He should have known
better than to take off that day.
And the sunsets. Oh, the sunsets. As the sun leans down in the western sky
beyond the mountain, the last gorgeous golden rays radiated each day are taken
by the clouds and enhanced. Silver linings shine out behind cumulus, fingers of
light stretch through between cirrus, every slightest hint of colour is
reflected and refracted to produce a rainbow of not just the usual orange and
red and gold, but tangerine and cerise and mauve and peach, yes, peach - into the indigo evening
sky.
‘Take offs are
optional, only landings are compulsory’, he often joked, not listening to his
own advice.
Clouds. So innocuous. Almost nothing at all. Just vapour.
Untouchable, unobtainable. You can walk right through them. So harmless, so
innocent, so stunningly beautiful.
‘Metservice says it’s
clearing,’ he justified to himself, as he packed his headset.
Swan feathers and tutus, light and airy in the blue sky,
innocently hid the angry grey turbulence which brewed just beyond. As if a
frustrated artist had wielded her paintbrush haphazardly, dabbing and streaking
the sky with violence, the storm fermented far to the west, clandestinely challenging
the blue sky.
‘It’s just a quick
trip to the coast. I’ll be back by 5. Saves hours of driving.’ He kissed me
goodbye, same as any morning.
In winter, the clouds cannot hold themselves up and fall
silently to the ground. Some days it is porridge thick; other days, so light
that a halo of sun glows through, silhouetting the trees in a hazy shroud. People
grumble, complaining about the fog, cursing the coveting blanket that surrounds
us. But it is these mornings I choose to go out, walking amongst the mist along
the country roads, claiming the fog as my own in the same way the Scottish
claim the ‘mist in the Glen’. I embrace it, as it embraces me.
He rang the airfield
where he planned to land. ‘It’s clear. Just a little bit of drizzle,’ they
said. His instincts should have told him to be wary. Drizzle does not fall out
of blue sky.
I am fascinated how I cannot see further than a hundred
metres around myself, but as I draw closer to something, it gradually becomes
visible until it is part of my landscape. Meanwhile, behind me, what I have
passed by is enshrouded in mist. A metaphor for life - the future stands before
us, we know not what it holds until we
get close enough to it, while behind us, our past is soon lost in the fading
mists of memory.
He had been flying for
years. Flying was in his genes, in his blood.
He was a cautious man, a good pilot. Who knows what else was on his
mind, that influenced his decision making that day? And what, now, did it
matter, anyway?
I loved the way the clouds could change my perspective of
the mountain, daily. Once I took photos of it at the same time each day for a
month. Some days the mountain lay long and languid as a sleeping goddess on the
landscape, picture book fluffy clouds dotted around like in a child’s painting.
Other days the mountain had completely disappeared, covered in cloud as if a
blanket had been hung before it. If you did not know the area, you would never
believe there was a whole mountain range just there, just beyond the green
grass and kahikatea trees in the foreground. But my favourite scene was when the
clouds would intersperse themselves between the peaks and valleys of the
mountain, changing the two dimensional scene to a series of foothills and furrows,
closer crags and more distant ridges. Suddenly the mountain range became
visible in three indomitable dimensions, with the depth and perspective an
artist would have appreciated.
Who would choose the
job of a weather forecaster? How can they ever know what might blow in from the
coast, island country that we are. It changes so quickly. Most days it doesn’t
matter at all, if you get caught in an unexpected shower or happen to wear a
layer too many on a warmer than expected day. But some days, it can be life
changing.
This day, the sun peeked through the uncertain clouds, some
high, some low, some racing through the sky on a fervent wind, while above
lurked the greyer, more solid clouds, in no hurry to go anywhere. Knees damp on
the grass, my mind drifts with them as I dig, turn, work the soil, planting
bulbs. There is something elemental about the smell of freshly turned earth.
Perhaps it is our soul responding to the reminder that therein lies the origin
of our body - dust to dust, ashes to ashes.
The small aircraft had
set out below the bank of high cloud, flying uneventfully across the plains.
Tufts of light fairy-cloud kept him company as he watched the road twist and
turn below. There is such a feeling of freedom, defying gravity and several
other laws of physics, soaring above the intricacies of the everyday, bringing
all his senses alive.
The lifelessly dry, flaky-skinned bulbs are placed in the
damp soil, hope buried for the spring, when the tulips and daffodils would fill
the air with their carefree scent, at the end of what would be a bleak, lonely
winter.
The flat land soon
gave way to foothills, before he entered the valley with walls of green native bush
on either side. Pockets of blue above the distant range hinted at promise and
possibility. As he flew further into the valley, the land rose up to meet him
from below and the hillsides grew closer. Gradually, the clouds drew in from
above, the range ahead became grey. The small plane circled lower and lower, searching
for a clear patch between the clouds.
The first rain fell fat and cold, not just droplets but
spoonfuls of water, in riverlets down my neck, sending me inside. Dirt still
clumped beneath my nails, I put the kettle on. Steam formed clouds of its own,
trickling down the glass as it hit the inside of the window, matching those on
the outside pane. Quietly, I sat
drinking tea, reading the paper, having a perfectly pleasant morning, oblivious
to what was just out of sight, just beyond the fog that was yet to clear.
There were no clear
patches, anymore. White, fluffy vapour had crept in from all sides, called to
the valley floor as the temperature had dropped. The plane circled frantically,
like a fly in a trap. Up or down were the only choices.
The water that fell freely, innocently, outside, had sent me
indoors to shelter. Yet once inside, I sought its sustenance. Water. One could
float on it or drown in it. An element, both vital and lethal, changing form
and potency at whim, it seemed.
'Down’ were trees,
rocks, rivers. ‘Up’ were clouds, storm, rain, and eventually blue sky. While
the earth may be overcast, always, above the cloud, was sunshine and infinite
blue sky. It was the best of a bad choice.
I lit the fire. It was not particularly cold, but a fire
helped dry out the air, clear the dampness that had surrounded the house as the
clouds closed in. The wood was solid and fragrant, a hint of the pine tree it once
was, still clinging to it. The match struck immediately. I watched the flames
lick and flicker at the paper and tinder dry pinecones. Fire- beautiful,
innocent, innocuous - when contained. Deadly, if let loose. Vital, yet lethal. I
shut the door to the fire box firmly.
‘Up’ were also the
valley walls. Trees, rocks, streams tumbling into cascading waterfalls to the
valley floor far below. Visual Flight
Rulebook and all training cast aside, ‘up’ he went, the embracing, encompassing
clouds forbidding him from seeing the future, until it was upon him. And in
that instant, there was nothing he could do to change it.
Five o’clock came and went. ‘No news is good news,’ I told
myself, trying not to watch the clock. And I would be proven right. There would
be no news that was good news, that night.
There was no body to recover.
The plane had burst into flames, a scorch mark on the hillside his
epitaph. He had always said he wanted to
be cremated. His body turned to vapour, his DNA intermingling with the
beautiful, turbulent clouds that blew from the west, bringing rain inland.
The young officer had clearly not had experience at this
before. This was a small town, it didn’t happen very often. It was certainly
the first time in his short career. I almost felt sorry for him, wanted to
comfort him in his awkward task. I
already knew, of course. There could be no other possibilities. I had sensed him
in the rain clouds as I breathed in their density.
There would be just a
small article in tomorrow’s paper. Two lines, under the headline ‘Light Plane Crash’. His name, in black ink on white
newsprint.
People drew in, like clouds, around me, encircling me,
enshrouding me, their sympathy a stifling blanket which threatened to suffocate
me. The vaporous clouds had turned to liquid and I was drowning in a sea of
grief, only some of it mine. Why do people bring food, food and more food, when
sadness fills the stomach with its dull ache, allowing nothing else to enter?
I escape from the silent din made by these friendly
strangers in my house and walk out, into the cool refreshing mist that the
evening has brought. The worst of the storm has blown over, and the stars begin
to dare show their faces and between the drifting clouds.
Light. If it were not for the darkness, we would never see
the stars, even though they are always there. Deep within, I know this night
will pass, the morning will shine again tomorrow. There will be clouds, there
will be rain, there will be fire and water and light, but for now, I let the
last of the storm clouds that took him wrap themselves around me, as his arms
would have that night, and I sink into their embrace for
one last time.
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