The Boy Who Could Fly

By Jean Blasiar

The trees on the hillside above St. Michael's were in full blossom as young Tim Sanders, age nine, rode his bike to Alton with an important letter from his mom to his Aunt Fran. Tim had stayed with his aunt long enough to have a glass of milk and several of her homemade ginger snaps. Two more of the warm cookies were in Tim's pocket as he headed the bike down the steep grade through the meadowland back to St. Michael's.

Aunt Fran had warned Tim not to dawdle. "You're late as it is, Mister Timothy Sanders, and your mother will be needing your help with the bazaar. Don't dally going back down like you did coming here. Whatever took you so long from Alton?"

"The flowers," young Tim replied. "The little white flowers. They smell so sweet."

"That's the jasmine along the road that you smell."

"I thought it was in the trees."

"It's the jasmine. Now get on with you. I never saw a lad so interested in flowers. You're your mother's youngun, all right."

It was those same white blossoms and that lovely jasmine aroma that distracted Tim again on his way down the hill. If he hadn't been taken with the flowers, he would have seen the large boulder in the path which he had managed to avoid on his way up the hill earlier.

Before Tim had a chance to swerve or jump off his bike, he hit the boulder with a terrible jolt, propelling him through the air and onto the hard ground. The front wheel of the bike lay twisted over the boy. After several unconscious minutes, he opened his eyes.

The sun was high in the sky when Tim finally remembered where he was and where he was headed before hitting the boulder in the road and being thrown off his bike. Now the dazed boy shoved the bike off his legs and stood up on wobbly legs, his head pounding from the fall.

At the bottom of the steep grade loomed the town of St. Michael's straight as the crow flies. But the bike path was a winding course, miles longer than the straight line as he saw it now.

Tim carried the bike to the grass, out of the path leading down the hill. From the top of the hill he could see St. Michael's church, the church spire a clear shot from where he stood. If only he were somehow able to lift his feet off the ground, he thought, spread his arms and float down the hill like a leaf wafting in the warm wind, like the white blossoms caught up in the sweet smelling breeze, he could make St. Michael's in time for the bazaar, but to walk it would take two hours in the hot sun, if he made it at all with his pounding head.

The boy closed his eyes and concentrated on lifting off from the ground, slowly pushing himself up, his hands and arms lifting, lifting, his body weightless, rising, gently sailing, soaring up over the trees, the white blossoms below him now, his body heading down, slowly, effortlessly down to the church below. And when Tim opened his eyes, that's exactly where he was. He looked back at the hill and relived the sensation of floating, soaring over the tree tops, the breeze wafting over his arms like the wings of a plane, cutting the air, moving the air, gently, gently, then his feet and legs descending slowly until he touched the ground and began walking, arriving in town with the other fairgoers to St. Michael's.

"Your mum's looking for you, Tim," Adrian Bell called over her shoulder as she ran to her family's car in the parking lot. Apparently, Tim thought, Adrain and those around her did not realize that he had just flown down the hill, landed on his feet and was now walking among them.

The sun was scorching hot, the churchyard filled with holiday tourists when Tim arrived at the booth where his mother volunteered every year. The smells of cotton candy, caramel apples, hot dogs and pretzels dipped in frosting overpowered the sweet aroma of the jasmine once strong in the boy's nostrils.

Mrs. Sanders was working the cake booth, busily setting out cakes for the winners. Tim stood back, waiting for a chance to interrupt her. He stood in line in the hot sun until the wheel stopped spinning. No one landed on number three, the winning number on the wheel, and Mrs. Sanders began immediately to sell tickets for the next spin.

Tim edged over to the front. "Mum…" he whispered.

"Timothy! How did you get here so fast, lad?"

"I flew, mum," Tim said proudly.

"You certainly did. Well, they want you over at the fish tank. Here's some coins for your lunch. Don't dawdle now. And don't be going off with those Reilly twins. You're here to work. Go on with you. Try to stay out of the hot sun."