Read Online A Bolt From the Blue by Diane A. S. Stuckart - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Diane A. S. Stuckart
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assassin. No longer draped in shadows, they bent quite benignly over the garden, gaps in their branches allowing a cheerful dappling of sunlight to brighten the ground beneath. Nearby was the familiar pair of turf seats, cleverly formed from packed dirt and covered by a velvety layer of grass to create a bench where people could take their ease. Spreading palms swayed in all four corners, while a series of informal flower beds made for bright isles of blooms amid the lush green sea of grass.
I paused at the tiny reflecting pool, a low stone trough filled with pink and yellow water lilies into which trickled a steady stream from a hidden pipe. Not far from it in the lawn protruded the flat boulder where a mysterious figure had rested that same dark night that Tommaso and I had stood guard. Now, however, Leonardo had opened his leather sack upon the granite’s smooth surface and was neatly arranging what appeared to be a dozen or so wood dowels as long as my arm.
He gestured me to join him. “Come, Dino; set the craft here while I arrange our test area.”
In a matter of moments, he had fastened the dowels together to form two poles a little taller than he. With my father’s assistance, they settled both into the ground so that they stood half the width of the garden apart from each other. Between them he strung a tight wire. Then, retrieving the model from its wrappings, he tied one end of a long leather cord to that small craft and looped the other end around the wire. The result was that the flying machine dangled at about chest height from the line.
“Come; we shall begin our tests.”
With those words, Leonardo took up another dowel almost as thick as my finger. Using it as a crank, he manipulated the wooden figure atop the model so that its legs moved in a pumping motion, causing the craft’s wings to move up and down. Even that small demonstration left me impressed, so that I was eager to see more.
For the next hour, he and my father took turns with the model. One would run alongside it while cranking away at the wooden man, so that the craft made wobbly progress along its prescribed path; the other would call out observations. While the resulting motion appeared more like that of a startled bat abandoned to the daylight than an eagle’s smooth glide, after a few adjustments the model did undeniably fly!
Of course, they were not content with this performance. Each time the machine moved back and forth along the line, the men continued to tweak its angles and pitch. Sometimes, the Master would pause to grab up his notebook and make a note or a sketch. For my part, I stood to one side, handing either man the tools they needed and generally staying out of the way. But, watching their progress, my certainty increased that a functional, man-sized version of the craft was possible.
Half of the morning had passed before the garden—again and perhaps inexorably—became a scene of a new tragedy. The disturbance began outside its crumbling walls, however. So intent were all of us on our work that it took a moment for the cries to register upon our ears.
“Master, Master!” a frantic voice was calling, the words faint yet growing louder with every repetition.
My heart gave a lurch at the sound. Surely it must be one of my fellow apprentices crying for help, I told myself, or the shout would have been a summons for Signor Leonardo, instead.
Leonardo dropped his notebook and, my father and I on his heels, rushed to the barred gate. He unfastened the catch with haste and threw it open. No one stood outside it, however. Frantically, we abandoned that tack and scanned the garden, looking for the source of that frightened sound.
“There!” I cried, my attention caught by a movement atop the wall.
It was at the very spot where Tommaso and I had scaled the stone barrier to hide within the olive trees’ twisted branches. The climb had been slow and more than a bit painful, the rough stones scraping bare flesh and
I paused at the tiny reflecting pool, a low stone trough filled with pink and yellow water lilies into which trickled a steady stream from a hidden pipe. Not far from it in the lawn protruded the flat boulder where a mysterious figure had rested that same dark night that Tommaso and I had stood guard. Now, however, Leonardo had opened his leather sack upon the granite’s smooth surface and was neatly arranging what appeared to be a dozen or so wood dowels as long as my arm.
He gestured me to join him. “Come, Dino; set the craft here while I arrange our test area.”
In a matter of moments, he had fastened the dowels together to form two poles a little taller than he. With my father’s assistance, they settled both into the ground so that they stood half the width of the garden apart from each other. Between them he strung a tight wire. Then, retrieving the model from its wrappings, he tied one end of a long leather cord to that small craft and looped the other end around the wire. The result was that the flying machine dangled at about chest height from the line.
“Come; we shall begin our tests.”
With those words, Leonardo took up another dowel almost as thick as my finger. Using it as a crank, he manipulated the wooden figure atop the model so that its legs moved in a pumping motion, causing the craft’s wings to move up and down. Even that small demonstration left me impressed, so that I was eager to see more.
For the next hour, he and my father took turns with the model. One would run alongside it while cranking away at the wooden man, so that the craft made wobbly progress along its prescribed path; the other would call out observations. While the resulting motion appeared more like that of a startled bat abandoned to the daylight than an eagle’s smooth glide, after a few adjustments the model did undeniably fly!
Of course, they were not content with this performance. Each time the machine moved back and forth along the line, the men continued to tweak its angles and pitch. Sometimes, the Master would pause to grab up his notebook and make a note or a sketch. For my part, I stood to one side, handing either man the tools they needed and generally staying out of the way. But, watching their progress, my certainty increased that a functional, man-sized version of the craft was possible.
Half of the morning had passed before the garden—again and perhaps inexorably—became a scene of a new tragedy. The disturbance began outside its crumbling walls, however. So intent were all of us on our work that it took a moment for the cries to register upon our ears.
“Master, Master!” a frantic voice was calling, the words faint yet growing louder with every repetition.
My heart gave a lurch at the sound. Surely it must be one of my fellow apprentices crying for help, I told myself, or the shout would have been a summons for Signor Leonardo, instead.
Leonardo dropped his notebook and, my father and I on his heels, rushed to the barred gate. He unfastened the catch with haste and threw it open. No one stood outside it, however. Frantically, we abandoned that tack and scanned the garden, looking for the source of that frightened sound.
“There!” I cried, my attention caught by a movement atop the wall.
It was at the very spot where Tommaso and I had scaled the stone barrier to hide within the olive trees’ twisted branches. The climb had been slow and more than a bit painful, the rough stones scraping bare flesh and
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