Timothy Flies (or The Peculiar Reasoning of Grownups)

    Timothy was no ordinary boy—in the sense that no child is ever ordinary.  But also, in another sense entirely.  He could fly.

He was made aware of his ability one day when he fell out of his crib.  He should have hit the floor.  But he did not.  Instead, Timothy floated.  That is to say, paused in mid-air.  It was then that he launched himself back on top of his tangled sheets and promptly fell asleep.  But, from then on, he knew.
There was one other thing that was odd about Timothy.  And it was this: that even at a young age of discovering this gift, he kept it to himself.  Not a soul knew.  Not even his mother.
It was his great, secret gift.  And he used it wisely.
He flew to get kittens out of trees, and to make other children smile when they were down—no one he knew, of course; and only when there were no adults looking…
It was most peculiar, then, when, on a blustery day in the midst of a sudden summer storm, Timothy took flight in full view of his entire village.  Gasps went unheard, but not because they were not uttered—the storm had struck loudly.  And hands that covered mouths were unseen, but that was only because all eyes were on the small body of a boy that was moving, rather haphazardly, through the air.  Those of a more delicate constitution would have fainted had they not restrained themselves so that they might watch the boy fly. 
Awed surprise turned to deep concern as Timothy’s body battled the winds.  The storm blew him round and round and he struggled to keep his course.  For what had caused such an ostentatious display had nothing to do with a desire to reveal his talent, and everything to do with Emma, who had found herself clutching a branch at the top of the tallest tree, and who was being blown about nearly as much as Timothy.  Her cries had carried on the wind, as Timothy had hurried for shelter, and he knew he had no choice.  There were somethings that needed doing, even if it meant Timothy could hide no longer.
Up he went, and struggled against the tumultuous wind, until he seized his friend about the waist, and she her small arms about his little neck.  And down they came, whirled about and windblown but safe.
Timothy looked about at the adult faces, starring at him in disbelief.  He lowered his head and prepared himself.  For his secret was his no longer.
‘How strange,’ said one woman to another, and Timothy braced himself for the verbal blow, ‘That the wind would pick up a boy like that and bring the girl down!’
‘Most peculiar!’ exclaimed a man.
‘A wonder,’ said another.
‘Timothy!’ cried his mother, as she raced to her son and gave him a good dusting.  ‘You mustn’t play in the wind like that.  It isn’t safe!’
Timothy blinked.  He looked at Emma.  She blinked back.  Then smiled.  And shrugged.  And walked off with her own mother with a wave at her friend.  His secret was safe.  He couldn’t understand it.  But then, he had always found the reasoning of adults peculiar.


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