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Mr. Wicker's Window Version 2

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<h2>CHAPTER 29</h2> <div class="figleft"><ANTIMG src="images/image_c.jpg" alt="C" width-obs="81" height-obs="75" /></div> hris put down his spyglass and the two boys, hidden on the piny knoll, watched the procession out of sight. "I'm supposed to take something from her," Chris said with his eyes sparkling, "but I know now what I'm going to give her back in return. I feel sort of sorry for that girl," he added thoughtfully. "What're we going to do, Chris?" Amos wanted to know. "What-all comes next, and have we some more of those dates?" Chris passed him some. "We have to wait until dusk anyway," he said, his voice abstracted, "and by the look of the light that won't be long." The piny knoll was steep and rocky and only two adventurous boys would ever have reached the top. Too precipitous on which to build houses, it rose far above the surrounding roofs of Peking. The green and scarlet of curved tiles spread under the boys' sight like a curling sea. Before them, stretched out in long angular wings to right and left, swept the palace walls. Listening and watching, the boys gathered by the silver trumpet notes that the Princess and her retinue had re-entered the palace walls by another gate. Thinking about it Chris mused: I wonder if that first palanquin held someone she's to marry? It could be. And if so, this may be her last appearance to the people of the city before leaving for a new domain. She would probably take the Jewel Tree with her. I can't imagine a woman leaving a thing like that behind. He paused, remembering. She held a spray of jeweled flowers in her hand, maybe off the Tree, and I never saw anything like it. Well, can't do a thing until dusk comes down. The evening was not long in coming, and Chris, who had been sitting cross-legged under the little crooked pines, looked across with great concern to where Amos lay on his back, dozing. I can't take him along, Chris thought, and I can't leave him alone, if I should get caught. What in the world do I do? Then, remembering the bag of magic "odds and ends," Chris put his hand inside it and drew out a small folded piece of silk and netting. On it a piece of paper, like a label, showed Mr. Wicker's fine script. Chris looked closer and read: "Strike 3." "Strike 3." Chris held the folded object in his hand, and then glanced at Amos. Amos slept. Going softly out of the pine grove to a narrow ledge of rock where he was out of sight, Chris put the object down and said: "Strike three." Nothing happened. The object remained an object. Then, suddenly understanding, Chris struck the stone ledge three times. At once the folded object began to unfold itself and to puff itself up like a little mushroom. In a matter of seconds, Chris could see what it was becoming, and before he could wink ten times, a balloon with a basket hanging from it, quite big enough for two boys, hung swaying in the air. Chris examined it with pleasure and then struck the ground three times again. The balloon gently collapsed and refolded itself, basket and all, into its original neat shape. <div class="figcenter"> <ANTIMG src="images/image_219.jpg" width-obs="600" height-obs="422" alt="Illustration" /></div> "Now, if that isn't handy!" Chris exclaimed. Then, looking at the light fading from the sky, he picked up the folded balloon and went to waken Amos. "Amos!" he said, shaking his friend's shoulder, "it's time for me to go. Are you awake?" Amos blinked a few times and said he thought so. "Then listen to me," Chris told him earnestly, "and listen hard!" Amos sat up more alertly. "I have a handy thing here which is for you to use only—do you hear? only if I don't come back." Amos's eyes began to get brighter and he swallowed. "Don't come back? Law! Chris, don't you leave me in this heathen country where nobody understands good English!" he cried. "Why, unless I'd steal, and Miss Becky told me never to do that—but unless I did, how could I eat in these foreign parts?" Chris sat back on his haunches. "Well, I don't know how you could, myself. But don't you cross any bridges until you come to them. Look." He held out the folded balloon. "If I'm not back by two sunups from now—I may have to hide all during tomorrow—if I'm not back by then, put this package out beyond the trees in the clearing. That's very important. You've got that?" "I haven't got anything but a few old dried-up fruits," Amos pouted. "That's all." "No, Amos!" Chris gave him another rousing shake. "I mean, do you understand that much?" Amos brightened at once and broke into a broad grin. "Oh yes, of course. Why didn't you say so in the first place? You said, put the package out in the clear. Where's that, on this tippy-top of a hill?" Amos asked, looking about. "The ledge near where we climbed up. That's big enough," Chris reminded him. "Oh yes," Amos said, looking wise. "Well," Chris took up again, "you put the package on the ledge and strike the ground three times—" "Like this?" And before Chris could stop him, Amos had struck the earth beside him twice before Chris seized his hand in mid-air. "Amos! Not now! I said only if you have to get away. If someone comes after you, or if I don't come back. Promise me not to strike three at all except for either of those two reasons." Amos raised his right hand looking very solemn. "I promise," he said. "Only," he added, looking bewildered and already somewhat forlorn, "what happens when I do hit three times?" "Why, it's a mag—it's a special kind of balloon," Chris began, after correcting what had almost been a bad slip. "A what?" Amos stuck his head forward, trying hard to understand. "A balloon. Oh." Chris stopped and stared at Amos. Perhaps balloons had not yet been invented. How very confusing! "It's something that will hold you up in the air. There's a basket for you to sit in—" "No sir!" Amos cried, wagging his head decisively from side to side. "Me in the air over the roofs and high up? No indeedy, Chris! Not me." Chris was becoming exasperated. He had important things to do. "Look, Amos. If you have to use it, you'll be in such a bad fix that being up in the air will seem like the very best thing that could happen. Stop running. I'll be back—I hope." He turned away toward the ledge and clearing. "And now, wish me luck, and stay here and wait for me. Don't follow me now, or watch, or I might fail." Amos jumped up from the pine-covered ground. "Oh, Chris!" he cried, his voice sharp with distress, "can't I go? You might get hurt. There's no telling what could happen if you're all alone!" Chris was tempted to take his friend with him but someone must get the news back to the Mirabelle if he should fail. If this happened, he did not doubt but that the magic balloon would carry Amos safely to the ship. "No," he said after a long moment. "Better not. But I'd sure like to, Amos. Now don't lose that package. It's your escape. Wish me luck." Amos clasped his hand, and then, rushing off, dashed back again. "Here, Chris. Our fruits. Better not to eat strange food in this foreigny place. Good luck," he added. Chris stuffed the dried fruit in his pocket. Amos turned back into the darkening pine knoll, and Chris pushed his way out to the narrow steep ledge, hanging high above the roofs of Peking. Chris uncoiled the magic rope from around his waist, and standing as far out on the rock ledge as he dared, in order to have the greatest possible freedom of movement, he attempted for the first time to draw an eagle in the air with the rope. It was a complicated, fast maneuver. The rope twisted and whipped in the air, and the result was a molted-looking, droop-tailed buzzard. Its wings were not wide enough, its back very insecure to look at. In short, Chris knew, it was a total failure. He tried again, racing against the oncoming darkness, and this time he succeeded, although, when he pulled it close and straddled the body of the magic bird, his heart was in his throat that it might unfurl itself, become just a rope, and hurl him to his death far below. But this second eagle seemed secure enough. Chris pressed his hands on the wings spread out on either side, with a jolt they flapped, and the boy's strange conveyance moved somewhat unsteadily through the air. Chris, frightened but resolute, found that by touching the head of the bird in the direction he wanted to go, the magic eagle would turn, and after a few moments to test out his new method of travel, Chris coasted over the gaily tiled roofs as he hunted for something. <div class="figcenter"> <ANTIMG src="images/image_223.jpg" width-obs="600" height-obs="356" alt="Illustration" /></div> Peking at that time had many palaces. Wealthy Chinese and people of title and family owned beautiful houses set in terraced gardens surrounded by parks and ancient trees. Somewhere, Chris had heard of this and remembered it, and now in the dusk that was nearly night, the eagle carried him silently over the city as he looked for what he wanted to find. At last the very fragrance, rising up toward him on the night air, guided him to a large palace set in gardens. Pools of water reflected the first stars among their lilypads. The shaded walks and lawns were deserted at that hour. Swooping down and flying back and forth to make sure he would not be seen, Chris grounded the eagle, and holding fast to one wing tip in case he should have to take off in a hurry, he walked up and down, examining and searching. <hr style="width: 65%;" /> <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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