He Who Flew

"Do you know what it is to fly?" asked the old weathered, craggy face.

"Yup," answered the wide and innocent eyes.

"No you don't," insisted the agitated wheel chair head.

"Do, too!" volleyed back the one holding a raggedy, well-used and dingy cloth that once was a teddy bear.

"Then, show me!  Spread out those big beautiful wings and show me!" barked the raggedy, well-used, and dingy rag that was once a virile young man.

The big, innocent eyes stared hard into the angry old thing; lips quivered, holding back a terrible flood of sea water.

"If you think you can take on such a boast!  If you think you can simply just interject, then show me!  Fly, Goddamnit!" violently rebuked the wheels of silver.

Water filled the young eyes not quite ready to run down smooth cheeks.

"Show me, you mortal flea!" shook violent hands.

"Mister Kittering!" interrupted a voice of small distance.

"If you insist on calling me by that name, at least use the appropriate honorific, thing!  It's Professor!" snapped, then released, the talons of violence.

"If you insist, Professor, your visitor--"

"Yes!  I know!" with a sigh, the used body on metal wheels, deflated.  "Apologies," said the embarrassed wrinkled hands.  "I don't get many visitors in this god forsaken place.  But in the golden sands...well.  Still, you know nothing of flying..."

The youthful one exhaled and found a place for his limp, cloth companion to sit, and then he found himself a place of comfort and sat.

From the stiff metal wheels, "Across the old sands of Egypt, high above the green vein of the Nile, I flew on golden wings.  Up there, gliding between the light, feathery clouds, you can hear secrets.  Yes, the whispers of ancient gods, the old ones, across giant dunes, sandy waves on a mighty ocean of grains.  They are antique, hot winds.  Just close your eyes and inhale the great sandstorms.  You can almost taste those thousand whispers inside your head, just inside your ears, murmurs of time, water, and green before the great desert, a time of Nubia and the ones who scratched civilization before the sand men," the thin voice stopped with a harsh cough, a weathered hand reached for a white-lined glass of water.  "You have to unfurl yourself, open fully and jump.  Let the air and clouds caress your body, all the while, listen to the glistening sun, calling."

"Sounds like Icarus to me."

"Ha!  History books!"

"No, my daddy read to me a book, once, about Icarus.  My-fall-o-gis, I think he said."

"Mythologies are always written by the victors.  Icarus was a child who dared, and his uncle, Daedleus, was a fool who dreamed.  They did not know."  Weak arms fresh off silver wheels became old weathered tree limbs, extended.  "The sun can not be pierced, obtained, or understood by wax or a simple mortal."

"He knows," said a small smile.

"What?" said an ancient scowl.

The dingy rag of a bear danced, held high above innocent head and gentle eyes.

"Oh, you.  Yes, you, rag-o-mop.  You would know.  Always something interwoven into your kind, isn't there?  Threads, waft of lifelines intersecting, fates.  You dusty tapestry of secrets.  You naughty, funny...and dirty thing."

A simple smile oozed into place on the young face.  Then, young yawn exploded, interrupting the silence of the old/young detente.

"See!  You know nothing of flying!" slapped an indignant thin raspy voice.  "Even in the listening, you know not!"

"Do too," the youthful small voice snuggled into the rag of a bear.

"Aw!  Cold and shadow upon you!" screeched the old nails upon an imaginary chalkboard.  "Yes, cold and shadow, just like that time above the Himalayans.  Yes.  Wings spread full, shining in the sun.  Cold and shadow.  Ice.  Then, shiny warmth.  All day, and then, I got whispered into a monsoon."  Pause.

"And then you fell on to the ground?" Suddenly aroused, up and giddy for adventure that teetered on the edge of the comfortable chair.

"Sure, now you listen," admonished the old prune.

"Then what?" cajoled the youthful eager eyes.

A gulp of water and a hard setting of glass, "a great mire, mud everywhere...love, you poor little man child.  Love."

"Was she pretty?"

"Pretty?  Bah, beautiful!  The most magnificent I ever had seen, and I have soared so high into the atmosphere that I broke through its very edge, and with my naked eyes, I saw bright stellar nurseries.  So high above the plain of mortals.  Love, mind you, a mire about my ankles.  Yes, beautiful, wondrous, magnificent, terrifying.  Flying without leaving the earth.  I was never bound by gravity, though.  I could fly whenever, wherever I wished to go.  And when I did fly, she would watch.  So much wonder.  It felt like the sun upon my body.  I would take her in my arms and lift so slowly.  We would glide across golden, shifting sands...."  Old voice turned young now faded.

"Then what?"

"Always questions with you.  Well, nosy one...are you sure you are not related to Raven?  Hmm?...Well, let's see...Together, we built temples and cities.  We built empires, moved rivers and oceans, called stars, moved tides...

"Cool."

"Yes, awesome."  A thin, tight, quick gasp.  "No!" thin, bony hands reached out to the retreating memory.  "Don't go.  Please!  Stay.  That one is not eternity, only me," ancient whispers caressed craggy abused cheeks, pulling salty, delta water with them.

"What?  Who are you talking to?  Where are you?" youthful confusion, standing, grasping tight to ancient bear.

"Life has a twin sister, little one.  A hateful, jealous, vengeful sister.  The two sisters walk the planet together, hand in hand.  Eternal sisters, sultry sisters, seductresses.  One plants, one harvests.  They are ruled by the one who makes the sands and pushes the winds and water.  One plants, one harvests," the mummy faded off, lost.

"Hello?"

"No, Magnificent.  Stay.  Don't leave me here alone."

"She flies now, does she?" said youth.

"Eh, mortals!  They are like quicksand to those who fly.  And you  do NOT know of FLYING!" flared old, tired, fully wet to swimming eyes.

"Professor Kittering!"

Heavy sigh, dry ground regained.  "I'm sorry.  Mustn't raise the voice.  Again, apologies, young one.  Ignorance is hard to suffer, even if it is not intended," closed the weary, desert eyes with another sigh.

"So, Professor, what happened, exactly?"

Different voice, eyes slammed open!  "What?!  Where is he?!"

"Who?" came the distant voice, intent on diffusing.

"Youth!  The young one with the rag doll bear...," seethed the thin whisper.

"Professor--" calmed in manner, controlled and in control.

"Ah!  Damn you!  Damn you and your magics!  You scared him away, mortal!" lashed the wheeled, old voice.

"I...okay... I am sorry for that, but...um... perhaps, I can help you?"

"Why would I talk to you, Sorcerer?" moved the wheel chair a partial turn.

"Well, it appears that you are stuck here--"

"How observant!"

"Yes, thanks.  What I meant is that you appear to be looking for freedom, perhaps?..."

"What?  Will you give me my wings back?  They have been severed from my body!  Will you give me back the sand?  That was stolen and replaced by concrete, steel, glass, and blacktop.  Will you give me back the power of the tides?  You will give me back My Magnificent?"

"I have the power to ease your struggled.  However, does anyone have the kind of power to give you the moon?  Only you can do that, my friend," calm and calculated wrote.

Wheels struggled to regain the sands and ancient whispers, "What do you know?  You are a treacherous Jack-n-ape.  You know tricks, lies, and shadows.  Ice.  Nothing more.  I will not suffer ignorance even if it is unintended."

"All right, well.  Perhaps, our session is done; Professor Kittering, we'll talk more later."  

"I am the one who knows what it is to fly on golden wing. I once ruled over golden sand and mighty veins of water lined in green.  My name is so old that the wind, the sand, and the water no longer whisper it, so old it is forgotten," tears built up behind a dam with sandy banks and papyrus just in the corner of old, half-blind eyes.

"Yes, well.  We will get to all that Sanskrit stuff at a later time, perhaps.  Right now, these gentlemen will help you back to your room," said the distant voice, acquiesced.

With a nod, two men in hospital whites, pulled and tugged, down antiseptic halls, down partially lit corridors, until a door.  With a clank and jingle of a key ring full, the door was opened, before them sat a bed in an empty room.  De-wheeled and held supine, straps tight, the old dried one was left alone...until the bright full moon.  Under the moonlight from a high, thin slit in damp, dank walls, straps were undone, food offered.  Hand in hand, two women.  One reaping, one sowing.  And again high above the mortal plain, over the sand, with golden wings spread, he, now young, thought upon the boy and the wizened, old rag-a-bear.