Vääramatu lend

There was turbulence and Garry hated that. He was all too aware of the portrayals of planes as tiny tin cans flung about in the air at great speeds and through all sorts of weather. Having just spent half an hour reading about recent airplane disasters did not help either. Planes going missing, getting shot down or even simply malfunctioning was enough to fill his head with all sorts of apocalyptic scenarios. He gripped the little pop-down table in front of him and grinded his teeth.

There was turbulence and Harry did not really mind, but he was somewhat worried his drink might spill and he would need to get a new one. Or worse, spill some on his trousers which would be another hassle. He had a big sip to ease the issue and laid back, nibbling his croissant, with bits of it happily trailing down in front of him. Harry did not make a fuss, as after brushing his front with a good couple of swipes, he would be crumbless once again. His gaze drifted across his compatriots on the flight and to the window. It was dark outside with the moon very barely casting some light across sparse clouds, the ocean below was even darker and very far away. As he looked at the sea and the clouds, he was reminded of his time as a young boy. This he had spent running around coastlines, throwing rocks at birds and generally enjoying the fresh air and having a good time. Sometimes he would even sneak out late in the evening when the sea was mysterious and the birds were even harder to hit. The memories stayed with him for the rest of the flight, unlike the delicious croissant.

There was turbulence and Irene barely noticed it, as she was entirely too engrossed in the novel in her hands. It was the new Dan Brown and set in futuristic Siberia. The protagonist was Robert Langdon Jr, son of the much written about symbologist. An ancient celtic order had set up a huge fake city that drew from nearly every European culture and had placed great works of art in key places. Little Bobby Langdon had to solve the mystery of the city's government, they had all disappeared after lunch at the Great Siberian Pyramids. He was on the run after neo-mummies armed with semi-automatic machine guns and dodging the multi-faceted Great Eye of Sauron that was keeping watch on every citizen. For his troubles he laid with a slightly older woman with great big tits. She knew a lot about the science stuff and it helped Bobby out a great deal, especially when he had to solve the mysterious case of the upside down Westminster Palace, while doing exercises from a Chemistry 101 book. Currently the were in a room that was supposedly a one to one recreations of King Arthur's round table. There were even wax figures posed in the chairs, which they found odd as these were meant to be for the people in power to lead from. Quite mysteriously they all had yellow eyes and strange pupils, which were very lizard-like. In the end there was a long speech held by Bobby to a massive golden room full of very small children's toys. They looked somewhat bored and some even walked out.

Garry looked at his food tray and slipped the little knife that came with it into his pocket. Harry used a moment when the only other person in his row was in the toilet and sat himself next to the food trolley, expertly pocketing a packet of crips and a drink from the trolley. Letting them go past a few rows, he sat back and nibbled once more. Irene was locked in her mind imagining the adventures and great body of Bobby Langdon. She closed her eyes and imagined the shaking plane was instead a shaking bed she shared with Bobby.

Garry fingered at the knife in his pocket. For better or for worse they had served him a real knife. The plane shook again and he jumped in his seat, gently poking himself with the knife. With a quivering voice and darting hand he stood up and started yelling for the plane to be landed. Two flight attendants popped up at the end of the section of seats, and Garry backed away towards the toilets.

"Sir, we are over an ocean, please relax" responded a flight attendant with professional calm. "You take this plane down this instance or I will take someone else -- or myself off it by force!" he jabbed the knife towards the passengers and then at his own throat. Partly due to the noise of the plane, partly because he was screaming and sobbing so much himself, he did not hear the sounds of washing hands and rustling with clothes next to him. When Irene unlocked the door of the toilet, the plane jolted hard and she fell forward. The door crashed on Garry and threw him back the way he came. Stumbling to stay on his feet, still gripping the knife, he was disoriented but still dangerous. Harry who had been watching this from his nearby seat looked sadly at his unopened can of drink, but seized the opportunity and flung it directly at Garry's forehead.

Kunstnik inglikätega

Elas kord - aastal 1375 -  suur kunstnik Edward de Cham. Ta sündis Itaalia ja Prantsusmaa piiri lähedal asuvas väikeses külakeses, alpide äärel. Ta teosed olid täis ebamaist ilu, justkui inglid ise oleks need loonud ja pannud neisse oma graatsia. Peale vaadates tundus, et tegelased maalidel justkui hingavad, ehk isegi liiguvad. Nad olid kõik täiuslikud. Ja loodusmaalid...ei maksa rääkidagi. Neis oli ilu, emotsiooni. Kui neile pilk heita, ka kõige suursugusemad loodusnähtused maailmas tundusid kui oktoobrikuine lörts pruunikstõmbunud leheteki peal, mis sulab su silme all mudaks. Nii andekas oli Edward de Cham.

Kuid tema küla oli eraldatud suuremast maailmast, ehkki seal lähedal oli väiksem linn ja veidi kaugemal, kuid siiski mugavalt külastatav, paar teist küla. Aga kõik kunstikriitikud, kes elasid selles linnas, väiksemates külades ja Edwardi enda külas, olid lühinägelikud. Otseses mõttes. Neil olid, kõige paremal -5 silindrid, kõige halvemal -7. Selles hoolimata, kui külaelanikud nägid Edwardi teoste vägevust, nad kutsusid kokku kõik need kriitikud, et nad vaataks ja viiks Edwardi kaugemale sealt maakohast, et kogu maailm saaks imetleda tema jumalikke pintslilööke. Ehk lausa paavst ise võtaks ta oma hoole alla. Olid enamik maale ju vaimuliku sisuga.

"Mis lurts see on."
"Pfääh. Poiss, sa rikkusid lõuendi ära!"
"Uskumatu, uskumatu..."
"Isegi kõige vaesemasse kabelisse oleks sellist rüvetust patune panna!"

Edward nuttis ja kriitikud lahkusid sajatades, et nende aega on raisatud. Kuid see pole nende süü, nende silmad olid halvad. Ei nemad näinud Edwardi jumalikke meistriteoseid. Ja prille, neid ei olnud veel müügil..

Edward poos end üles, kuid enne seda - põletas kogu oma loomingu, mida nii kurvalt kritiseeriti. Nii keegi ei teagi, et kunagi aastal 1375, elas kõige suurem kunstnik, keda maailm näinud on, või näeb. Aga muidugi - maailm ei näe. Ega hakka nägema. Sest Edward põletas oma teosed ära. Ja tegi eneka.