A Fairytale of Flying

My heart beats in time with the dreams of two hundred and seventeen
people, said Imogen, kneeling before the statue of St.
Christopher.
Tell me, said the statue.
I owe them. I owe them all, she whispered. It should have been
me.
Tell me, said the statue.
I remember the sound of it. Like a balloon popping. We were on the
plane, sitting and talking and thinking of the journey's end. The man
in front of me was talking to someone on the telephone, his wife I
think. I can still hear his voice, telling her that he had just taken
off, that he would be home by seven thirty. I was sitting in an aisle
seat drinking a cup of coffee, thinking about nothing that I remember,
waiting for the seatbelt sign to switch off, though everyone else
seemed to be walking around.
Then there was the pop, and the strangest thing happened. I looked to
the front of the plane and I saw a ball of blue light. Bright as a bulb
but just resting in the air, like a balloon on fire. It appeared
through the front of the cabin, where the door to the cockpit is, but
no one else seemed to notice. It travelled slowly down the aisle
bouncing gently, first hitting against a seat, then jumping up from the
floor. The stewardess didn't see it; she just kept on handing out hot
towels. I heard a couple of gasps from people behind me when they saw
it, and as it passed me there was the smell of burning.
I watched the ball as it travelled the length of the plane. It bounced
from side to side and up and down. It flicked off the edges of seats
when it touched them as though it had been stung. But no one panicked.
No one seemed to care except me, and a young girl sitting three seats
behind me who thought it was the best thing in the world. She turned
and told her mother to look, but she wasn't interested. So we two sat
and watched its progress as it made its way to the galley at the back,
bumped into the bulkhead and disappeared, leaving behind it two
startled people and a hole.
A hole. I could see the hole from where I sat: blue sky and clouds
visible through the bulkhead. Someone screamed, I think it was me. Then
another scream, the loud sound of wind flooding into the cabin.
The wings shrieked, the engines whined and we fell. There was nothing
to hear except the plane, screaming as it dived to the ground. My
stomach leapt inside me like an unborn baby kicking at the roof of my
throat. It was all I could do to keep from throwing up. Everything was
in chaos. People were thrown from side to side, trays and drinks and
food and bodies helter-skelter against floor and ceiling. I saw a man
die in those first few seconds. He flew past my seat and hit the window
next to me. I heard a cracking noise, even above the wind, and I knew
that his neck had been broken. His body lay across me like a blanket. I
screamed again, but when I tried to move him I found that I was frozen
in place. It was as though someone had nailed my arms to my chair. I
couldn't move.
Imogen stopped talking for a moment as she knelt before the statue. She
made the sign of the cross, closed her eyes to protect from tears, and
continued.
There was a moment of calm before the end. I remember hearing a voice.
It may have been the captain talking or it may just have been my
imagination but for a minute the sound of the plane falling disappeared
and it seemed that we might suddenly be spared. The wind was just a
whistle outside, gentle as rain. I thought to myself, its alright,
we're going to be alright after all. We were gliding down to
land.
But we didn't. There was a bang. The loudest sound I have ever heard,
like a gunshot but ten times worse, and then the screaming. This time
it wasn't the wind, it was the sound of metal tearing and voices crying
as the plane hit the ground and shuddered hard against it. My seatbelt
dug into my waist as I was thrown forward and the body of the man whose
neck was broken, his poor broken body, was the cushion my face pushed
against as the lights went out and the darkness claimed us all. I can
smell his aftershave now, even feel the fabric of his suit against my
face and the warmth leaving his body. But I never found out his
name.
You loved to fly, said the statue of St. Christopher.
I will never fly again, said Imogen. Never.
Lightning never strikes twice, said the statue.
I should have died with them, she replied. Should have died.
When did it start? The statue asked.
Afterwards. In the hospital. I would wake up in the middle of the night
with the sound of crying in my ears and the smell of flames and
after-shave in my nose. I could hear voices calling to me; hundreds of
voices crying out my name. They were telling me things.
What did they tell you?
They told me about their dreams. The people they loved or who loved
them. The things they had wanted to do. Who they could have been. I
wake up in a sweat with a wave of hunger and hope washing over me. I am
the only one of them left. I feel their needs inside me and I feel
responsible. I am responsible. I should have died with them, but I
didn't. I am still here and the dreams of those two hundred and
seventeen people are with me when I sleep.
What should I do? She asked.
I am the patron of the traveller, said the statue. But when I was alive
there was no flying. My territory is the ground. I have no dominion
over the skies.
Who can help me? Asked Imogen.
But this time the statue was silent.
Imogen left.
When Imogen returned two weeks later the statue of St. Christopher saw
that her eyes were tired. Dark grooves ran around them. Her skin was
paler than it had been and she seemed unsteady as she knelt in front of
him and made the sign of the cross.
My heart beats in time with the dreams of two hundred and seventeen
people, she said.
Tell me, said the statue.
I see them when I am awake now. I stood in the supermarket today and
saw a man shopping with his wife. I remembered their faces from the
plane, sitting two rows in front of me on my right. They were talking
about how much they wanted to start a family. How they wished they had
a son and a daughter. Then they looked at me as I stood there in the
supermarket, and I knew that they would never have their family.
Tell me, said the statue.
And again on the street. I saw a girl playing the violin. It was the
sweetest sound, so I went closer to her and listened. When she had
finished she turned to me and I could see the blood on her face where
she had been thrown from her seat. She told me that she was on her way
to join an orchestra. It was her big break. She had always dreamed of
being a musician, and now that would never be. She was so young.
Tell me, said the statue.
I cannot sleep, said Imogen. I cannot stay awake. I hear them every day
calling to me, calling for their dreams. My heart beats in time with
theirs, with the dreams of two hundred and seventeen people. Tell me,
please, what should I do?
You know what you must do, said the statue.
What? She asked, although she knew.
You must fulfil their dreams. You must show them that their dying
wishes were met.
But how? How will I know what they are?
You must find out, said the statue.
When Imogen returned she had a sparkle in her face and she walked up to
the statue with a confident stride.
Tell me, said the statue.
The first one was easy, said Imogen. One of the passengers was a
farmer. He spent his life growing maize and wheat on the prairie. He
was on the flight to visit an old friend who lived on the coast. He
loved his friend a great deal, had known him since he was a child, but
that wasn't why he was going. What he wanted more than anything was to
see the ocean. Not just a big lake or a sea, he wanted to stand on the
beach and watch the ocean breakers rush in. So I went to the coast last
week, it was a beautiful windy day, and I stood in the breeze looking
at the horizon till the sun set.
And the next? Asked the statue.
Oh, that was easy. It was the girl sitting behind me. She wanted a
lollipop.
Imogen smiled, and then a frown crossed her face.
What is it? Asked the statue.
It is the man, the one whose body protected me.
Did he want a lollipop?
No. He was thinking about his son.
Why?
Because he never told his son that he loved him. He was travelling so
much, always going from here to there, that he never actually sat him
down and said, 'Son, I love you.'
And now you must do it in his place, said the statue.
I do not want to, said Imogen.
The statue was silent. Eventually, Imogen stood up to leave. As she did
so the statue called out to her, What about the girl? The
musician?
Imogen smiled again, I am practising, but my fingers hurt. It will take
some time.
It was a year before Imogen returned. The statue had begun to wonder if
she ever would. The church had been quiet without her.
How was it? Asked the statue.
It was - hard, said Imogen. His son was older than I expected, just
leaving school. He had a hard face and old eyes. I told him that I had
been there, on the plane with his father. I said that I felt a
connection with him, that I wanted to share his loss. He looked at me
as if I was mad. Perhaps I am. But he didn't stop me, just offered me a
drink and sat as I spoke.
I told him about how his father's body had protected me, and about the
strange dreams I had. I told him that his father had only ever worked
for him. That he loved him.
'You're lying,' he said. I tried to tell him no, that I would never do
that, couldn't even if I tried. 'My father would never do that,' he
said, 'never while he was alive, so why now? I don't believe you.' He
thought I was making fun of him.
I told him again, that it was his father's dying thought, that I had
come so far to give it to him. But he flew into a rage and chased me
out of the house.
I am sorry, said the statue. He waited for Imogen's eyes to dry, then
asked, But why did it take so long for you to return?
The girl, said Imogen. I told you it would take some time. I played in
my first concert today.
How was it? Asked the statue.
My fingers hurt every day when I practise, and I am not a true
musician, but I played last night and it felt good.
Good, said the statue.
But I will never play like her, said Imogen sadly. This is hard, too
hard. Tell me, is this the only way?
But again, the statue was silent.
And so Imogen would return each year to tell the statue of St.
Christopher of the dreams she had fulfilled. She would describe to him
the vision she had been given of the dying wish of a victim. Some had a
secret past to reveal, others simply wished to see a familiar face or
hold a partner close. She gave up her own memories, and thought only of
the lives of the people who had died. Each time she returned she was a
little more worn and tired as she knelt in front of the statue. Wisps
of gray hair started to appear on her head, though she was still young.
Time pressed heavily on her shoulders.
Each time she left, the statue of St. Christopher would ask her:
What about your dreams?
And Imogen would reply, what dreams can I have? I should have died with
them.
You loved to fly.
I will never fly again, she would say. Never.
One day Imogen returned. She was unwell. The statue of St. Christopher
saw that her breath was shallow and her head was bowed down as if under
a great weight. She was thin, like an old woman now, wasting away and
slowly turning greyer and greyer as though the colour was being washed
from her skin.
You are tired now, said the statue
Yes, she said. I do not sleep any more.
Why?
Because of the pilot. He is there when I close my eyes now. He is the
only one left, the only one who I cannot help.
What was his wish? Asked the statue.
His wish was mine, Imogen said. That it never happened, that there was
something else that he could have done, that he could protect the
people in his care.
Tell me, Imogen, said the statue. What is common, amongst all these
dreams? What did the people on that plane share?
They dreamed always of the ones they loved. Whatever else they wished
as the world went dark, their dying thought was to protect them, to
keep them safe from harm.
Yes, said the statue.
How can I do that? Asked Imogen.
I am the patron of the traveller, said St Christopher. I protect those
who pray to me.
I don't understand, said Imogen.
You always loved flying, said the statue.
I will never fly again, said Imogen. Never.
And then she understood, and she became terrified.
I cannot, said Imogen. I cannot do this.
You can, said the statue.
I am too scared.
Do not be. Lightning never strikes twice. On this I promise.
But why? She asked.
When I was alive there was no flying, said the statue. My territory is
the ground. I have no power to protect them when they take to the
skies. But you can. You can bring them safety where I cannot. But you
must be there, up there with them, that is where their prayers can
reach you.
I am frightened, she said. So frightened.
I know, said the statue, and as he looked down upon poor Imogen he felt
her fear. She was so tired and had suffered so much. His stone eyes
welled up with moisture and a single tear fell from his marble cheek
and down onto Imogen's outstretched hands.
So Imogen went to the airport and booked a flight; the next flight from
the airport. The destination didn't matter. She held her ticket close
to her chest and kept her hands tight shut to protect St. Christopher's
tear. She was terrified. So terrified that as she walked towards the
steps to the plane her legs caved in underneath her and the attendants
rushed over, asking her if she was alright. Imogen just stared at her,
unable to speak, her arms frozen in terror as they had been on the
plane those long years ago.
Eventually she was able to stand, and with their help she boarded the
plane and took her seat. She kept her eyes shut the whole time as the
plane set off, praying to St. Christopher and holding her hand to
herself. She was nearly sick when they took off; the sudden rush in her
stomach as the plane sped up was too close to her memories, too
painful. Even when they had reached their cruising height and the
captain had told them they could remove their seatbelts, still she sat
with her eyes closed fighting the urge to scream.
Then finally, after her heart had slowed its beating and her body
relaxed, Imogen opened her eyes. She looked out from the window and her
heart soared high, high above the clouds, and the dreams she had held
inside her soul fell away to the ground. Like a dove released from its
cage her spirit flew and she felt lighter than the wind and stronger
too. She looked down on the world and knew that she would never be tied
to it again. She would always be lifted high above it to the place that
she loved best, watching over the travellers in her care. She loved to
fly.