I wanted to explain that I was planning as soon as possible to leave Prachous forever, but I became unsure. I did not know how some act of revenge might be carried out. Against Thom the Thaumaturge? Could I be forced into becoming a part of that? How might I, or this woman, be involved? As witnesses to an accident, or as responsible parties because we performed first aid on the young woman?
I was wondering what to say, when suddenly Firentsa Mallin turned directly towards me and we embraced. I felt her strong arms wrapping protectively around my shoulders. The sides of our faces briefly pressed against each other. I could feel her jaw working with emotion. We stepped back from each other and for a moment I glimpsed a trace of tears filling her eyes. She turned away without another word, then walked down the steps from the stage and exited the auditorium through one of the curtained audience doors. I stood alone.
The trick rope that had caused the accident was still lying in curves and loops across the floor of the stage – part of it ran between my feet. The hidden end still lay inside the wicker basket. There was no sign of Thom. The quiet noise of the ineffectual cooling fans, venting above me, cut out.
27
I closed up my house for the last time and drove to the airfield. The journey took about four hours, which meant that even if the problems of officialdom were to disappear it would be too late to start my flight. I needed all the daylight hours possible.
The airfield where I had first arrived was in an area of hilly pastures, not forested but well covered with mature trees. It was in the south-eastern quarter of the island. I had found it by chance as I flew across Prachous in the gathering twilight, running low on fuel and desperate to find anywhere at all that I could put down the wheels.
Following my arrival, learning about the everyday life of Prachous, and especially my search for Tomak, had absorbed me. The adventure of the long flight soon dimmed. There had been so many other flights in my life before that one, unique though it was. As my intention to leave the island became certain, I returned several times to the airfield, trying to work my way out of the maze of difficulties I had made for myself. The staff there now knew me. They were fully aware that once the aircraft was released from the bond I would want to fly in it.
The height of the hills above sea level gave the area a pleasantly temperate climate. I relished my visits, because they provided an escape from the humidity of the town. I enjoyed watching the local people flying their light planes in and out of the airfield, envying them a little, but also knowing that locked away in the bonded hangar I had one of the most beautiful and powerful aircraft ever built. I ached to fly it again.
During my visits I would lie in the long grass at the perimeter of the field, soaking up the familiar sounds and smells as the aero engines revved up for take-off. I longed to feel the vibration of the aircraft engines and the pressure of the slipstream pouring back violently from the propellers. Safety regulations meant I could not approach too close. On one visit I was invited into the flimsily built control tower, actually erected on top of the hangar where my plane was being kept, and listened with painful familiarity to the curt, polite conversations with the pilots, about wind bearing, altitude and approach paths.
When I arrived at the airfield the news was good: the tithing agency had been looking into my finances. My loan account had established a credit rating equivalent to twelve per cent of the estimated value of my aircraft. I had no idea how any of this was worked out, but the commodore of the air club sat down with me and explained the calculation. I was none the wiser, but it did mean that as far as he and the authorities were concerned I could guarantee the tithe value of the impounded plane. This, it transpired, was one of the main reasons the aircraft had been impounded in the first place. I asked about the breach of neutrality, but the man knew nothing about that. He told me that provided I did not attempt to leave the island’s airspace and surrendered the aircraft again on my return, it should not affect the outcome of the hearing.
What it all amounted to was that the tithe bond would be discharged at midnight, and I would be allowed to take my aircraft up for a short proving flight first thing in the morning.
I was allowed into the hangar where two mechanics were conducting a final check of the instruments, wiring, and control surfaces. The engine, they told me, was in good working condition, or so they believed. It was unfamiliar to them, and they asked me several questions about its technical specifications, none of which I could answer. I wanted to touch the plane, even put my arm across its slender fuselage, but the mechanics had clearly been told to keep me away from it.
There were more questions to answer about the quantity of fuel I had ordered. 100-octane aviation fuel had been obtained specially, and was available, but the maintenance crew had of course discovered the auxiliary tank in the rear of the aircraft. They were concerned about the sheer quantity of fuel I was asking for. I needed both tanks filled to capacity for my main flight, but I did not want to arouse suspicions about my destination. I said that at first I would need only enough fuel for the short proving flight, but if that went well I intended to make a longer flight around the coast of the island. That was why I needed the extra fuel.
I went to a house where I had stayed on earlier visits to the airfield, slept well in spite of my feelings of excitement, and in the morning I returned to the airfield as early as I could. Several of the ground crew were already working but I was the only pilot there. I went to the met office for a weather report – it was expected to be another fine day with a high pressure system stable over the eastern part of the island. There was a seventy per cent likelihood of storms in the north and west of the island. Visibility was excellent. There would be low winds at all altitudes. The storm warning did not concern me – I was planning to be far away by the time it arrived.
I collected my flying jacket and helmet, then walked across to the bonded hangar. I noticed at once that the main doors were open. The official tags of tithe bondage had been unclipped from the aircraft’s propeller, undercarriage and fin. One of the mechanics gave me a cheerful wave, which I took to mean all was clear. After a short wait, the plane was pulled out by the club tractor and turned around. The wheels were chocked.
I climbed into the cockpit, trying to act as if I had done it a hundred times before, although in fact I had only ever been inside this Spitfire twice: once when I began the outward flight, then again after arrival, when I had nowhere to stay and was forced to go through the night in the cockpit. Now I eased a leg over the edge of the cockpit with the canopy pushed wide open, lowered my backside on to the hard seat, pushed my legs around the joystick, found the rudders, wriggled and shifted to get into the right position.
Was it the plane that was going to be proved, or was it me? I was aware that what I was doing was attracting attention. All the ground crew had followed the Spitfire out of the hangar, and were now watching to see me start up. When I craned my neck and peered up towards the control tower I could see that a handful of people were standing at the window, looking down at me. I began the cockpit check, trying to appear calm.
The sequence was the familiar one – all pre-flight checks are similar, and I had memorized the Spitfire variations the previous year. Undercarriage: locked down, confirmed by the green light. Flaps: up. Lamps: up. Fuel cock levers: both on. (I had to search quickly for the second fuel cock.) Throttle: a finger-width open. Next to that, the mixture switch: rich. This cockpit check was starting to feel natural, habitual. Airscrew control: back. Radiator shutter: open. All OK. Next was the priming pump, on the starboard side. I tipped my head out of the cockpit on both sides, making sure no one was standing by the propeller, switched on the ignition, pulled the priming pump handle, pushed the starter.
The prop turned, the engine fired. I held in the starter button until the engine was running smoothly, then screwed down the priming pump.
My hands were shaking with relief. While the engine warmed up, I looked at all the instruments, checked they
were working and zeroed. No one had changed the seat position, so my legs naturally reached down to the rudder pedals.
Now that the engine was running my nervousness was cured. I ran through the normal warm-up procedure. Brake pressure correct. Canopy locked open. Throttle opened on weak mixture, propeller pitch working OK. Throttle back, select rich mixture, throttle to maximum boost. Magnetos checked. All working. All ready.
I spoke to the control tower and was cleared for take-off. I waved a hand through the open cockpit and two of the mechanics scrambled forward and pulled the chocks away.
My Spitfire began to move forward. I eased the throttle open, and the plane taxied at normal speed.
When a Spitfire was on the ground it was always at a nose-up attitude because of the low tail-wheel, which meant there was no forward visibility, and because of the low wings there was only a restricted sight-line at the sides. When visiting this airfield before I made a point of learning what I could of the landing strip by walking up and down alongside. It was a grass airfield but the grass was kept short and there were few bumps or sudden inclines that could throw the plane into the air before it had gained enough airspeed.
I checked the wind direction once again, then taxied the plane out to the strip. As soon I was in position, the final check: elevator one click down from neutral, rudder full starboard to trim for takeoff, mixture rich, propeller pitch fine, fuel on, flaps up, radiator shutter open.
I opened the throttle and the Merlin engine ran smoothly up to full power. The plane accelerated forward.
Moments later I was flying. The ground fell away, trees and fields at an angle below, white clouds above, the fabulous roar of the Merlin, the rush of air through the open canopy. I closed the canopy.
28
I flew the Spitfire carefully in a long circuit of the field. I was high enough to be able to catch sight of the ocean far away to the south, and even gain a glimpse of part of the great central desert, not so far away but beginning beyond a range of hills to the west. I was not up there to look at scenery – I took the plane through a sequence of basic flight tests: a climb, a turn, a dive, an incipient stall. I raised and lowered the undercarriage and monitored the reading of each of the instruments as I changed speed, direction and height. I looked at the instruments as if they were old friends: the artificial horizon, the altimeter, the air speed indicator, the fuel gauges.
Everything was working normally on the superb aircraft. As I realized what this day might hold for me I was briefly almost giddy with excitement. I radioed my intentions to the tower, was given permission to land and had the approach bearing confirmed, then I headed down towards the airstrip. As I passed over the field towards the turn-in point I could not resist testing the potential of the engine. I opened the throttle, felt a brief kick of acceleration. The countryside of this part of Prachous was passing swiftly below, a blur of green and brown – all I wanted now was to be done with the island, to be in the air, heading home.
I landed, waited as the staff recorded the necessary details of my flight, and while I went across to the control office they drove forward the fuel bowser and started to fill the tanks.
I filed my flight plan, which was a decoy to my real intentions: I drafted an extended flight along the coast, up to Beathurn, then briefly out across the neutral sea – a knowing concession to the law, as to continue up the coast from Beathurn would take me into the zone around the officially non-existent place called Adjacent. This route then made a return across the coast further north, a flight across part of the desert, down to the southern beaches, and a high-altitude dash across the sea before curving back for the last leg of the return flight to the airfield.
Although it is dangerous and illegal to file a false flight plan, I needed to justify the full load of fuel I was taking. I would never be given permission for what I really intended. The flight plan was calmly accepted and recorded. I was authorized for take-off.
I went to my car, collected my personal belongings and crammed them down into the spare spaces inside the narrow cockpit and behind my seat. The sun was climbing high, the heat beating down on my back as I stood on the Spitfire’s wing and leaned into the aircraft. My hands were sweating, my heart was racing. With an effort I stayed outwardly calm. I shook hands with the crew on the ground, waved towards the tower, then at last climbed down into the small cockpit, my elbows pressing against the sides of the fuselage. I ran through the cockpit check again and taxied down to the end of the runway. I left the canopy partly open. I wanted to feel the rush of the air, hear the sublime roaring noise of the Merlin engine. How many times again would I enjoy the unique experience of flying this plane?
A minute later I was in the air, the engine racing, the slipstream beating against my head through the open canopy, the dome of the sky above, the slipping green of the land below. I climbed quickly. I turned the Spitfire towards the north and east, my first departure from the flight plan I had filed. Already the airstrip was a long way behind me.
I was flying at the same altitude as the cloud base. Great white cumuli were billowing up on the thermals from the rapidly warming land below. I closed the canopy, adjusted the pitch of the propeller, selected weak mixture, held the speed at an indicated two hundred knots. I was in the loveliest aircraft ever built. I had become part of it, joined to it, flown by it. I felt the relentless thrust of the engine, its roar now a steady drone because I was cruising. There was hardly any vibration inside the supremely trimmed machine. I skirted close to a white cloud, dived deliberately into the next, felt the kick of the internal turbulence, emerged into the blue, still climbing steadily. I soared past the other clouds, wanting to leave all trace of the land beneath me. With the canopy securely closed I switched on the air pressurization. I stared bewitched at the open sky around me, the land far below, a distant glimpse of the ultramarine sea and a clutch of islands, white-fringed.
29
I reached the height of about six thousand feet, which allowed a good view of the ground but was also above the rising clouds. I trimmed the plane for the best range at this altitude: engine speed of 1,750 r.p.m., weak mixture, coarse pitch, which gave me an indicated airspeed of about 160 knots. It was going to be a long flight, but I needed to conserve fuel – the distance the plane could cover mattered more to me than how long it might take. I was following a heading of 35 degrees by dead reckoning, a clumsy and often unreliable kind of navigation forced on me by the inferior maps that were the only ones I could find in Beathurn. The lack of maps was a constant problem on Prachous. If I had wished to find picnic grounds, beaches where there was safe swimming, or historic buildings where I could admire cultural artefacts, then the mapping of Prachous was first-class. But for any serious navigation, by car as I had discovered many times, or by air as I was now experiencing, technically reliable charts or maps simply did not exist, or at least were unavailable on the open market.
I watched the ground as well as I could, seeking the rough navigational landmarks I had identified. I had noted them during my many car journeys across the island, in preparation for this flight without maps: certain lakes, rivers, an estuary, mountains, a conglomeration of tall buildings. The Spitfire’s compass aided me in maintaining a steady course, while the known distance to the part of the coast I wanted was soon eaten up by the speed of the aircraft.
As I scanned the ground ahead of me I saw the coast coming into sight: that brilliant blue streaked with the white of Prachous’s troubled waves. The sun was now much higher, casting a golden halation across the distant deeps. While I was living in the town I had searched the hinterland of Beathurn for markers, and I picked out two headlands to the south. These indicated a particular group of offshore islets, and contained a bay with an almost geometrically precise half-moon curve. From this I would of course be able to pick out Beathurn itself, whose overall shape and layout I had measured and mapped for myself.
Not long after I had located the coast and was flying offshore, parallel to the bea
ches, I saw one of the headlands and knew at once where I was. I corrected my course marginally and headed swiftly along the coast. I came to the sprawl of Beathurn itself. The air was so clear in the morning light that almost as soon as I spotted the town I was able to distinguish local landmarks: the central park, the estuary where the port was built, the area where my house had been, even the Il-Palazz theatre.
Now that I was certain where I was I headed directly towards the mountain range to the north. When I lived in Beathurn these mountains had seemed from street level to present a solid barrier, a termination of the town’s territory, but from the height I was flying the same peaks appeared insignificant, passing beneath the Spitfire with at least a thousand feet to spare. I could see the full extent of the range – the first slopes were far inland, at the edge of the desert. The peaks closer to the sea were higher and more rugged.
I flew across them, glimpsing the large houses and estates on the lower slopes, the extensive system of cable-cars that ascended to the heights. The Spitfire was buffeted by strong updraughts from the windward slopes. The plane stabilized itself, almost as if it had a machine intelligence that relished coping with the irregularities of the sky and the climate.
Once past the mountains I was looking as far ahead as I could, anxious for my first glimpse of the closed zone containing the shanty town called Adjacent. What I was seeking was another estuary, much wider and more complex than the one that ran beside Beathurn, with several distributaries comprising a small but intricate delta. Alongside this, on the northern bank, would be the area of reedland I had seen on the old maps.
I eased the plane lower. I was passing over an area of farmland, with small fields marked out by hedges or stone walls. Ahead was a river plain. As I approached I could see the shape of the delta, a wide arrangement of sandbanks and channels flowing out into the shallow sea. I slowed the Spitfire to just over a hundred knots, which was above stalling speed with the aircraft so full of fuel, but without much margin of safety. I did not like the way the Spitfire handled at such a low speed, but I wanted to be able to take a good look at whatever there was on the ground.