Hi Guys.
This is chapters 1-3 of the first draft of my third attempt at this story. I would value your comments and feedback either below or send me an email. I especially hope these first three chapters whet the appetite for you to want to continue reading the full story. Personal email address is PLKite@hotmail.com
Little Kite & the Compass Tree© Brian Maunder 2017
A moment to remember – England 1915
Cresting the small hill, William slowed his running pace to a stop, punched a victorious fist into the air and glanced back down the woodland track in search of his vanquished foe.
His father, Walter, not far behind, rounded the corner of the moist dirt trail, in a partial run; a hasty stagger. Just as excited as his young son to be out and enjoying the warm summer’s day, his pace was hindered by the wooden wheelbarrow he was pushing. The awkward handling of the rickety old thing proved too much as he turned, and it lurched sideways, partially tipping its contents onto the ground.
“Awww… Good on you son! That’s not very fair… racing your Old Man when HE’S the one carrying everything. I should get YOU to push the cart now… with ME in it.”
Walter righted the unstable wheelbarrow and jumped into it with a laugh, squashing down its load of ropes and tools and small timbre off-cuts. The old wooden barrow squeaked under the burden of the new weight when suddenly Walter screamed out with a fierce yelp.
“OOOOUCH!”
He quickly leapt forward and bent over. Pinching his hand onto his backside, he pulled quickly, then brought his hand up in front of his eyes to see what it was that had once been imbedded into the seat of his khaki military pants. A shiny bright nail, sparkled in the sun.
The young father screwed up his face with a look of disgust and disdain, mixed slightly with admiration and merriment, that such a small a thing could apprehend him so soundly.
William gawked at the glistening spike, pursed his lips momentarily, then burst forth a full blast of roaring laughter. His body folded as he put his hands on his knees and billowed riotous yelps of delight and satisfaction. His eyes sparkled, glistening with tears of glee, as he shrieked and blurted in joyful abandon, gazing with sheer joy at the sight of the nail, and his father’s expression.
Walter shifted his stare from the nail to his son with a look of amused resentment, then, to join in with his son’s enjoyment of his sheer stupidity, he bellowed out a hearty howling uncontrollable barrage of cackling yelps. Muttering pretend curses, he rubbed his backside to continue the ridiculous scene, mocking the situation to its absolute fullest.
‘Eeeeeeaaaaw… That HURT” he eventually said, gathering himself together.
William, still fixed with a grin from ear to ear, brushed aside his tears of joy, and stared again at his father to make sure he was not actually seriously injured.
“It’s okay lad… I should have turned the other cheek.”
The comment triggered another round of riotous laughing, which continued and continued, as he placed the offending steel spike with particular carefulness and respectfulness back into the wheelbarrow. With a smile and a laugh his eyes beamed towards his happy son, whilst he lunged the unsteady pushcart forward with gusty joy.
“Come on Will, you scallywag… let’s get going. We have a tree house to build.”
Making the Compass Tree
Plodding on, in his army uniform, thin moustache brushing against his cheek, Walter nodded to indicate the path ahead, whilst not releasing his grip on the barrow.“Lead the way son, the path is getting narrow here… but not too fast.”
“Okay Dad.”
With a leap, William left his father’s side and bounded forwards to run between the lime emerald leaves of a woodland thicket. Dressed in fawn knickerbockers and charcoal tie, white shirt and black braces, he was as typical as any sprightful young 12 year old boy of his time, and had abandoned his plimsolls into the wheelbarrow to run the earth in bare feet. Trimmed russet brown hair, swept out from beneath his plain brown newsboy cap. He had no idea of how deeply his father had been constantly thinking during their whole carefree venture together.
In his madness, William’s father, had method. Always wanting to teach by means of hands-on experience and adventure, the young 35 year old believed in creating good memories to enhance any lesson taught. As a harness maker, Walter deemed it true that people learnt best by guidance, coupled with freedom and fun… and a sprinkle of escapade. His trade had taught him the importance of fitting the harness to the horse, not the horse to the harness. A steed’s natural strengths needs to flourish, but without guidance, that strength had no purpose: it’s the same with children he thought. Their energy and thrive for life, was not to be inhibited; they should be guided in their run.
But he knew the clock was ticking. These moments with his son could quite possibly be their last times together, and he didn’t want to waste them. He was heading soon to France, to fight in the war, and he really didn’t know what to expect there. How long would he be gone? He had no idea. With such uncertainty, he wanted to leave some lasting positive experiences for his boy to remember him by. And he had an idea too. A plan to send him on a mission, a quest to undertake whilst he was away; but he had to prepare a few things first.
Walter trotted forward, pushing the uncooperative wheelbarrow onward to catch up with his son. The trail had finished its squeeze through the thicket, and had become wider, as it wove a winding incline path towards a type of mini-forest of large conifers upon the ridge of a small hill. Jutting out prominently, due to their height and position on the hill, the small group of pines were the objects of their destination, with one tree being specifically, their target.
“Off you go son. I’m right behind you,” said Walter.
William ascended the familiar hill and then disappeared, seemingly into thin air. Walter followed, squeezing himself and the wheelbarrow through a small burrow-like entrance within some shrubbery at the foot of the huge pine.
One of the great advantages of the tree, was, that at its base, a hedge had grown, close to and around its trunk. The undergrowth hid the base of the tree and protected it from the casual glances of people passing by, yet if one pressed through its leafy canopy, they would enter a natural cavern, a spacious room with a ceiling networked with twigs and branches. Small gaps in the condensed foliage of the chamber allowed tiny slithers of sunlight to pierce through and illuminate the area with shimmering affect. The mighty tree’s trunk, with no immediate side boughs for climbing, loomed through the hiding place, like a dark marble pillar.
At a place around to the side, to be concealed as much as possible, Walter took his auger and bit, and drilled a hole into the tree’s trunk and began his task. Using predrilled and prepared offcuts from the wheelbarrow, he fastened a series of thick wooden steps to the trunk to create a type of five-runged ladder up the tree.
“Right!” said Walter, finishing the last step. “That should make the first part of the climb a bit easier. Try is son… and see if you can get to the first branch.”
On previous outings to this tree, Walter had had to boost his son up to the first bough, by clasping his hands together to form a hoist, but Walter wanted Will to be able to climb this tree by himself, so it was important that these steps worked and were secure.
“Okay Dad,” said William, gripping the second step and placing his foot on the first.
The young boy leapt up with a bound and ascended the steps in a type of vertical crawl to grasp the lowest bough of the tree with his hand. He pushed his foot against the highest step and hoisted himself up, not a simple manoeuvre but done without incident. Standing upon the lowest bough, he glanced into the glowing woodland beyond the hedge below him; iridescent hues and dancing shadows dappled from the forest’s canopy as sunlight filtered through. He lowered his gaze towards his father, smiling with the joy of achievement.
“Well done lad,” said Walter smiling. “It is easy enough, or should I put another step there?”
“Probably, one more might help Dad… but you don’t have to… they work a treat as they are.”
“You continue up Will. I’ll make another step, just to make it easier. Do you have the string?”
“Yep.”
“Good. When you get to where your cubby-house needs to be, drop down the line.”
“Okay Dad.”
William continued his climb up the tree. This was probably the first time his father had allowed him to do this by himself. In the past, because the tree was so high, and a fall indeed would prove serious, his dad had always been close by, often right under him as he climbed. But this time, he had been given a mission and he wanted to show his father that he could be relied upon. He stretched himself skywards, moving upwards and onwards until he reached a clearing in the tree, in which a series of boughs fanned across the trunk at almost identical height. It was a place perfect for a horizontal floor to be made.
“I’m here Dad,” cried Will. “I’ll pass the string down now.”
“Okay Will.”
Walter had just completed the extra ladder-rung and had climbed onto the tree’s first bough when he heard his son call. He peered up through the tree and could see Will’s face, peeping out and looking down towards him as he slowly lowered the string line. The twine, weighed down at its lowest point with some metal bolts, slowly descended to the ground. Finally Walter was able to reach it.
“Got it Will. I’ll tie the rope now.”
The plan was to tie the thicker rope onto it so that they could use it to bring up the heavier materials from the wheelbarrow, but Walter saw an opportunity. He took off his leather boot and tied it to the string.
“Okay… All done Will.”
Will started hoisting the string, hand over hand and cried out in exasperation when he saw the boot.
“Dad. What are you doing?”
Will beamed with delight as he heard his father burst out in laughter below. He always loved the way unexpected fun seemed to materialise when his Dad was near.
“O…Oh.. Sorry Will. I got confused. Better lower the string again. I’ll get it right this time.”
William also saw an opportunity, and raised the line, and took the boot before lowering the string back down again. Walter wondered what his son was up to when he retrieved the empty twine, but took the string as planned and tied the rope on, as planned. But once again Walter saw further chance to escalate the shenanigans, took off his cap, and tied that on as well.
“Okay son. Raise the string.”
William lifted the twine again, saw the cap, but not the rope underneath. “Dad.” He cried out. “Can you tie the rope on please.”
“It’s okay lad.. keep going… the rope’s on there, I promise.”
Will decided to trust his dad, even though his father was clearly in a joking mood and anything could happen. He kept hauling in the string and was thankful, and actually amazed, that he hadn’t been tricked again when the items arrived. He untied the rope, and, to prevent it falling, tied it securely onto another branch. Then he took his dad’s cap, scrunched it into a tight bundle and shoved it into his dads boot.
“Dad. Watch out. I’m going to drop your boot and hat down now.”
“Okay. I’m ready.”
The young boy held out his arm, released his grip and let gravity send the items on their way. Accelerating quickly, they dropped quite a distance before bouncing off a branch, deflecting off another, to then finally end up on the extremity of a limb, beyond the reach of anyone.
“Oh no!” boomed Walter joyously. “I’ve lost my boot and cap. The sergeant WON’T be happy. Nope… he will NOT be happy.”
Will laughed a barrage of cackles from the top of the tree. “Come on Dad. You’ll have to throw something at it…. or here… I’ll send down the string.”
For the entire morning, Walter and William, father and son, continued in this way as they made their treehouse. Working together, having fun, climbing up and down the tree and enjoying the challenge.
Using the rope, they lifted the timber offcuts, along with the tools and nails and screws to where the cubby house was to be built. Walter had already prepared most of the timber for the project, with holes drilled through the main planks to allow ropes to be threaded, and predrilled offcuts with screws ready placed in the holes. He liked the idea of the floor being safely and thoroughly secured, so after tying the main beams with ropes to the tree, he also fastened them tight with screws. By the time they had finished, a strong little floor had been created, along with a tiny roof above, that would deflect water should it rain. The overall effect was an area, cosy and comfortable, secure and strong.
They sat in their new nest in the sky, enjoying the view, satisfied with their accomplishment. For William, the morning with his dad had been a thrilling mix of adventure, fun, silliness, responsibility and tasks that when combined, filled him with a sense of capability, confidence and self-assurance. For Walter, the time with his son had filled his heart with joy, as bonds of relationship and trust grew and flourished. It was a moment they could always treasure together.
“Now son. I want to ask you question.” Walter’s voice seemed to ring out from the blue.
“What’s that?” beamed William.
“Do you know where north is from here?”
Will stood up on the timber floor and perused a gaze across the horizon. “Not really… Is it over there?” He pointed to a distant hilltop.
“No… Can you remember which direction the sun rose today?”
Will knew this as he had seen it many times from his house, not far from this tree. “Yes. It’s that way!” William lifted his arm to the horizon.
“Well done. That’s east… just remember the saying … The son rose on East-er morning.”
“Okay dad.”
Walter continued. “Now, which way does the sun set Will?”
William raised him arms to where he knew the sun disappeared every night.
“Spot on lad. Correct. That’s West… Now, keeping your back to this tree, raise both arms. Point one to the East… and the other to West and look forward. What do you see?”
Will followed his father’s instruction, and stood against the tree, arms wide open; stretched out. Lifting his eyes to the distant landscape he gazed forward.
“There’s a steeple, straight ahead Dad.”
“That, my son, is exactly North… Splendid, isn’t it.”
“How do you know for sure Dad?”
“Good question Will. Here, look at this.”
Walter reached into his shirt pocket and retrieved a shiny circular object with a chain attached to it. William thought it to be a pocket-watch.
“It’s for you son. Your Papa gave it to me.” Walter passed the golden item to his boy.
William sat down alongside his father and gazed quietly at the beautiful gift. Etched onto the cover, was the image of a kite, with a tail swirling behind it. The kite’s tail weaved and curled through the words, “Walter Davies” and “Psalm 103”, bringing all the elements of the sketch together, to form a singular beautiful design.
“Thanks Daddy. It’s truly beautiful.” He continued silently studying the cover. “What’s the kite on here Dad?” asked Will curiously.
“Well, many years ago, your Papa and I once made a kite together. It was a special day for us… Are you going to open it Will? Open it son.” Walter smiled with tender eagerness.
William lifted the cover and was surprised. It wasn’t a pocket watch after all.“Awww, that’s fantastic Dad. A compass.”
“Can you see which way the needle’s pointing. What’s it pointing at Will?”
“Yes… it’s pointing… exactly…” William paused to lift the compass in front of his eyes, to sight along the needle’s directional pathway. “It points exactly at that church there… at the steeple.”
“See… that’s North, and I want you to remember that Will. If ever you lose this compass, you can find your bearings from this tree. Can you remember that?”
"Yes Dad. That’s amazing. Thank you so much Dad.” He smiled at his father and stared again at the wonderful gift.
Walter wrestled his son a sideways cuddle. “Will. I have an idea. Do you have your pocket knife?”
“Yes... I put it… hang on…” William, passed the compass back to his father, stood up and looked into a small opening within the trunk of the tree. The natural hole in the tree’s trunk created a little nook, which he used as a small cupboard to store various items. He reached in and took out a small bone-coloured flick-knife, blade retracted. He passed it to his Dad.
Walter unfolded the knife, checked its edge with a slight touch of his finger and then inspected the tree trunk closely, hoping to find a smooth spot. Most of the tree was encased in thick rough bark, so he had to stand up and search higher, but eventually he discovered a smooth patch where the outer bark had chipped off. It was perfect.
Lightly, h e scratched a circle onto the trunk, followed by a cross through the centre of the circle, and arrow shapes at the end of each line of the cross. Retracing the design, over and over, he slowly cut further and further into the trunk of the tree, carving the shape of a compass, deep into its living sapwood.
The top arrow of the compass pointed upwards, towards the sky, whilst the western and eastern arrows pointed to the setting and rising places of the sun. Then he wrote some words.
Upon completion, Walter folded shut the blade, handed the knife back to his son and then contemplated the etching, with a smile of satisfaction.
“There you go Will. All done.”
William gazed up to see what his father had inscribed permanently into the tree
Will – WAltER
±
1915
CoMPAss TREE
Walter hugged his son and savoured the moment. William just smiled. They did not realise this would be their last time together.
Mud and Trenches – France (1916)
Thud! Thud-thud! Thud! A thick black cloud cleared suddenly in front of the armed soldier as he advanced forward, his muddy leather boots pounding their way through the perilous nightmare of No-man’s Land. Storming ahead of his comrades, he was no easy target, as he ran a zigzagging pathway through the killing fields. Bombs blasted madness from beyond, whilst ear-splitting cracks of thunder exploded nearby. Through the rumbling echoes, sharp hissing-fizzes whispered the flight of passing bullets; fireflies of death, seeking to strike.
The soldier, as fast as a leopard in full pursuit, hurled himself forward, to fall behind a raised mound of sludge and into a bombshell crater. Crawling under and through its muddy edge, he inched forward, the whites of his eyes glistening in stark contrast to the dirt and grime of the battlefield. Sighting his target, he launched a grenade. Over barbed wire and slime it flew, to land deep within the stone reinforced nest of an enemy machine-gun outpost. He listened. A brief moment of silence… Sudden distraught shouting… KABOOOOOM. A massive horrific explosion, mightier than that of any single grenade, blasted screams and bodies from the stronghold in shocking deadly carnage. At that precise moment, a wall of men from behind the soldier, roared through the dizzying smoky haze to take possession of the ugly remains. He merged himself with the advancing momentum of his comrades as they gained entry into a horrid trench where fighter met fighter in terrific red brotherhood. A few minutes of mad fury and the assault was over.
The soldier slumped his body motionless against a broken crumbling wall in exhaustion. He should have been filled with the elation of triumph or some sense of the heroic, such were the deeds of his daring stabs into enemy land. But months and months of mud and weariness, mayhem and madness, bombs and blasting and death and damage, had wearied his soul to question any effort or war.
Filled with grief and the repugnant smell of gunpowder and death, he retreated into himself, numbing his senses to the deep growling undertones of bomb blasts resonating through the air, and to the pain he felt growing in his arm. He closed his eyes… and through a fading fog, the faces of his mother and father appeared before him: smiling and radiant under leaves of gold and jade.
“Are you alright mate? Are you alright?” said a seemingly distant voice.
The wounded soldier felt a gentle arm on his shoulder, but barely lifted his eyes. Beautiful faces, resplendent with love, filled his mind, simultaneously consoling and tearing against the tarnished aching walls of his heart.
“It’s okay. We’ve taken their main gunner and they seem to be retreating. You take it easy. I’ll be back”
The voice, of English accent, belonged to a medic, who then grabbed his rifle, adjusted his helmet and hastened away, a crawling run below a rim of broken wall and trench. Stopping occasionally, he gazed over the ridge of stone and mud into the undulating landscape of mounds and craters, watching for any sign of enemy threat. After a short while he returned to the wounded soldier.
“Seems clear enough,” he said. He emptied a canvas bag of its meagre medical supplies onto the ground.
The wounded soldier opened his heavy eyes whilst holding fast to his bloodied arm and forced a hint of a smile. “I think I’m okay. I’m sure there’s plenty more here with worse wounds than me.”
The medic didn’t reply but took the soldiers arm, and after a quick inspection ripped open the soldier’s shirt sleeve and thrust a tourniquet around the top of the arm, before smearing anaesthetic and a thick sticky patch over the bleeding wound.
“It’s not broken but…” he hesitated, then grabbed his water bottle and thrust it at the man.
The soldier took the flask of water.
“I… aaaagh.” Pain seared through his shoulder.
“What is it? What hit me?”
“Take it easy lad. Not a bullet… probably shrapnel.”
ZZZZT… HHHHHZzzzzzzzzzzzt… HHHHHHHSssst.
A few stray shots hissed by.
The Englishman ducked his head, and muttered something.
The two soldiers huddled under the trench wall waiting for a moment in silence. A distant mortar exploded, followed by screams and rifle fire.
The medic grabbed a swath of red bandage, and continued treating the wounded man, washing and trying to dab clean, the surrounding lacerated skin
“Is it bad Sir?” said the soldier still holding his arm.
“It looks nasty … but if it doesn’t get infected you’ll be okay… I’m Walter by the way.”
The soldier studied the English medic as he worked. He seemed older than most of the chaps in the war trenches: so old in fact that he could have almost been the same age as his father back home in Australia. He had a serious but kind expression with a moustache that protruded almost horizontally from his top lip, twisting laterally into ends of fluffy fuzz. Scuffs of mud and dirt, evidence of plenty of action in the war covered his body and uniform, and large red welts bruised over one side of his face.
“Thanks Sir… Walter” said the soldier finally, his manner betraying his physical weariness and fatigue.
Walter continued wrapping the bandage, around and around and around.
“If you don’t mind me saying,’ continued the soldier, “you look like you need some patching up yourself sir,”.
The corners of Walter’s lips raised slightly into a tired but true smile. “They look worse than what they are. I’ll be okay mate, don’t worry… Do you have a name? I need to record the injured as I find them.”
“Yes sir. I’m Gary Wilson… from the Australian 6th division.”
The Medic whisked out a small book, flipped it open, scribbled a few notes and snapped it away again. He flinched slightly, then checked the injury on the side of his face with a light touch.
“Thankyou Gary. Yes. Unfortunately… this war leaves no man unscathed.” As if to add emphasis to Walter’s remark, a piercing scream billowed through the trench. The heated roar of battle had died down somewhat, and now, in the aftermath, muted moans and cries from the wounded had begun to carry through in the silences.
Walter nodded quietly and turned to leave. “I better head off… just need to secure your bandage properly”
He grasped the end of the bandage and then pulled it so that it tore longways. The material separated into two strips which he then used to tie together and fasten down the main bandage. Satisfied with the completion of his task, he tapped Gary on the shoulder to wish him well and say goodbye. As he did so, a ray of sunlight flickered from a bronze pin on his collar, striking sharp glittering sparks into Gary’s vision. The curious design of the pin fascinated the young Australian and he found himself gazing at it whilst the medic bundled the remaining medical supplies into a carry bag.
“Good luck sir,” said Gary. Something about watching the paternal figure leave filled the soldier with sadness.
Walter caught the look in Gary’s young face and suddenly halted; a myriad of memories and thoughts crossed his mind. To Walter, soldiers were not just soldiers. They were a fusion of boy and man, father and child; each one, a world colliding, a crashing together of realms. It’s the reason why he became a medic. They were enigmas of adventure and fun, mayhem and dreams, hopes and aspirations smashing harshly upon the very real shore of human limitations. They overcame nightmares and fears to wage life and youth against war and death, and too often, their eyes reminded him of William, his own son.
“You too… Good luck to you too Lad.” He took the pin from his collar, gazed at it for a brief moment, stepped forward and then twisted it through some of the bandages on Gary’s arm. “Keep that bandage secure son. Don’t let that arm get infected.” He tapped him gently again across his shoulder, winked an encouraging smile and then trudged away to help another soldier.
“Thankyou Sir.”
Gary nodded gratefully then lowered his eyes to view the unique pin. A golden bird, as if flying over a crimson landscape, intertwined within his bandages.
“A dove? Messenger of peace? You’re a long way from home?
