Free The Turtle Warrior by Mary Relindes Ellis Page B

and he raised his eyes to see that the white wings spanned an enormous length from side to side. His bare legs swung back and forth, and he was held this time by his shoulders. The air was heavy and moist, so moist that he felt slippery like a fish and as helpless as one, clutched in the talons of an eagle. But his shoulders felt no pain, just roped and secure. He dropped his head against his chest and looked below.
    They were passing over the Morriseau farm with its two silos and big duck pond. The eighty-acre field behind their house was filled with little clouds of dust, each one exploding like spores from the head of a smashed puffball mushroom. Poof! Poof! Poof! Little black specks were chaotically running through the field, and every time a speck hit one of the clouds, it burst into flames, becoming a ball of fire. He could hear shouting and the deep pop and zing of rifles going off. The air became thick and choking with dust. Bill’s small chest caved in, and his lips quivered. He coughed hard, and his hands jerked up toward his mouth.
    Then the wings came together again, enclosing his small body in a cocoon of feathers. When they opened, he saw that the field was clear and a cloud of cowbirds dipped and circled beneath them. His chest cleared, and he no longer felt like crying. He heard the high, clear notes of whistling and looked down. There was someone standing in the middle of the grassy field, waving and waving. The wings caught an upcurrent of air, and they glided toward the far end of the field. They cruised its wide square edge before coming back around.
    Bill cried out. It was James, wearing a dull green helmet that had “Elvis” painted in black letters on the side and balancing a rifle across his shoulders. He dropped the rifle and waved with both hands.
    “Hey, Billy! Hey, Billy Baboon!”
    “Jaaaamess! Jaaamess!” Bill shouted, but the wind took his voice and it disappeared in the rush of air between the feathers above him.
    “Over there!” his brother shouted, and picked up his rifle and pointed with it toward their own field. A single black speck was running over the brown plowed earth. The wings caught the cue and flapped harder. They closed the distance in a few seconds and swept lower.
    Bill screamed joyfully. “Shit house! You better run! You’re up shit creek now!”
    Merton was desperately running and tripping over the deep furrows in the field. Bill pulled his legs up to his chest and curled his toes. They dropped altitude and cruised right up behind Merton. Bill lowered his legs and hooked his feet under Merton’s arms. With legs suddenly as strong as steel cable, he lifted the squirming tonnage of a boy into the air twenty feet before dropping him.
    “Don’t hurt the little Hun! Jus’ scare ’im!” his brother shouted.
    Merton hit the soft plowed earth with a thump and a groan. But he got up and began running again, his head swiveling to pinpoint Bill’s location. Bill whooped. Merton, his eyes rolling wildly, ran harder. Again they came off a large current of air to level themselves behind the nemesis of Bill’s days. This time Bill did not pick him up but, with legs wound tight as springs against his chest, aimed and kicked, knocking Merton between the shoulder blades. Merton went down so hard he bit into the overturned field and ate dirt. He stayed down, breathing hard, grinding and spitting dirt. But he was not hurt, just scared. Bill stared at the sprawled-out boy as the wings lifted him back into the sky. Then, as quickly as the desire for revenge had come, it had gone, and they left the Lucas’ field with its cleaved and unplanted earth and returned to his brother, standing almost perfectly camouflaged with his green jungle uniform in the middle of their neighbor’s lush grassy field.
    James had taken off his helmet and stood smiling broadly up at Bill. The wings, despite their massive size, lowered Bill until the bottoms of his feet touched his brother’s shaved and