"Justin Stanchfield - Gypsy Wings" - читать интересную книгу автора (Stanchfield Justin)

Gypsy Wings
Justin Stanchfield

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“Is there a Valhalla for heroes who failed, or do they simply pass from reality to
reality, forever running from things they didn’t do?

I’ll admit it, I’m addicted to the sky, the joy of seeing the world slip away
beneath a set of wings more intoxicating than moonshine. This story grew out of my
love of flight, and a fascination with the old legends of pilots who took off, never to
return.”
THE SKY GROWLED. Jerry Mackie felt it before he actually heard the odd, popping rumble, felt it deep in his guts the
way he could sense a storm long before the first thunder broke. Faint, but growing louder by the heartbeat, the sound
spread across the drowsy pasture. Beside him, his brother Wes, younger by three years but nearly as tall, stiffened,
then began to thrash as if he was drowning.

“Ghosts coming,” the boy blurted in his strange, flat voice. He shook his head madly from side to side.

“Wes, stop it.” Jerry grabbed him by the arms and tried to shake him out of the fit, but Wes pulled away and
jabbed a finger at the cloud-spotted sky. Jerry glanced upward.

“Wow.”

Garish wooden birds slid overhead, at least a dozen of them, and skimmed the cottonwoods that lined the
pasture. Jerry watched, amazed as the biplanes rocked on the breeze, flames belching behind their whirring props. In all
his fourteen years he had never seen an aeroplane, never in fact talked to anyone who had, so to see an entire flight
buzz past was almost magical. The machines lumbered across the pale, midday sky, lifted over the low ridge to the east,
then as one, banked into a slow turn back toward him. One, a sleek craft with blue and red hearts painted on its coal
black fuselage, did a slow roll before it lowered its tail and clipped the tall grass. The others touched down beside it,
some bouncing, some settling to ground as deft as ravens. The black machine shut down with a cough of blue smoke.
A stocky man in a long, oil-streaked coat jumped to the ground.

“Hey, kid? What town is this?”

“Town?” Jerry blushed as he realized how stupid he must sound. The nearest town was three miles away and
across the river, but must have seemed a hop, skip and jump to the airmen. He pointed toward the distant church spire,
just visible over the waving treetops. “That’s Elk Creek.”

“Yeah?” The pilot swept his leather cap off and grinned. He had curly brown hair that looked as if it hadn’t
seen a comb in months and a lopsided grin, toothy as a mongrel dog. “Elk Creek got a telephone?”

“Yes, sir.” Jerry nodded, then added quickly, “but it don’t work.”

He had all but forgotten about Wes. Now the boy staggered backwards, throwing his arms in wild circles. “Go
away! All of you! Go away!” The boy picked up a rock and hurled it at the nearest aeroplane, then sprinted away. A
second pilot, tall and lanky, wearing a heavy canvas coat that hung nearly to his knees, stepped out of a bright red
machine with green wings. He tipped his head toward Wes as the boy vanished behind a clump of chokecherry