K. Weiland - Storming

Hitch looked back to Campbell.

Right now, either Hitch handed the pendant over to Campbell and hoped for the best—or he kept the pendant and waited for the worst. Filthy choices both of them, but they were the only ones he had.

Campbell probably would use Schturming to protect the valley. His personal vagaries and corruptions aside, he was a good sheriff in a lot of ways. Maybe it would all work out. Maybe this was the best victory anybody was going to get.

Funny how this had all turned out. Here he was coming home, hoping deep down to make everything right. Instead, he was only making them worse the longer he stayed.

The time had come to go. Simple as that.

He slapped the pendant into Campbell’s hand. “I did hold up my end of the deal, and this time, you better hold up yours. Because this is the last round I’m playing, one way or the other.” He turned, hands in his jacket pockets, and headed back across the prairie to his Jenny.

WALTER SLID DOWN from the back of Papa Byron’s farm truck. Not because he wanted to, but because it was easier than staying there and having everybody pay attention to him. He stared across the field.

Seemed like the whole town had driven out to the pilots’ camp to celebrate. Bonfires spotted the darkness, framing a square floor of wooden planks hammered together for dancing. The town band was pumping out “Rose of Washington Square,” with the drum and the trumpet pretty much drowning all the other instruments. Half a dozen long tables had been set up on the far side of the dance floor, and every lady in sight seemed to be carrying something to set on it.

His stomach growled. He hadn’t eaten anything all day, except for a hunk of cheese he’d taken when he stole out of the house before breakfast. But out of all the punishments he deserved right now, being hungry was the least little bit of it. The pinched feelings inside of him squeezed harder.

He stood next to the automobile, arms slack at his sides. The rest of the family straightened their clothes—with lots of scolding from Mama Nan—and headed toward the party.

Jael, in a sleeveless dress of black lace, looked around and spotted him. She cocked her head to the side, almost frowning. “You are coming?”

He shrugged and stayed put.

She didn’t know what had happened this morning—not any of it. Unless maybe Hitch had told her about Taos getting captured. But she didn’t act like it. She’d been mostly cheery all afternoon.

She didn’t seem all that sad her home had crashed. Maybe she hadn’t been as happy up there as she had been here with them.

When she came home this afternoon, she seemed tired and a bit thoughtful. But then she looked at him and Aurelia and Molly and suddenly smiled her sparkly smile and started laughing.

Little pinched lines still edged her eyes, but her bones must not be hurting her anymore because she twirled Molly all around the girls’ bedroom and hugged Aurelia. “We have won!” she said.

That was something anyway. She deserved to be happy.

The rest of the family went on ahead of him to the party, but Jael walked back to him.

She set her hand on his shoulder. “What is wrong?”

What he’d said to Hitch this morning was the first thing he could remember saying out loud in a long, long time. But he’d been right before: it was easier to keep still.

His cheeks burned, and he shrugged.

“Come to party.” She brushed his hair off his forehead. “It is good thing to celebrate. We have fought, and we have won.”

She had fought. She and Hitch. All he’d done was mess everything up.

He pasted on a smile and darted one look at her to make sure she saw it. Then he slipped out from under her hand and wandered across the field.

All over the place, people laughed and shouted. Practically everybody was here: Deputy Griff, the Berringer brothers, Col. Livingstone in his wheelchair with both legs in casts, and the few pilots that were left. The smell of a roasting beef haunch wafted to him, along with wood smoke and leftover gasoline fumes from the planes.

What good would it do to see Hitch now? Probably Hitch hated him. Probably Hitch wished anybody but Walter was related to him. Walter kept his chin tucked and his eyes down.

He had deserved to be yelled at earlier. He’d tried to be brave, but he should have done like Mama Nan and everybody else wanted him to do. He should have stayed home, done his chores, and let the grown-ups handle it. That’s what had finally captured Schturming after all anyway.

Far beyond the dancing floor, the towering silhouette of the airship flickered in the firelight. Sheriff Campbell’s men had patched up the propeller and floated it out here, mostly so folks could see they really were safe again. Jael had said Sheriff Campbell was going to be personally guarding it all night, until they made sure Zlo didn’t have any plans.

Hands in his pockets, Walter slipped past the crowded food tables—loaded with pies and fried chickens and big bowls of baked beans. His stomach growled again, and he tamped down on the feeling. No food for him tonight. No food and no party. But… maybe it’d be all right to have one look at Schturming up close.

Aunt Aurelia, in her violet party dress, stood next to the table and balanced a greasy roast beef sandwich on her lace-gloved palm.

She caught sight of him and turned all the way around. “Walter! They have pickles!” She kept turning. “Don’t you want any? Where are you going?” She looked from him to Schturming . “Don’t go out there.” Her voice rose. “It’s horrible.”

He walked on.

The pirates were all in jail. The ship was tied to the ground.

Jael was right. The battle was over. So was the adventure.

He left the boundary of the firelight. Darkness stretched out to meet him. With his navy blue party suit, matching socks up to the knees of his short pants, and his black hair, he probably blended right in. Nobody’d be able to see him now anymore than they could hear him speak.

Maybe that was a secret power.

Or maybe it was just dumb. He was a dumb little kid who only opened his mouth when he had bad things to say.

Twenty feet away from Schturming , he stopped.

Lanterns surrounded the ship at intervals, marking the positions of the men guarding it. Sheriff Campbell stood beside the open front doors, talking with one of the guards. He jingled something brass in his hand.

In the dark, the moon gleamed against _Schturming_’s big balloon. She creaked against her tethers. But it was more like groaning than creaking, as if she was alive and sad because they’d caught her and tied her to the ground.

Walter’s stomach turned over. It wasn’t her fault the bad men had stolen her and made her do bad things.

Of course, unlike him, she wasn’t really alive. She couldn’t make her own decisions. She couldn’t try to be a hero. The corners of his mouth turned down, and he bit his lips together. Maybe you couldn’t try to be a hero. You just were, or you weren’t.

He wasn’t, that was plumb clear.

Ever since the bad day, when he’d nearly let Evvy and Annie drown, he’d been on the watch for a way to fix it all, a way to be a hero. And then Hitch Hitchcock—his very own uncle—had come, right out of the sky, and shown him how.

This had been his big chance, all right. But it was plain as plain he never would be any sort of a hero. He’d grow up to be like Papa Byron, only even silenter. He’d stay on the ground and stand back and watch while other people did brave and amazing things. He’d maybe have a farm. But he wouldn’t have a dog.