At dawn we weave spells of fire below stitched canvas, slowly inflating it into a bubble of air. As we climb into the wicker basket, thin lines tether us to the ground. We release the ropes and gently drift into the morning sky, our bodies heavy but our souls light.
Surveying the landscape, it becomes difficult to remember our purpose. In the low light of morning, the castle resembles a unique geologic formation. A thin mist shrouds the grendel's lines, rising from the furrows between the trees as a tract freshly turned for planting.
The canopy obscures the hive of activity our appearance has kicked over. Peering between the branches, archers bend their bows and loose. Gravity claims their shafts long before they near their mark. We drift overhead, unscathed, even their taunts falling short by a whisper. The grendel seems quite angry that we are this close yet remain unaffected by his presence.
Our conflict seems so small hidden among the trees, a charcoal smudge across pastel swells of forest and pasture, a slight mar on an otherwise Lucullan panorama. We sketch the grendel's dispositions on the map of our memory. Units of friend and foe seem so orderly, like illustrations of contests long settled, a game of miniatures, counters on a board. The scene is almost peaceful when viewed from high above, the frenetic activity below no more than leaves dancing in a summer wind.
Drifting beyond the battle, the air is cool and still, almost motionless. Osprey hover above the treetops, hunting the shimmering reflections of lakes peeking through a veil of leaves. Cattle graze lush green fields contentedly, taking as little notice of us as of our distant struggle. Through this tranquil terrain, we track the cavalry racing from the postern gate to trail us, our escort home.
Our magic exhausted, we begin to descend. With a slight jar, we settle back to earth, our canvas bubble quickly deflating. Momentarily, the cavalry breaks from the forest, galloping toward us with a train of fresh horses. The ride home is a blur of trees and fields, chapels and farmer's crofts, our minds still floating in a memory of the sky.
Soon, we find ourselves riding through familiar streets then back inside the wall, awakening as if from someone else's irenic dream.
© 2007 Edward P. Morgan III
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One morning, we woke up to find an email from a friend of ours with a number of pictures attached. He had received recognition from his company in the form of a hot air balloon tour through central Florida. He set out from home early in the morning and didn’t return until sometime that afternoon. He had taken photos through the entire trip.
The launch site was out in the wilds of Florida (yes, we really do have wilds). If I remember right, it was foggy when he started driving. But by the time they launched, the sun had burned through. I forget how long he said he was in the air. There was a chase car below, shadowing them to drive them back to the launch site and their cars.
What I remember most about the photos is how peaceful and green everything looked from above. Karen and I just sat in silence paging through them, both utterly content for the escape even if it was virtual. From the air, everything, even your own problems, looks very small. I still feel peaceful just thinking about it again.
That was one of the more special moments we had during isolation. A surprising and very special gift.
Picture notes: This is the view from atop Dolwyddelan Castle in Wales. It’s an impressive little tower, said to be the birthplace of Llywelyn the Great, that commands the valley below. It seemed to capture the thought of reconnaissance from the air.
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