BooksBarbecue
Back Whirlwind Save as PDF
Chapters (95)
  1. Title Page
  2. 1
  3. 2
  4. 3
  5. 4
  6. 5
  7. 6
  8. 7
  9. 8
  10. 9
  11. 10
  12. 11
  13. 12
  14. 13
  15. 14
  16. 15
  17. 16
  18. 17
  19. 18
  20. 19
  21. 20
  22. 21
  23. 22
  24. 23
  25. 24
  26. 25
  27. 26
  28. 27
  29. 28
  30. 29
  31. 30
  32. 31
  33. 32
  34. 33
  35. 34
  36. 35
  37. 36
  38. 37
  39. 38
  40. 39
  41. 40
  42. 41
  43. 42
  44. 43
  45. 44
  46. 45
  47. 46
  48. 47
  49. 48
  50. 49
  51. 50
  52. 51
  53. 52
  54. 53
  55. 54
  56. 55
  57. 56
  58. 57
  59. 58
  60. 59
  61. 60
  62. 61
  63. 62
  64. 63
  65. 64
  66. 65
  67. 66
  68. 67
  69. 68
  70. 69
  71. 70
  72. 71
  73. 72
  74. 73
  75. 74
  76. 75
  77. 76
  78. 77
  79. 78
  80. 79
  81. 80
  82. 81
  83. 82
  84. 83
  85. 84
  86. 85
  87. 86
  88. 87
  89. 88
  90. 89
  91. 90
  92. 91
  93. 92
  94. Also by DAVID KLASS
  95. Copyright Page

Necessity is the mother of invention, Gisco declares impressively. As Archimedes’ dog once said, give me a bone long enough, and I will move the world!

Wasn’t that a lever? And I never heard that Archimedes had a dog.

Bone, lever, whatever . . . Gisco’s ears prick up and he glances down the mountainside.

What is it?

The banditos have returned! I can hear them at the hut, searching for us. Let’s get this thing up, up, and away!

31

31

Gisco grabs one side of the mouth of the balloon in his jaws, and I grab the other side with my hands. We try to stretch it open, but it’s bulky and awkward, and Gisco can only hold his end two feet off the ground.

What’s your plan, Gisco?

I was hoping the wind would gust up this mountain crevice into the balloon and reinflate it.

But the wind isn’t gusting into the balloon, I point out. It’s blowing all around the balloon and blasting me in the face, which might explain why my nose and mouth feel frostbitten, not to mention that it’s also getting darker and there are bandits with submachine guns looking for us …

Kvetch, kvetch, kvetch. Why can’t you look on the bright side? We patched the balloon, didn’t we?

A deflated hot-air balloon is of no use at all—

An earsplitting RAT-TAT-TAT of submachine gun fire rattles the nearby rocks. Gisco, they’ve spotted us!

The dog opens his mouth and spits out his end of the balloon with a resigned shrug. That’s it, then, he says. There’s no way out of this.

Maybe we can escape down the other face of the summit. Come on, Gisco. What about looking on the bright side?

There is no bright side. The other face of the summit is a sheer cliff. We’ve got a deflated balloon and no weaponry to fight back. We’re done for, Jack. Lower Gisco into the mountain grave and roll the boulder over his remains. The dog peers around at the windswept crags. Strange, I always pictured my final resting place as a grassy glen, with willows weeping down while bluebirds sing. Not this godforsaken precipice, which is fit for the fossilized carcass of a mammoth, perhaps, but hardly an appropriate tomb for a dog of culture and accomplishment …

Gisco, snap out of it. You’re not dead yet, but they are closing in on us. We have to do something.

Then, suddenly and incongruously, I hear a woman’s soft voice, singing.

I turn my head and see that the boy has walked close to us. The locket on his neck has opened, and the eyes of the tiny image of my mother appear to be glowing.

The voice issues from the locket and swirls around us. The song has no words, but it’s soothing, as if meant to comfort children—a lullaby from a thousand years away.