First published on September 11, 2012, this story takes place in the 1990s and the high grounds of Wales, which had claimed the lives of many aircrews navigating there in bad weather, especially during the Second World War.

The original description: “The long life of Mary Wootton did not perform ideally, but at the evening of it she decides to attempt some change. Initially an innocent looking contemplation far away from home may have quite different, yet satisfactory results.”

Somewhere on the high grounds of Snowdonia, Wales, a Land Rover appears from the fog and pulls aside from a narrow country road. A weathered-looking, middle-aged man disembarks from driver’s seat while a younger man steps out from the passenger seat and hurries to assist their passenger. Doors slam and stones rattle under heavy boots as small old lady clambers down to cold ground.

“Here we are then. Sorry for the bumpy ride. See and feel around, I hope you are still up to a bit climbing?” asks the elder man while his son unloads their equipment. The small lady is at least in her seventies and clumsily clothed for wintry weather like any of her age, except for the borrowed boots, more suitable to hard environment. A red wool hat and quilted coat, covered partly by a self-made red plaid over shoulders for extra warm; and finally those self-made brown wool gloves. One could see her kind in television’s gardening programs. Small, round spectacles hanging low over the nose have seen innumerable cups of tea and heaps of newspaper pages. The small eyes between wrinkles have seen a lot more, being still blackish and sharp, sometimes confusing anyone having a word or more with her. While the eyes hide her weakening eyesight, they do tell of the strong will behind them. “I’m quite all right, thank you; we can go about our business.” Snappy tone in somewhat creaking voice contains no ill will, the receiving party may note that there is certain critics towards her own figure, towards her aching cold bones. The men set up a tour chair for her while they pick up compass and maps with numerous handmade markings. The lady now sits and takes long inhales of cold air as father and son mumble about positions of seemingly ancient things that litter the high ground. Finally they discuss again the same thing they had been querying her en route, which manages to annoy the small lady: “Remnants of the crews?” This makes the small lady to turn to the pondering men:

“I thought I made it quite clear: Bones and skulls have no effect on me. I did not live my war in a bucket.” She takes a deep breath. “Death was quite different thing back then. I suppose you had child’s eye to that time, did you not, Mr Cook?” she points her words to elder man, who nods:

“OK, sorry. Well, we have directions now, off we go.”

The advancing is slow at best but the men have learned to move patiently, to not miss any artificial object. Fog is gradually reduced to thin mist as they wander higher, stopping now and then to let the lady take a breath and to have a fix on compass directions. At one such stop the father says to lady:

“We are less than half a mile short, there’s not so steep anymore. But we want to show you something: Let’s take a sidestep this way.”

The lady follows men some way behind a small rocky rampart.

“While you’re doing your honourings up there, we shall be around this spot and can hear your call, unless the wind goes rough; with luck we will have visual contact also.”

The party is now gathered around something looking a large heap of rusted metal, but is round and regular from one side, while other side looks smashed inwards. Pieces of old metal form an absurd path behind it.

“This is not..?” starts the small lady.

“No, this is from another aircraft, it’s a Taurus engine. Poor blokes made rough landing a hundred yards that way. Let’s go back to path.”

The small lady takes a brief glimpse back upon the sad remnant before the small rampart hides it again. Faces long gone, partly hidden by ancient flight gear, flash in her mind; then they vanish as she continues her careful steps. A little more walking. The landscape is now somewhat clear, a couple of peaks can be distinguished far west as the party walks to their destination, grass and stone floor taking turns under them. Ponds and puddles glimmer here and there to stay clear of. When they stop, they stand facing a high vertical cliff with visible stone layers and crevices; looking down they see a shallow gently sloping depression ending to a cliff root opposite them. The scene looks like a theatre where the cliff wall represents the curtain. The peak above is not wide, on the left end opens the sight to other peaks far away behind a greenish rocky valley. On the right starts a steep descent towards the main roads, otherwise the visibility is blocked by haze. The low sun makes encouraging peeks now and then.

“Here we are. I have left a couple of markers around. Ah, here’s one. Map says…Yes, we are in correct location. Look down, Ms Wootton: In the shadow of that big stone down there.”

She takes a look down the depression; there is an object roughly similar to the other she was shown earlier.

“That’s the Pegasus engine from your old man’s Hampden, I’m certain of it…”

The elder man suddenly falls to silence, embarrassed by his own words but the small lady lays her hand upon his arm and smiles.

“It’s quite all right, Mr Cook. Can we settle and pray tell me how it ended down there? Can I have the seat please? Thank you, young man.”

Younger Cook clears his throat:

“Dad, may I tell? Look that peak above, Ms Wootton; we suppose that the aircraft hit similar one some way behind and was thrown to this one, which tripped her straight down there. Most parts and–erm–remnants were salvaged soon but the rest during the years, except for that engine. The access here is difficult, initially horse carts were needed. But that engine’s existence is buried into some bureaucracy fault, though everyone knows it’s here. Oh, and the tail section should be behind the first peak but no one has found it.”

Ms Wootton listens to younger man in a state of trance, perhaps creating horrific images in her mind. Then she gazes around, left and right, up and down; and seems to scale the place into her memory. The father continues:

“We will not go down there. Too risky, it has been searched but with better equipped party. Those rocks will break your feet. Nothing but that Pegasus there. I hope that’s OK with you?”

“Suits perfectly for me, young man. I’m not exactly hunting relics here; not at least airplane parts, but if you grant me a small one, I won’t oppose.”

The elder man takes pondering attitude and then says with grave tone:

“One thing, about some relic-hunters. We know why you are here, but I must warn you. Some of those people collecting bits and pieces of war are just greedy and do not hesitate to take bad attitude if they see any people who seem not local. Whether they guide you wrong or not, they will tell–shall I say–fairy tales. No. Ghost stories.”

He hesitates now, embarrassed but certain of his words. Ms Wootton looks at him with one eyebrow lifted.

“About the dead airmen. That they still haunt here. Those kinds of people feel no sorry to tell tales about someone’s dead relative hovering around here. They do it to keep the wrecks to themselves. Some people actually get frightened. I’m sorry but I had to warn you about this.”

He still looks a bit embarrassed. Ms Wootton now stares back and replies with icy tone:

“Young man, I find that quite shocking. Thank you for warning me. I think I’m old enough to tell them what I think of disturbing mourning people by joking of their deceased, be England haunted or not.”

Then she remains quiet, looking at the cold stone floor at her feet. She picks a cigarette pack from her purse and lights one.

“Those will…” starts younger Cook but his father intervenes sharply:

“All right, we will now leave you and be back in an hour, but you can possibly see us down there. Bye for now.”

“Bye, and happy hunting to the both of you,” Ms Wootton bids and coughs out smoke. She hears the father’s vanishing voice scolding the son about teaching old people how to live the final part of their life; then they are gone.

Under a fateful cliff and light from frequenting sun the air grows more fresh; the mist now vanishes to lower levels, remnants of it swirling down in the rocky depression. The large stone with the engine wreck occasionally withdraw their round lines behind a white curtain, milled by tiny currents of air. The small lady is sunken into her thoughts. She takes a distant pride of getting to a place she has never seen, for recollecting old memories and perhaps, for seeking answers to unsolved dilemmas. There is a certain concentration of thoughts behind those closed eyes, which are then reopened. The cigarette between her wrinkled yellow fingers has died away long ago safely without burning the skin. Suddenly she starts and makes a quick check on her watch. She lets out a relieved sigh: Only ten minutes gone.

“I came this far for a business, and I shall not waste the moment,” she mutters standing up and looking around. The Cooks are nowhere to be seen, air is too hazy. She’s the only visible soul around, for which she congratulates herself. She then settles again and begins:

“Did you hear that, James? Fairy tales. Makes you laugh, doesn’t it? Here, I brought your watch. You haven’t seen it in quite a time. Not that you would need it, I presume. I have less than an hour hanging around; that lovely family brought me here, they work for museums and military. I had hard time to find them, and then a hard time asking them to bring me here. I have been at your grave quite a few times by now, you should know it. Actually, I think you don’t. I think you are more elsewhere than in that marked graveyard. I won’t repeat all my chatter from there. Does our daughter know about this? No, I don’t want her to know. Our son-in-law, Janet’s no-good husband either. Definitely not. He’s a loafer and besides, my business here is mostly about him.’ Ms Wootton feels obliged to pick another cigarette. ‘Oh, yes. These may kill me, says the dead man? Funny, isn’t it? Remember how we met? You and your no-goods reposing in the end of your field playing cards; and there comes I with a borrowed bicycle to catch my train to Uxbridge. I fell with the thing into the ditch and you had a great time. You came to help me up and straightened my bicycle with a piece of stone. I did not understand how you caught up with me later, because we changed no information; until you returned me the piece of paper containing my information. I could have been punished for missing that document, but luckily it was not needed then. You had your leave because you were changing into training unit to teach small boys to kill themselves in those flying crates. No, sorry for that. I felt that way when you–it’s a bit wrong, I know. Well, still it’s a bit funny when I remember all these things now, but I cannot remember where the kitchen is at home.” Another stump is thrown away. She raises her collar a little higher in raw autumn air.

“What happened to all? We got Janet in seven months after you went missing. She never became a princess like we planned and married an emptypocket who has never bothered to move out from my parents’ house. Of course my parents are not around anymore. It’s beer and soccer all over for Jacko Thompson and his chums. A bunch of no-good blokes keeping noise from Hell itself every match and outside the season. Enough said, let me think of your friends… A week after you went missing, everyone went to Cologne for a May night. Jack Moore told me this later. Charlie, your Brummy, went missing; I knew his mother, we were at the laundry together quite a many times. Alfie returned without his head, says Jack. After that I always thought if you were not dead already, then Cologne would have killed you. Jack said they called in the training squadrons as well to get a thousand planes for Cologne. Madness, I thought back then and I still do. Not that the whole messy business did not end better for us. Pardon me, for the survivors. For the rest, I should have taken my diary but my time is short. This time. That is an ugly piece of cliff you tripped onto, isn’t it. What was that plane of yours? I remember Whitleys, Stirlings…Hampden, that was it. How did it ever stay together up there? No, yours didn’t, apparently.”

Blackish eyes closed, her mind gathers unwillingly something from memories, something mercifully forgotten:

The stench of fuel in the air mixed with warm sun along the grass and heating runway and she was serving tea from Austin van under an enormous human made four-engine bird, or Halifax; smiling kids, some with small moustaches, in their flight suits and harnesses and boots, preparing for a test flight, having tea; teeth full of jokes and invitations. Immense amount of friendly chit-chat towards her. She smiled back and closed the vehicle and drove it towards the buildings farther along the taxiway. A familiar roar filled her ears as the Halifax speeded up along the runway. Then the sudden and foul sound, the horrible and forced screeching of brakes; the Halifax veered off the runway and crashed into two-story building and there was loud crash and bang and sudden heap of plane and masonry and a great fireball to skies and flames and human screaming and running figures and a running fireball falling and rolling on the grass and the sirens were wailing all over. In there, the faces which should have had pimples instead of moustaches were now twisted into burning screams, minutes after having their casual teatime and she was hiding behind the van and throwing up eggs and bacon.

The gruesome, yet true memory ends as she holds her specs from falling and begs it to stop and shakes violently but she cannot open her eyes, like her mind had decided it without the rest of her. Convulsions shake her fragile being time and again. Memories change to something not a true memory:

She finds herself on her present site at the mountains; but this is different, dark and stormy environment; the yelling wind is almost deafening and the rain is trying to drown the place. Yet raindrops do not touch her, how ever she reaches out with her arms; nor does the wind give any feel nor does it buffet her clothing. Over the storm she starts to hear the drone, very smooth and not too identifiable but soon she realizes it is the sound of multiple aircraft engines. None can be seen at the moment. The sky above is rolling black and dark gray masses over the cliff. The drone is steady at first but suddenly there is a loud bang, the engine sound changes crudely back and forth; and in seconds, racing with the cloud masses above, a large shadowy figure appears over the cliff; screeching and throwing bright sparks against the cliff which it scratches for seconds. A huge, slender shadow of a bird seems to stop for a second but then it turns its beak down towards her and starts a dive. For a couple of seconds the skies rumble, lightning flashes and she sees the round engines with rotating yellow ended blades falling towards her and someone starting and turning inside the wet glistening perspex nose. Then it all disappears and she wakes up from her violent slumber sitting on the rocky ground, next to a tumbled tour chair. She remains stunned for a long moment, painfully lifting herself up. She cannot but take deep breaths and hope her heart is up to mental and physical burden it was laid into. Her trembling fingers find the medicine but after a moment of hesitation she drops it back into purse. Cannot afford to drug herself here, not now; must remain clear-minded. She adjusts her spectacles and lights another cigarette with trembling fingers, while she knows it means asking for real problems. Nevertheless, the cigarette is more relieving than killing her, so she continues talking to mountains, though with growing uncertainty of her sanity:

“Did you do that? Of course you did. That was not very nicely done; I’d rather have skipped it all. You too, heh? But cheers for telling me. Let the past be now, but hold on; I need a breath. All right; I must be really daft now.”

The ever growing lack of conviction is trying to take over. She feels the sudden temptation to return to the Cooks and tell them her expedition is over, the honourings and mournings having been carried out. Her late companion was brought to rest decades ago into a marked grave in another graveyard, which she has been visiting quite often. Once again, she has to gather the strength from the foul memories from the closer past, the foul past she wants to wipe off and live her finals another way. She inhales deeply and continues to whisper to the mountains:

“Well, it’s your son-in-law, or son-of-a-you-know-what: I use to knit upstairs; I have my own nice little telly there. You should remember the flat; it’s a bit remodeled but still there, without my parents of course. But downstairs, there are Jacko and his big blokes, fresh from the pub and ready for the League match and you don’t have a moment without all the noise they make. Jacko just brings them fresh form the pub and then it is no more my home, but a soccer stand for sots. Janet is up there with me, she must go down to put the kettle on now and then and sometimes she returns nose bleeding and with a developing black eye. Why I came here is because a week ago I said ‘ENOUGH!’ And I told them. Well, what happens? Two of these sots carried me out to the street with my chair and knittings. And the rest just laughed their arses off. Janet just cried in the corner. Jacko did nothing to defend me, he just rolled on the floor and laughed his drunken arse off.”

The small lady sighs and closes the eyes under wrinkled forehead.

“I tried to do some gardening there. You liked gardens. Many lads said they liked gardens but you were the only one not fiddling with a dumb girlie. Well, they went to backyard and his blokes just stamped and sat everything down, and laughed. I think Jacko just waits for me to join my parents. When they are drunk, I’m afraid of our lives. No grandchildren for us, not one. Not that I wish Jacko even trying. A barren sot he is. I know Janet would find new, I know a young widower or two around there; but not too well to ask for help with this. No help from police either, Janet’s too afraid to complain. I…I once thought using of dad’s old service Webley; it’s in safe locker but that would mess Janet’s life as well; she does not know about it. Besides, I hardly have the skill to utilize it anymore. I could assemble it eyes closed until mom got her word through and dad locked it away.”

Another cigarette finds its way between parchment lips and the lighter flashes.

“This lighter was brought to me, they said it was in your pocket. So there was at least one pocket intact in you.”

She now stands up, staring at the large stone down in the ravine and starts walking down very carefully.

“You know, those lovely people told me not to do this. I don’t have a clue why you want me to see that rusted thing. But I seem to be travelling downward so something must be there; you were always serious. You told jokes and you made pranks but otherwise you were serious. Now you are dead serious, aren’t you? I will quit these puns in the very moment you say something aloud. Maybe my heart also quits and that is definitely not my purpose here. What’s down here? More nightmares?”

After a painful dodging among the stones she picks a rocky seat and sits down in the shadow of a large stone.

“Ah, now I can see it better. It is one of yours, isn’t it?”

The forlorn and rusty heap of wrecked radial engine with one twisted propeller blade makes her overwhelmingly sad for a moment. She manages to swallow the feeling back inside without tears.

“Couldn’t this have waited for later? I’m going back you know, I promised those lovely gentlemen to stay up there. After all, maybe I should get institutionalized; how did I ever get the idea of coming here to doze off, dreaming about lousy past and nothings.”

She now feels despair and suspicion creeping inside; she prepares for return. Then she slips on the wet stone and collapses heavily next to the ruined engine. She holds her chest with a twisting face. Suddenly she is grabbed from under the arms and gently helped up. The mist is now surrounding her; before she can turn a figure appears from nowhere. She has been frightened a bit after she descended to the engine but now she starts horrified and mumbles:

“James?”

“What are you doing here?” the figure snaps out, “We asked you to stay up there!”

The small lady is confused for a moment but then recognizes the figure as younger of her escorts.

“Oh, pardon me, I was just in my thoughts and got here. Pardon me, I did not want to trouble you with my senility.”

The stiff expression melts.

“All right, I just got worried.”

He turns his head like searching something.

“I thought someone was with you, this fog makes tricks. Dad is finding something up there and I think this is going to be a good one after all. Here, grab my arm.”

Her bones are even more clicking and cold but more from the past moment than her age. Once up there, they form the party again and after a moment of sitting down with refreshments they start the long descend back to the car. Behind them the swirling mist is slowly vanishing into sunlit air.

*

A few weeks later, Cheltham Chronicle introduces next article in the Odd World section:

ODD PRANKSTER EVICTS TV SOCCER FANS

Four men were practically thrown out of an East Street house by an unknown person in quite odd clothing. According to Mr Jacko Thompson, of East Street, Cheltham, he and his three friends were given “shock treatment” while watching a League match in the house of his mother-in-law, Ms Mary Wootton: “We were just watching the League when telly snapped off and suddenly this bloke stood beside the couch, wearing something like old flight suit; broken goggles, mask and skin helmet, harnesses and boots. We couldn’t see his face. He stank of oil and gas and was splattered with it or something else. I thought first he was our neighbour making a prank while fixing his car as he always does. Since he did not reply us we decided to throw him out, because he just stood there saying nothing and stinking. Next I remember, we were all outside on the street and everybody had bruises. A Bobby ran upon us but we told him we were attacked in the house. When we let him in, there was only my mother-in-law watching a gardening program from our telly. So Bobby called the rest of the police and they took us away for a night. I don’t know who it was but I can swear we were not that drunk.” Mr Thompson’s other neighbour, Mrs Goodridge, told Chronicle she also witnessed the strange moment: “That gang kept up constant racket. I don’t know how anyone else could live there. I was at my door going to warn them once more when they suddenly ran, and someone practically jumped or flew out of the door. They were all along the street and cars had trouble avoiding them. They just staggered around until police came and collected them away. All this was kind of funny to me since cans of beer and fish’n’chips were thrown out in their heels. I went to get a summary after police left; but Ms Wootton just sat there, watching telly and she just smiled to my inquiries. Everything was spic-and-span like nothing had happened. In no way she could have done all that, not even with her daughter. Poor women; whatever happened, I hope those men stay away now.” According to the police records, Mr Thompson is now legally restricted from setting his foot onto the property of Ms Wootton due several violations he is now accused of. The keeper of nearby pub, Mr Albert Selston of Higham Road, says: “They are always trouble in my pub, I would gladly hire the bloke who threw them out.”

*

Years later, the following letter is opened in another town:

“Dear Mr Cook,

forgive me my weak scripting. I wish to express my sincere gratitude for taking me to those Welsh mountains to mourn my late companion and Janet’s father. Since my trip me and my daughter could implement some happy changes in our life. This letter has perhaps reached You after I have been long gone; it is posted by my daughter according to my will. You’ll find some additional information of the crash site below. It may be confusing, but I beg You not to take it from a senile lady. Instead, take it as an advice to visit the site again, equipped with decent tools. I’m quite certain Your employer will listen, just avoid mentioning this letter. Make up Your own explanation. I wish the best of luck to You in the endeavor. Here is the description:

The large stone on the foot of the cliff hides large part of nose section of Hampden S/N AC175. Under the stone is wide and somewhat deep crevice, hidden by fallen stone; it was actually knocked off the cliff by the aircraft. It followed down smashing the remnants of nose section, partly hiding it. The collection You will find there includes instruments like one faulty fuel gauge, the culprit of whole sad incident. Sadly, there are also remains of third of the crew, who was thought and recorded to have bailed out and lost. The tailplane section remains hidden under a landslide on opposite side of the first peak.

Also, I believe those dishonest relic hunters are now giving some berth to those places.

This is all I have. For several nights now I have dreamed of big wings coming for me. Funny but no, I’m not writing this from an institute nor from a bedlam. Should You ever wonder about all this, I can only say I was there, You know.

Bless You,

Ms Mary Wootton

12 East Street, Cheltham”