“Cold up there,” suggested the pilot. “We shall need blankets and food. We may have to freeze in and fly out on skis.”
The Hughes family was not stingy. A huge cart-load of supplies was carried to the water’s edge, then ferried to the airplane.
“I stay,” said stout Madam Chicaski. “I stay until you come back. I look after everything.” Mary’s heart warmed to this powerful old woman.
“Goodbye,” she screamed as the motor thundered. “Goodbye, everyone.” A moment later, for the first time in her life, she was rising toward the upper spaces where clouds are made.
The moments that followed will ever remain like the memory of a dream in the girl’s mind. Though the motor roared, they appeared to be standing still in mid-air while a strangely beautiful world glided beneath them. Here a ribbon that was a stream wound on between dark green bands that were fringes of forest, here a tiny lake mirrored the blue sky, there a broad stretch of swamp-land lay brown and drear, while ever before them, seeming to beckon them on—to what, to service or to death?—were the snow-capped mountains.
So an hour passed. Swamps vanished. Jagged rocks appeared. Hemlock and spruce, dark as night, stood out between fields of glistening snow.
And then, with a quick intake of breath, Mary sighted a tiny lake. Half hidden among rocky crags, it seemed the most marvelous part of this dream that was not a dream. And yes—clutching at her breast to still her heart’s wild beating, she shouted to her silent, awe-struck brother:
“That is the place!”
Nor was she wrong. With a sudden thundering swoop that set her head spinning, the powerful ship of the air circled low for a landing.
“Now!” she breathed, and again, “Now!”