A landmark would be a really useful thing for the boys right now, wouldn't it? Only... what landmarks are there in the southern united states somewhere in the late 1800s? If you're thinking of pitching in over the weekend, they're trying to land on Lake Cabresto, which I think is in New Mexico and a way north of Humbug Gulch (all real places!) Since I have to break this into two again (sorry), I'll also note that a new feature of Word in Windows 10 is to tell me that "damn" might be offensive to my readers. I find idiotic comments like that to be offensive, but there seems to be no way to communicate that to the offense-giver responsible....
Landmark The day floated by like the ground; uneventful, pleasant, and a little distant. It was hard to get too worked up about anything in the basket, and though Ben and I had plenty of memories to go through and re-explore, we did find ourselves falling silent for more and more minutes to look at the ground, or the sky, or the horizon. Time seemed... different, somehow up there. And then I'd been staring at the ground, watching it slowly mount up into a hill, with a mountain still to come, when Ben, who'd been staring off to the west, said, "Red, you always took book learning more seriously than a monk; what you make of those odd flat clouds over that way." "Just because you use books to replace missing chair legs doesn't make me a monk for wanting to read them," I retorted. "I open books sometimes!" Ben can do a good job of sounding hurt when he wants to, but they're crocodile tears. "To shake them and see if money falls out." "One time a bottle of whiskey fell out," said Ben. "That was a good day!" "Father Plasterer's bible," I said, the memory coming back. "There wasn't a book in his office he hadn't hidden something in." Then I remembered the Father's diary and looked to see what clouds Ben was talking about. I was expecting a layer of clouds, probably turning greyish, a sign of wind and rain ahead. I was almost right. The clouds were anvil clouds, a thick column of cloud pushed up from the main base of the clouds, then spreading outwards above, flattened on the top, and looking every bit like the anvil they're named after. They're storm clouds, and bad storm clouds at that. "Bad clouds," I said, to avoid a conversation about their name. Ben gets easily distracted when something catches his attention, and it's a mercy that about six things catch his attention every minute. Except where there's a pretty lady around. Then he's a bit more focused. "We don't want to get into them." "They're coming towards us," said Ben, and I held my breath while I watched; damn it all, he was right. We were in the same wind, but they were moving faster. "They look tall up here," said Ben, trying for casual conversation again. "On the ground they don't look so big."
"Hundreds of metres tall," I muttered. "I wanted a landmark, not an airmark. Ben, we're gonna have to land this thing. If we go flying into that we're not going to come out the other side. Or, if we do, we'll be thrown at the ground like the weather's having a tantrum with us." "That bad, huh?" Ben looked at me and waggled his eyebrows. "Yes, yes Ben. How do we land this thing again?" "Huh." He chewed on his cigar, and I got a sinking feeling. "I know how to keep it landing," he said. "I don't know if I rightly remember how that little German guy got it all started though." I looked at the anvil clouds, hoping that they'd had their fun scaring us and had turned around to go bother someone else, but they were still looming, heading towards us like icebergs intimidating seals. "Try, Ben," I suggested. "Try real hard now."
Eventually we figured that if you fiddled with the gas burner that was keeping the air in the balloon hot, it put out less heat and the balloon started to descend, but there was a heart-stopping moment when I thought Ben had just turned the thing off altogether. Once I could see we were losing height -- I know there's a fancy name for it, but I couldn't think of it right there and then -- Ben started adjusting ropes and hauling up sandbags for no good reason that I could see, but it was keeping him busy.... I looked over the edge. The winds from the approaching storm were starting to bounce us around as we got closer to the ground, and I figured it must be that they were being deflected off things and coming back up to us. The air had a heavy, damp quality to it like sleeping on a wet pillow, and there was a bitter, acrid smell in the air that I associated with lightning. Down below, which wasn't that far down now, there was a lot of trees, and slightly south-west of us there was a wide expanse of water, which I figured was a lake. There was open ground around the lake, but we seemed to be picking up speed as we descended, and I was getting the feeling that the basket wouldn't just plop neatly down on a spot; we were going to scrape across whatever we landed on. "What are we making, for, Ben?" I asked. and then had to shout it again as the wind tore my words away. "The ground!" yelled Ben. "It's a bit pointy!" I yelled, jabbing my fingers at the ground below. Ben tied a rope off and looked over, and I saw his body shaking as though he were cursing, but I didn't hear none of the words. "The lake," he yelled, over his shoulder, untying the rope again. "We'll drown!"
3 comments:
A landmark would be a really useful thing for the boys right now, wouldn't it? Only... what landmarks are there in the southern united states somewhere in the late 1800s?
If you're thinking of pitching in over the weekend, they're trying to land on Lake Cabresto, which I think is in New Mexico and a way north of Humbug Gulch (all real places!)
Since I have to break this into two again (sorry), I'll also note that a new feature of Word in Windows 10 is to tell me that "damn" might be offensive to my readers. I find idiotic comments like that to be offensive, but there seems to be no way to communicate that to the offense-giver responsible....
Landmark
The day floated by like the ground; uneventful, pleasant, and a little distant. It was hard to get too worked up about anything in the basket, and though Ben and I had plenty of memories to go through and re-explore, we did find ourselves falling silent for more and more minutes to look at the ground, or the sky, or the horizon. Time seemed... different, somehow up there. And then I'd been staring at the ground, watching it slowly mount up into a hill, with a mountain still to come, when Ben, who'd been staring off to the west, said,
"Red, you always took book learning more seriously than a monk; what you make of those odd flat clouds over that way."
"Just because you use books to replace missing chair legs doesn't make me a monk for wanting to read them," I retorted.
"I open books sometimes!" Ben can do a good job of sounding hurt when he wants to, but they're crocodile tears.
"To shake them and see if money falls out."
"One time a bottle of whiskey fell out," said Ben. "That was a good day!"
"Father Plasterer's bible," I said, the memory coming back. "There wasn't a book in his office he hadn't hidden something in." Then I remembered the Father's diary and looked to see what clouds Ben was talking about. I was expecting a layer of clouds, probably turning greyish, a sign of wind and rain ahead. I was almost right. The clouds were anvil clouds, a thick column of cloud pushed up from the main base of the clouds, then spreading outwards above, flattened on the top, and looking every bit like the anvil they're named after. They're storm clouds, and bad storm clouds at that.
"Bad clouds," I said, to avoid a conversation about their name. Ben gets easily distracted when something catches his attention, and it's a mercy that about six things catch his attention every minute. Except where there's a pretty lady around. Then he's a bit more focused. "We don't want to get into them."
"They're coming towards us," said Ben, and I held my breath while I watched; damn it all, he was right. We were in the same wind, but they were moving faster.
"They look tall up here," said Ben, trying for casual conversation again. "On the ground they don't look so big."
"Hundreds of metres tall," I muttered. "I wanted a landmark, not an airmark. Ben, we're gonna have to land this thing. If we go flying into that we're not going to come out the other side. Or, if we do, we'll be thrown at the ground like the weather's having a tantrum with us."
"That bad, huh?" Ben looked at me and waggled his eyebrows.
"Yes, yes Ben. How do we land this thing again?"
"Huh." He chewed on his cigar, and I got a sinking feeling. "I know how to keep it landing," he said. "I don't know if I rightly remember how that little German guy got it all started though."
I looked at the anvil clouds, hoping that they'd had their fun scaring us and had turned around to go bother someone else, but they were still looming, heading towards us like icebergs intimidating seals.
"Try, Ben," I suggested. "Try real hard now."
Eventually we figured that if you fiddled with the gas burner that was keeping the air in the balloon hot, it put out less heat and the balloon started to descend, but there was a heart-stopping moment when I thought Ben had just turned the thing off altogether. Once I could see we were losing height -- I know there's a fancy name for it, but I couldn't think of it right there and then -- Ben started adjusting ropes and hauling up sandbags for no good reason that I could see, but it was keeping him busy....
I looked over the edge. The winds from the approaching storm were starting to bounce us around as we got closer to the ground, and I figured it must be that they were being deflected off things and coming back up to us. The air had a heavy, damp quality to it like sleeping on a wet pillow, and there was a bitter, acrid smell in the air that I associated with lightning. Down below, which wasn't that far down now, there was a lot of trees, and slightly south-west of us there was a wide expanse of water, which I figured was a lake. There was open ground around the lake, but we seemed to be picking up speed as we descended, and I was getting the feeling that the basket wouldn't just plop neatly down on a spot; we were going to scrape across whatever we landed on.
"What are we making, for, Ben?" I asked. and then had to shout it again as the wind tore my words away.
"The ground!" yelled Ben.
"It's a bit pointy!" I yelled, jabbing my fingers at the ground below. Ben tied a rope off and looked over, and I saw his body shaking as though he were cursing, but I didn't hear none of the words.
"The lake," he yelled, over his shoulder, untying the rope again.
"We'll drown!"
Greg - I'm just following along for now, but I'm sure I'll be unable to resist joining in at some point.
And yes, that is damned offensive. I hope there is a way to turn that off because if it was me... well, I'd be seeing that warning a lot.
And... this is looking about right for a Red and Ben landing. Hopefully no bones will be broken in the process.
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