Toby Olson - Seaview

Allen saw the little metallic glint and the movement in the small, trussed-up figure. Then the rush of air came, and the spear descended. The Chair opened his extended fists to fend it off. The force of the hit turned him back, and Allen saw the surprise in his face as the spear stuck quivering in his thigh. The Chair looked down at it, then shook his leg tentatively as if to free it. And then he backed up, limping, toward his cart; his hands were fists again, and he was shaking them and yelling at the flyer.

Costa came up from under the cart and threw his bag and body into the rear carrier as the Chair slid awkwardly into the driver’s seat and hit the pedal. The cart turned, throwing Costa halfway out, and headed down the fairway. As it picked up speed, the spear began to wobble in the Chair’s thigh, and he slowed down, meandering, to avoid bumps. Costa was bouncing in the carrier, but he held tight to the back of the passenger seat. They reached the dog leg in what seemed a long time, headed around it, and were out of sight.

Allen got up in reflex to follow the cart’s going, but then he saw the glider, the one with the rifle in it, coming down in the fairway about fifty yards from them. It was only ten feet from the ground, and he saw the flyer’s leather legs kick free of the rigging and the man hang down from his shoulders and waist, his legs dangling and dancing, his feet getting ready to hit. His hands held his weapon, but it was caught in the trussing and the straps on his sleeves, and he was jerking and moving it to get it free. Allen reached to his golf bag on the back of the cart and grabbed a club head and pulled up and out, sliding the club free. He looked around, saw Melinda’s figure crouched, and behind her the flagstick and his white Golden Ram sitting on the green near it. He looked back and saw the man’s feet hit and stumble, and the tip of the right wing came down and scraped the ground. He was struggling to stand, jerking at the rifle, and he looked to be trying at the same time to get at the safety buckle that would release him from his wings.

Allen turned and ran toward the flag. He could feel that the pitch of the club head in his hand made it a four-iron. He threw the club head out and away from him as he moved, spinning the club and catching it by its grip. Approaching the ball, he had a brief, sudden urge to hood the face of the club all the way down, to make the club a putter, knock the eagle in, and finish the hole. When he got to the ball, he stopped and turned quickly into a hitting stance. He sighted down the fairway at the landed glider. The man now had his footing, and his weapon was loose in his right hand. Allen saw him reach for the safety harness, his left hand and arm across his belly. Then he threw his left arm out and away from him, and the straps of the harness fell loose. The left arm and hand came back to the rifle as the man squatted slightly, bringing the weapon to his shoulder. Allen could see the bulge of the silencer at the barrel tip as it came around. Behind the grounded flyer, the wings stood up, full of air. They began to lift slowly, rising up and tipping forward over him like some large protective umbrella.

Allen saw the drops of rain. They were gathering on the sides of his hands, along his right thumb, and a few glistened on the shaft. His hands were in his grip and well in front of the ball, the face of the four-iron hooded slightly. He looked up once and saw the red flash at the end of the barrel. Then he looked down at the ball and focused on the Go letters and the space between them and the face of the club. He saw the spatter of red drops at the base of the shaft and felt the bite in his left forearm.

Then the club shaft was rising back and up, his left fist tightening. He forced himself to stay down on the ball, to keep his left arm rigid, to cock only at the wrist. At the top of his backswing, he put all of his concentration in his left shoulder, imagining it to be a joint in a piece of heavy machinery. When the club came down to the ball, he tried hard to literally snap and break his tendons and ligaments loose from their insertion in bone, to break his wrist with the force.

Before the club hit, he had a stab of guilt at what he was about to do to the green; he wondered if it would scream in outrage. The power in the swing carried him sideways, almost off his feet, and when the shaft came over, righting him again, it arched in its whip around his neck and hit him sharply in the right shoulder. His head came up. He saw the clean, odd slice of divot he had cut move out and up, and then he saw the man jackknife under the wings, the rifle fly up and out as the Ram hit him in the stomach. There was a sharp echoing crack down the fairway. The man was driven back five feet or more. His hands met his toes as he sat up in the air. And then he fell and the wings came down over him, and Allen could see his body lurch and squirm, hitting against his canvas covering. Then Allen felt something brush against his cheek and turned and faced the open palm. He looked up and recoiled. The man hung directly above him. He was under the wings and close to the red sticks and green wires that did not touch each other. He could hear the flyer’s deep breathing, the creaking in the rigging, and he could smell the leather. He dropped down and dived and rolled. The scalloped edge of the wing caught his arm, and he jerked it loose and rolled again and came up and ran to Melinda.

He could see above her and the cart six dark gliders coming over the hill’s crest. He lifted her up quickly and put her in the seat, then ran around and jumped into the driver’s side, hitting the gas pedal as he entered. The cart lurched forward, bounced as it crossed the wing tip, dug grooves in the apron of the occupied green, got beyond it, and started into the rough and up the hill toward the stone tower. The hill steepened quickly, and halfway up the cart slowed and coughed and quit. Allen jerked the wheel to the left, bringing the cart sideways, and it began to tilt. He rolled toward Melinda, trying to use their combined weights to keep it from falling, but it continued slowly up. He grabbed her around the waist, squeezing her in the crook of his left arm. As he rolled with her, he reached back with his hand and got a hold on the mouth of his golf bag. They left the cart and fell into the rough. The bag ripped loose and the cart turned over on its left side and bounced and slid downhill. Allen threw himself over Melinda, pressing her in the brush. He had his golf bag in his left fist, and they were hidden in thick growth.

He stayed down over her for a long time. He kept his face pressed in the side of her neck; his cheek was pricked by pine needles, and the shallow tear in his forearm hurt him a little. Once he looked up, wondering about the six gliders, and saw them give it up. He caught them when they were very high, near the level with what he guessed was the hill’s crest. There was a strong breeze there, forcing the gliders back. They turned, dipped, and angled for position, but none was able to negotiate the crest. One by one, they peeled off, bending away from the Air Station and toward the sea.

As his eyes came down from the sky, they rested on the stone tower. It was a good seventy-five yards up the hill from where they were. Still, it seemed the thing to do, and he brought his face back down to Melinda’s and told her what he thought. She nodded sharply in agreement. He pulled his golf bag up beside him and slowly rose to a crouch. He checked the sky again and found it empty. He checked the hills across the fairway, looking down it and up to the hill over which the first glider had come. Then he looked to the green where the downed glider lay. It was still. He could not see the place where the flyer with the weapon had been struck by the Ram, but he could hear nothing from that direction. He looked back behind the green into the brush in the direction of the sea. The boy was there, hung in the pines, almost graceful, silent and still. And then he saw the body slowly falling in, the pines closing over it, and Chip was gone from sight.