The Language of Bees - Laurie R. King [168]
In a few miles, a dark steeple rose up in the distance: the cathedral in the centre of Kirkwall, on whose altar chemically liquefied blood had been splashed on the July full moon. Javitz began to examine the passing fields, in an expectant manner I had seen before. Soon, on the outskirts of the town, a length of pasture beckoned. He aimed at it, but it seemed to me he was high—too high, I started to exclaim, then realised that he was making a deliberate pass over it. It was as well he did: Three shaggy cattle grazed in the intended landing strip, solid as a dry-stone wall. As we roared forty feet away from the adjoining stone house, a small boy came running out. Javitz raised the nose and wrestled the 'plane back in a wide circle; when we aimed again at the field, the boy was driving the cows through a gap in a wall.
We hit the ground, rose up, then settled down into a landing as smooth as could be had on uneven terrain. Javitz ran the plane into a wide place at the end of the field, made a wide circle, and shut down the motor.
With quivering fingertips, I uncovered my watch: a quarter past two on Friday, 29 August.
The day before the sun would darken in the north.
“Captain Javitz,” I said, my voice loud in the echoing silence, “I am immensely grateful and in your considerable debt. But I hope to God I never have to fly with you again.”
He laughed, with more than a touch of manly hysteria in his voice.
And only then—because experience had taught me that some things are best done without permitting discussion—did I tell him what I wanted to do.
“This machine will attract a great deal of attention, I should imagine?”
“It's sure to.”
“Our story is, you are offering joy-rides, and I took you up on one out of Wick. You must stay with the machine, talk to people about joy-riding, maybe even offer to take one or two up with you when the wind drops. Can you do that?”
“What about you?”
“I shall slip away, as I could not if you were with me.”
“You can't go alone.”
“Yes, I can.”
“I'm not going to let you go by yourself,” he insisted.
I sighed: Sometimes I think I married the world's only sensible male. Anticipating this, I had given my pilot the barest details of why I was here. “Captain Javitz, please don't flex your chivalrous muscles at me. I assure you, I can do what needs to be done. I will go now, while you distract these people. I will come back for you tonight. Shall we meet here?”
That last was an outright lie: I had no intention of bringing him any further into danger. He, on the other hand, had no reason to think a young woman might prefer to face an enemy on her own. And the first curious residents were beginning to gather—constable and local newsman would not be far behind. Grudgingly, he agreed.
We climbed out, and I prepared to chatter like a brainless maniac about the thrill of flying, the speed and noise, the loops and deadfalls, how it was worth every ha'penny. But there was a slight hitch in the plans: It appeared that Cash Javitz was not a stranger here.
I heard him call a cheerful greeting—not to the boy, but to a buxom, red-cheeked woman who came out of the kitchen door behind us.
“Hello, sweetheart,” he boomed, nearly knocking me over in surprise.
“Captain Javitz! I might have known it was you, dropping out of the mist and frightening the cows.” What she said was more like, Ca'n Yavitz, Ah mait've knawn it war thee, drawpin' fra' the muggry an' fleggin' tha caws; however, such dialect is as tiresome to write as it is to decipher. Still, the sound of it was a delight, a lilt more like a Scandinavian tongue than anything I'd heard in Britain, and impossible to duplicate on the page without musical notations.
“I knew you didn't believe me, that I was a fly-boy, so I thought I'd drop in and prove it.”
“What, after five years you just drop in?”
“I was pining, couldn't keep away from you any longer.”
“Don't let my husband hear you,” she warned playfully.
“Plenty to go around,” he replied, and she crowed in delight. “Brigid Ross, meet