He Told Him Stories

• Salem Evans, Grade 12
• Short Story
• 2017

Hendra lay wearily watching the fire sedately combust the freshly cut oak. His head rested against his father’s side listening to the steady rhythm of his father’s voice as he told stories of flying low over a snow-topped Mt. Cascade, gliding above the conifer forests arrayed in autumn shades. Every night in the picayune lodge, Hendra would dream of a time to come when his father would take him up above and beyond life on the ground. He dreamed of being like an eagle, soaring above trees, mountains, lakes and clouds, being able to see without obstruction.

Hendra awoke, excited and eager. The day of promise had arrived - his first flight.

Arrayed in a bomber jacket, beaver skin cap and bear fur gloves, Hendra glanced anxiously at his father. He watched everything he did, flicking switches and turning dials, then pushing a big lever labelled ‘throttle’. He felt the immense vibrations and power as the aircraft’s two turbo-prop engines roared with energy.

Suddenly they were there; a part of the sky. Hendra gazed in wonder at the millions of trees, luscious and tender; the jagged mountain cliffs, dangerous and piercing. Listening to the whirr of the aircraft and hum of the radio, he felt a shiver of excitement encasing him. Just before they burst the clouds the plane veered confidently to the left. Hendra felt the pang of thrill.

They had been in flight for over half an hour before making the final approach to the airfield. The flight had truly been awe-inspiring.

The altitude call sounded through the cockpit of the small Beechcraft. The airfield soon came into view. The winds were light at 15 knots, and the air temperature outside was sitting at a cool 5°C.

As they made their descent the small compartment of the aircraft suddenly started shaking. In a matter of moments Hendra was jolted violently against the back of his chair.

‘Mayday! Mayday! JH635!’ his father’s voice echoed through the cabin. The aircraft started to rapidly descend. Putting all his knowledge into practice, Hendra’s father veered forcibly left where lay a narrow stretch of rocky riverside lined with trees. It was his only choice. Grabbing Hendra’s hand, he squeezed it, then they plummeted into slow motion.

Crying, bleeding, damaged and pained, a small petrified boy crawled from the wreckage. An awful scent of burning wires and plastic filled the air. Aluminium lay scattered amongst the jarring rocks. Flames, fuelled by debris flickered remotely.

Hendra scanned the wreckage in desperation.

His father lifted one hand limply amidst the rubble. With an energy unknown Hendra dragged his father’s damaged frame around flaming debris, through the thick smoke to the edge of the clearing.


In the picayune lodge, framed with fir-trees, a boy lay his head gently against the plaster casting and listened to the familiar rhythm of his father as he told stories of a brave boy who overcame fear and saved his father’s life.