —”

Meanwhile, Purple was shouting, “The landing cradle! The landing cradle! Pull us to the landing cradle!”

They ignored him while they argued amongst themselves. Trone was insisting that they obey his orders, but the others were too insistent and they ignored him. Finally one of the men shouted skyward, “We’re going on strike, Purple!”

“Huh? What’s that?”

The flight controllers are going on strike —”

“The what?!!”

“We want you to guarantee your tokens!”

“Of course, of course! Anything —”

Suddenly we saw Shoogar’s head over the railing. He had a ball of itching balls in his hand, and he was taking careful aim at us below. Three of the flight controllers started to let go of their ropes, but their leader marshaled them back. “If you drop it, Shoogar, we’ll let go and you’ll never get down!”

I backed away. I knew Shoogar.

Sure enough, he dropped it. It struck and burst and tiny flecks of black spotted the air, alighting on the nearest people — the ground crew.

From the air came Shoogar’s voice, “If you want to be cured, pull us down!”

Some of the men were trying to rub the black flecks away. Others had let go of their ropes and were rolling on the ground. The Cathawk swung out of position.

Shoogar called, “In about an hour you’re all going to be screaming for a magician!”

That did it. They swarmed for the ropes and started pulling.

Shoogar apparently wanted to drop more itch balls, but Purple was climbing down from the rigging and motioning frantically. Wilville and Orbur, no longer needed on the airpushers, slung them up into the outriggers exactly as planned, and began climbing back into the boat proper. They too were remonstrating with Shoogar.

“No more itch balls! We’re pulling! We’re pulling!” called the flight controllers.

Shoogar, Wilville and Orbur vanished below the side of the boat. There were curses and muffled noises. Purple was peering over the side and directing the landing manuever, “All right, all right — easy now. Watch the keel, the keel! Pull us to the landing cradle — the cradle! Don’t snap the keel!”

Grumbling and cursing the men pulled the boat down and into the cradle. They looped their ropes loosely around stakes in the ground. Gradually the boat was hauled down out of the sky. The keel slid into its slot in the landing frame, and I heaved a sigh of relief.

A gust of wind caught the clustered windbags then, just at the right angle and the wrong moment — there was a cra-a-ack! of bambooze. The keel had snapped.

Purple leapt out of the boat cursing. It bounced back into the air, but the men pulled it down again. Others dragged sandbags over, and quickly tossed them into the boat. It hit the cradle with a thump.

Wilville and Orbur got off Shoogar then. They had been holding him down on the floor of the boat. The three scrambled out.

Even the sandbags were not enough then. A sudden gust of wind caught the boat and swept it down the slope, bouncing and gliding. It was too heavy to fly with the sandbags in it, but too light to resist the force of the wind. It swept down the slope and into the water.

Ang’s fisherboys had to recover it.

When he saw it bobbing in the water, its outriggers balancing it gently against the waves, Purple’s only comment was, “H’m, I guess it didn’t need a keel after all.”