There's no doubt that a storm is on the way.
by Duncan Cary Palmer
Note: Click here for Part I
The dark clouds are much closer now. Rain is surely moving in. I hear occasional peals of thunder. Margie is bound to get soaked to the skin, but when I say so, the strange little balloonman just ignores me.
I'm worried about my little girl...
Image courtesy of Jonny Lindner and http://pixabay.com
Despite my concerns, he's taking us higher still.
"Didn't you hear me? I need to go back and help my little girl."
Limping over to my side of the basket, he strokes the fur along my flank. I find this strangely calming.
"All in good time, Charlie, all in good time. There is yet a little more you must see."
His limp is so obvious. Overcome by curiosity, I ask "What happened to your foot?"
"Ah, the foot? Once, long ago, a very nasty serpent struck my heel." He looks off into the distance, as though peering far into the past. "But Charlie, that's a story for another time. Right now, you need to pay attention to what's below."
There's no doubt that a storm is on the way.
Photo courtesy of Karsten Würth and http://unsplash.com
As we continue to rise, I strain my gaze to figure out what he's talking about. One by one, surprising new details come into view.
What's this? Our landscape appears to be embedded in... in... a book? Those look like pages way out on the fringe of visibility. The "book" containing my whole world is resting on a wooden table, surrounded by writing paraphernalia.
I can see a fountain pen, an inkwell, and a ream of paper, embedded in a constellation of gum erasers, thumb tacks, post-it notes, and rulers. To one side rests what I once heard called "the writer's friend," a steeming cup of coffee. A few morsels of chocolate provide finishing touches to the scene.
Even as I continue to stare,
a pair of hands reach into the scene from the lower edge of the table.
"The author of your story is still at work, Charlie. As Arnold has told you, he is one of those authors who has come to believe that a happy ending is perhaps the most important part of every story."
The author's hands shuffle the pages here and there, now writing, now erasing, now, sometimes subtly, rearranging the order of events. It is as if he is outside of time and space, shaping our world as he will. What could it all mean?
"Why am I here?" I ask. "Getting into your balloon was the hardest thing I've ever done, and I don't understand that thing you said about Margie being in worse trouble."
"I'll get to that!" replies my balloon pilot. "Rest assured, the author knows you love Margie; he wrote you that way! He has an important part for you to play, if you're willing. You are willing, aren't you?"
"Of course I am!" I reply, almost growling. After all, I am Margie's very best friend. "Take me back!"
The balloonman hesitates. "First, you need to take a closer look at the book. Do you see that the footpath has been worn down over many, many years? Where the path has been heavily traveled, you can just begin to make out some of the text."
Gazing more intently, I begin to see what balloonman is speaking of. Yes, there are words showing through!
"You're looking at something the son of the Great Author of All, once said. He's the one who wrote the Book of Creation. He is also the one who is presently writing your author's own story."
I'm struggling. "But, I can't see all the words - only a few are visible; what does it say?"
"Here is what the Author's son once said:"
"Greater love has no one than this, that someone lay down his life for his friends."
"It's clear to me, Charlie, that you are Margie's best friend. I know that the only reason you got into this basket is because you love her. No matter the cost, you intend to save her from the danger ahead, am I right?"
He has me there... but... "How can I save her? I don't even know what the danger is."
I now notice we've been steadily descending. A flock of birds — Arnold's relatives? — are circling us, escorting us toward the ground. I can no longer see the book, but we are still high above the earth. The world once more looks almost normal, and the rain is getting closer.
Then I spot the cliff.
I see a massive waterfall, plummeting down a huge, vertical rock face, a few hundred feet further along the path Margie is on. Worse yet, the spring rains have seeped into cracks in the granite. A large, weakened chunk of cliff has fallen, and the path now ends in a thousand foot vertical drop. To my horror, Margie, totally unaware, is headed straight for the ledge!
"Hey, get me back down! Please! Right now! Margie needs help; she's in big trouble!"
The Waterfall At Cliff's Edge
Photo courtesy of Cam Adams and http://unsplash.com
I'm champing at the bit, but I can't make this crazy balloon drop any faster. Meanwhile, I can see that Margie is almost at the edge of the cliff.
I know that girl all too well! When she's listening to her tunes, nothing else matters. In those earbuds, she can't hear the waterfall. Sometimes she even closes her eyes while she's dancing.
I can't lose her!
Before the balloon touches the ground, I'm leaping over the edge of the basket. While I've never been slow, today I run so fast that my feet barely seem to touch the ground. The path zigs to the left and zags to the right, but I absolutely have to reach Margie before she runs out of path.
It seems an eternity, but I as I round a bend I at last see her. Just as I feared, her eyes are closed, her arms extended, and she's spinning to her music, singing aloud, gyrating toward the precipice.
I'm left with no choice. Precariously close to the brink myself, running at breakneck speed, I come at Margie from the side, leap into the air, and knock her down. I bounce off her, and nearly skid over the edge. Scrabbling, I manage to recover just in time to see the shock on Margie's face, quickly replaced by a darkly angry cloud.
"Charlie!" she yells. "What is the matter with you? You hurt me, and now my dress is all dirty!" I can tell she's on the verge of tears.
Then she sees the cliff.
Her eyes become twice normal size. "Oh, Charlie. How did you know?" Now she really starts crying. I go up to her and try my best to lick the tears off her cheeks. Margie throws her arms around me. "Oh, Charlie! You're such a good boy. I love you so very, very much. You saved my life!"
We sit there for a few more minutes, just listening to the roar of the waterfall. As we look out over the vast chasm before us, a few large drops of rain splatter around, then on us. Somehow, my earlier fear of Margie getting wet now seems far less important. But then, Margie reaches into her bag, pulls out a red umbrella, and pops it open. Good grief, she was ready for rain all along, and I didn't know it.
"Let's go home, Charlie!" she says. By now, my tail is wagging out of control. They were going to dock it when I was a puppy, but it healed up nicely before they could get me to the vet. Hmmm, I wonder if our author — or maybe the Great Author? — had anything to do with that? I'm glad I still have a tail to wag.
Walking back along the path, we reach the lamppost and something red catches my eye. There at the base of the post is a pair of shiny, new red walking shoes. I trot over for a closer look. Before Margie notices, Arnold — surprisingly, still sitting atop the lamp — informs me that the balloonman has left them, a gift for my girl.
Margie catches up with me. "Charlie, where did these come from?" I use my nose to push them toward her. "Why, they're just my size; could they possibly be meant for me?" I nudge them even closer to her. Setting down her umbrella, Margie takes off her flip-flops, puts them in the bag, and dons her new shoes. "Look at the beautiful hot air balloons on the sides." she says to me.
A lovely new pair of red hiking shoes.
Image courtesy of Ruediger Strohmeyer and http://pixabay.com
As my little Margie picks up her red umbrella and we begin our trek towards home, the skies finally turn loose a real downpour. Somehow, I no longer seem to care.
-FIN-
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