Sparrow One

Every night at midnight, the purple clouds came out to dance with the blushing sky. He had seen yellow clouds that shone like flickering torches. How many times had he caught crimson clouds that smoldered and popped? Or blue clouds that brought a terrible chill? But never, in all seventy-two long years of his life, had he ever snatched a purple cloud.

He hurried down the quiet hall of his home, most of his weight bared by the crooked cane at his right. It was nearly midnight, he didn’t have much time. Recklessly the old man threw open the door to his grandson’s bedroom.

“Up! Up!” He said, excitement ringing in his voice.

Most twelve year olds would be furious to be awoken in such a boisterous manner. Many would bury their heads into their pillows with a groan. Most would sit up terrified. Not, Sikorsky Schmidt. The boy’s chestnut hair whipped over his face as he sprung out of bed, already halfway dressed.

“Tonight?” Sikorsky asked, hope shimmering in his eyes. Not a sign of dreariness on his face, the boy clearly never went to sleep at all.

“Tonight!” the old mad declared with determination. Sikorsky pumped his fist three times in the air, then scrambled to get his boots on as quickly as he could.

“How’s the wind, pop?” Sikorsky asked his grandfather as he darted out of his room and into the hall.

“Better than it was last night, but not great,” the old man groaned. “Nineteen miles per hour, coming up from the south east.” They trotted down the stairs and into the living room. A woman sat in a large recliner, the glow of the television washed over her, revealing deep wrinkles around her eyes.

“Good answer! Good answer!” Someone cried from inside the television.

“That was a crap answer,” she snickered to herself—enjoying yet another rerun of the Family Feud as she did every night.

Finally, Sikorsky and his grandfather slowed their pace. They shuffled behind the distracted woman, clearly attempting to avoid detection.

They were nearly in the kitchen when the old woman croaked, “Gordon J. Schmidt, where in hell do you think you are taking that boy?” The recliner snapped forward violently as she repositioned herself to peer at them. The tawny cat in her lap jolted awake from the sudden movement.

“Oh, Marge,” the old man began, sounding exasperated.

“Don’t you dare, ‘Oh, Marge’, me!” She snarled. “He’s twelve years old!”

“And the best darn Catcher I’ve seen in a long time,” the old man stomped his foot. The boy perked up a little, a cheeky grin spreading across his face.

“That’s what you said about the boy’s mom.”

There was a terrible silence and a ping of pain across all three of their faces.

“I’ll be careful, gran,” Sikorsky said confidently, finally breaking the silence. “I promise.”

“We need that cloud, Marge,” the old man said flatly. “The department has been hounding us for this sample, and we both know I’m not fast enough to get it. I haven’t hit my quota in a month because of these cursed purples. We’ve never seen purple before. This could be something big.”

She rose from her chair stiffly, pulling her cat tightly to her chest. She turned off the television before throwing the remote roughly on the coffee table. “I’m going to bed. And if my grandson isn’t safe and warm in his bed when I wake up in the morning, I’m gonna stuff you in that cursed lamp myself.”

“I know you will, sweetie,” the old man nodded his understanding. ”Come on, boyo. It’s nearly midnight.”

They raced out the back door from the kitchen and hurried across the lawn to the barn. The moon hung above them silver and bright. The evening air slid over them crisp and nearly silent, except the wind that tossed their hair. With an effort, Sikorsky helped his grandfather pry the barn door open.

Sikorsky bounced on his toes as he entered his favorite place in the whole world. The smell of dust, oil and worked leather filled their nostrils. His grandfather forced the heavy light switch to its upright position. There was a clap, silence, a second clap, then the room burst into light.

Floor to ceiling, on the right side of the barn, sat long wooden shelves, thick and warped. Glass bottles, vials and cylinders of every shape and size crowded each shelf. All of them labeled by hand with thin brown parchment describing what it contained and when it was jarred. The largest mason jars held lighting that darted, flicked and spread across the glass like roots of light. The more bulbous containers held swirling clouds ranging in hue from ivory white to venomous green. The skinny and tall vials held raindrops that continuously dripped up towards the ceiling instead of down towards the ground.

In the center of the barn, half covered by torn canvas, sat a nineteen-sixty nine cherry red Mustang that the old man swore he would fix up. It sat like a rock since the day he traded a rose pink nimbus for it.

On the left wall hung rusted anemometers that could hardly spin. Frayed and weathered wind socks that had seen too many storms, a barometer the size of a ship's wheel and any other means of measuring the weather a person could imagine. All these items were displayed chaotically in a circular shape across the wooden wall, at their center, a huge faded poster of the Sikorsky JR2S Excalibur—a four engined monster of a plane.

“Go on then, bud, get suited up,” the old man gestured to his grandson, he went and snatched a walkie-talkie from the wall. Then, he revealed a heavy bronze key from his belt. He fitted it to the matching padlock that hung from an oak box bolted to the wall. The lock clicked open easily.

Positioned just in front of the instruments stood a rickety old table covered with yellow file folders packed to the gills, ancient star charts, and the bust of a manikin. A pilot's helmet with hanging ear flaps and silver goggles crowned its head. A leather aviator’s jacket, lined at the neck with white fur, wrapped snugly around the bust. The golden wings of a Master Aviator glistened proudly below the collar bone. A dark patch with white letters on the left breast of the coat read; ACCU—American Cloud Catching Union, obviously.

After removing the hidden object from the lock box, the old man limped over to his grandson. Gordon crouched down in front of his grandson with an audible groan, his old hips aching in protest. He helped Sikorsky slide his arms into the aviator jacket, two sizes too big for the boy.

“It’s a clear night. Visibility should be high,” Gordon said seriously. “But, listen, Sikorsky. This purple is different from anything I’ve ever seen. It’s quick as rain. It pumps down into a cumulus one moment, then shoots up into a cirrus the next. I’m far too slow nowadays to get anywhere near it. It’s like it knows I’m coming.”

Sikorsky, hanging on his grandfather’s every word, nods just after securing the helmet to his head. The flaps at the side flopped down over his ears. He repositioned them to ensure the hidden earpiece and receptor were snug against the side of his face.

Gordon peered back towards the barn door, then in a small, reluctant voice said, “Your gran doesn’t know this,” he sighed, “but we need this one. I haven’t been bringing in clouds like I ought to be. I’m just too old and—”

“I’ll get it, pop,” Sikorsky said matter-of-factly.

Gordon couldn’t help but grin brightly beneath his white mustache. “I know you will, boyo.” He pulled his grandson into a quick hug. “Fast as wind,” he whispered to the boy.

“Slick as rain,” Sikorsky recited as his grandfather stood tall above him.

Then together they both said, “Mean as thunder.”

After a long, shaking sigh, Gordon announced in his most regal voice, “First Gale Rookie Aviator Sikorsky Schmidt, ready for pre-flight inspection?”

“Ready, sir!” The boy snapped into a salute the moment he finished sliding his fingers in his thick brown gloves.

“Coms?”

Sikorsky pushed the button at the side of his ear flap, “This is Sparrow One. Big Vulture, copy?”

Gordon’s walkie-talkie at his shoulder croaked out the words through static. “Sparrow One, this is Big Vulture, I read you loud and clear.”

“Safety gear, Sparrow One. Goggles?”

“Check!” Sikorsky brought the large, owl-like goggles over his eyes.

“Flares?”

“Check!”

“Flight compass?”

“Check!” Sikorsky turned his palm upwards, revealing a gold compass strapped to the inside of his wrist like a watch.

“Stratus Lantern?”

“Check!” Sikorsky carefully picked up the lantern his grandfather had so lovingly removed from the lock box. A small iron and ancient lantern with a hoop handle. No oil, no candles. The Stratus Lantern was not for lighting the way—it was for snatching the storm.

“Pre-flight inspection complete,” Gordon said formally. Then, in a much softer voice, the old man said, “Let’s get you in the air, Sparrow One.”