painted rainbow, and one so black that your eyes skid off it like glass, and many many more, too many to take in with one single glance, so that all you get is an impression of lightness and brightness and color.
You are so taken up with gazing that you do not hear the creak of the step or the tired sigh or feel the cool of a shadow falling across your back.
“Oh,” says a voice. You turn, seized up with dread. The tall gray man before you takes a step back in surprise. “Oh,” he says again, at a loss for something better. It is hard to tell who is more surprised. You stand and stare openmouthed at each other for a long and silly time. Then the gray man frowns and says,
“But what are you doing in my caravan?”
At any other time you would have wilted with embarrassment, but the shock of discovery has made you defiant.
“What are you doing on my pier?”
The gray man gapes. A look of puzzlement crosses his face.
“I’m sorry, I was unaware that the pier belonged to anyone. It seemed to me just to be a good windy place well away from all the people where I could fly my kites in peace.”
And because he has not laughed at you like any other adult would, you decide to trade this kiteman trespass for trespass.
“I don’t actually own the Cannery, nobody does, but it’s my special place. But because you think it’s special too, you can fly your kites there anytime.”
“Thank you,” the kiteman says graciously.
“I came in here to look at your kites,” you continue. “I saw them through the back door and came on in, because if you don’t want people to go into your caravan, you shouldn’t leave your back door open.”
“True,” the kiteman says. “Can’t deny that. Well, having seen them, then, what do you think of my kites? Aren’t they grand?”
What you think is that it is silly for a grown man to be playing with kites, but you keep your opinion to yourself.
“Aye, grand,” you agree, but it is as if this gray kiteman can see right inside you, because he smiles and says,
“Ah, you’re only saying that to keep a stranger happy. I can see that you know little of their true charms and mysteries. But you have the look of a boy with too much holiday time heavy on his hands; perhaps I might instruct you a little in the appreciation of kites? How would that sound? In return for the use of your Cannery?”
“Sounds fine, mister.”
“Call me Christian,” the kiteman says.
“Fraser MacHenry,” you reply, remembering your manners.
“Glad to make your acquaintance, Fraser,” the kiteman says, and he goes and picks up a great kite almost as gray as himself. On the kite is a painted cherub blowing a gale from apple-round cheeks and at its lowest point an ocean wave is breaking.
“What would you want with such a dull thing on a bright afternoon like this?” you ask.
“Because I think it’s time we had a squall,” Christian says, and, tucking the stormkite under his arm, off he sets; past the skewbald pony, who gives you a terrible look, up the dunes and across the tussocky grass to Cannery Pier where the three kites strain on the wind. A thought strikes you.
“Who’s flying the kites if you’re not there?” you ask, ready to feel betrayed.
“Oh, never worry, Fraser, I have this little black box I adapted from a ship’s sheet monitor I picked up in the market in Corpus Christi. Clever little thing, but cost me a fair penny, as clever little things always do; it senses the shifting of the kites on the breeze and winds or releases line accordingly.”
At the end of the pier lie the kiteman’s few possessions: a crumpled coat of blue pilot cloth lying across a tall wooden staff with silver caps and the little black box clamped to an iron bollard. The kiteman sits himself down. He motions for you to join him and you come and sit down beside him and dangle your legs beside his over the glinting water. He nods at his kites.
“Well, which one would you like a go at?”
You
You are so taken up with gazing that you do not hear the creak of the step or the tired sigh or feel the cool of a shadow falling across your back.
“Oh,” says a voice. You turn, seized up with dread. The tall gray man before you takes a step back in surprise. “Oh,” he says again, at a loss for something better. It is hard to tell who is more surprised. You stand and stare openmouthed at each other for a long and silly time. Then the gray man frowns and says,
“But what are you doing in my caravan?”
At any other time you would have wilted with embarrassment, but the shock of discovery has made you defiant.
“What are you doing on my pier?”
The gray man gapes. A look of puzzlement crosses his face.
“I’m sorry, I was unaware that the pier belonged to anyone. It seemed to me just to be a good windy place well away from all the people where I could fly my kites in peace.”
And because he has not laughed at you like any other adult would, you decide to trade this kiteman trespass for trespass.
“I don’t actually own the Cannery, nobody does, but it’s my special place. But because you think it’s special too, you can fly your kites there anytime.”
“Thank you,” the kiteman says graciously.
“I came in here to look at your kites,” you continue. “I saw them through the back door and came on in, because if you don’t want people to go into your caravan, you shouldn’t leave your back door open.”
“True,” the kiteman says. “Can’t deny that. Well, having seen them, then, what do you think of my kites? Aren’t they grand?”
What you think is that it is silly for a grown man to be playing with kites, but you keep your opinion to yourself.
“Aye, grand,” you agree, but it is as if this gray kiteman can see right inside you, because he smiles and says,
“Ah, you’re only saying that to keep a stranger happy. I can see that you know little of their true charms and mysteries. But you have the look of a boy with too much holiday time heavy on his hands; perhaps I might instruct you a little in the appreciation of kites? How would that sound? In return for the use of your Cannery?”
“Sounds fine, mister.”
“Call me Christian,” the kiteman says.
“Fraser MacHenry,” you reply, remembering your manners.
“Glad to make your acquaintance, Fraser,” the kiteman says, and he goes and picks up a great kite almost as gray as himself. On the kite is a painted cherub blowing a gale from apple-round cheeks and at its lowest point an ocean wave is breaking.
“What would you want with such a dull thing on a bright afternoon like this?” you ask.
“Because I think it’s time we had a squall,” Christian says, and, tucking the stormkite under his arm, off he sets; past the skewbald pony, who gives you a terrible look, up the dunes and across the tussocky grass to Cannery Pier where the three kites strain on the wind. A thought strikes you.
“Who’s flying the kites if you’re not there?” you ask, ready to feel betrayed.
“Oh, never worry, Fraser, I have this little black box I adapted from a ship’s sheet monitor I picked up in the market in Corpus Christi. Clever little thing, but cost me a fair penny, as clever little things always do; it senses the shifting of the kites on the breeze and winds or releases line accordingly.”
At the end of the pier lie the kiteman’s few possessions: a crumpled coat of blue pilot cloth lying across a tall wooden staff with silver caps and the little black box clamped to an iron bollard. The kiteman sits himself down. He motions for you to join him and you come and sit down beside him and dangle your legs beside his over the glinting water. He nods at his kites.
“Well, which one would you like a go at?”
You
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