"I'm gonna be a pilot, like Dad and Uncle Dom, when I'm old enough …." Stringfellow Hawke confessed, shielding his eyes from the glare of the sun as he watched the eagle soaring over head. "Gonna fly, just like that eagle …."
"Sure you are kid, and I'm gonna be the first man on the moon!" St John sneered, nudging his brother gently in the ribs.
Suddenly there was a tremendous roar and the air all around him was hot and suffocating, as St John Hawke suddenly found himself flying through the air.
Out of the corner of his eye he could see a somewhat startled Stringfellow also sailing through the air, little arms and legs flailing as he shot through the air, a plume of smoke and fire behind him, but then St John hit the water with a heavy smack, sinking deep into the crystal clear depths, the air knocked out of his lungs, and all he could see was water.
Panic stricken, lungs empty and burning, heart thundering in his ears, St John instinctively knew that he had to kick hard, had to get to the surface ….
At last he broke the surface of the water, coughing and spluttering, tossing his wet hair out of his eyes as he thrashed about trying to get his bearings, looking for their parents, the boat, String ….
To his horror, all that was left of the cabin cruiser was a burning hulk, debris scattered half way across the lake, burning and smouldering as the smoke began to clear, but there was no sign of either of his parents ….
Or of his little brother.
"String!" He screamed at the top of his lungs, twisting around in the water scanning the surface for any sign of Stringfellow, his ears still ringing from the explosion and his lungs still burning. "String!"
Frantic now, St John stuck his head under the water and aimed for the bottom, trying to keep his eyes open, looking for any sign of String, amazed by the clarity of the water around him as he continued to turn in circles, and then, suddenly he saw something ….
Sinking almost down to the bottom now, a limp little bundle, and he knew as surely as he knew that his parents were dead, killed by the explosion that had ripped the boat apart due to a faulty gas bottle, that it was Stringfellow.
Forgetting that he was under water, St John tried to call out to his brother and almost swallowed half the lake at the same time, and he had to kick hard to get back to the surface so that he could cough up the water he had breathed in and to drag in air to refill his lungs, before striking out to where he had seen String's unmoving body sinking toward the bottom.
Drawing in four deep breaths one after the other, feeling light headed as the oxygen rushed to his brain in the process, St John stuck his head back under the water and dived once more, kicking hard until his outstretched hands came into contact with String's shirt. He grabbed a handful of the material and pulled the small, unresisting body of his brother to him, wrapping one strong arm around his chest as suddenly disorientated in the featureless depths, he lifted his head to seek the sky shimmering blue above the waves of the lake and kicked with all his might.
St John broke the surface, gasping for air and coughing trying desperately not to sink back below the choppy waters under the weight of his brother's body.
"String! String!" he screamed, trying to work out how far out into the lake they were and if he could swim to shore and try to revive his brother ….
Or if it was already too late.
Maybe the little guy had already been under the water too long ….
"String! Breathe dammit, breathe!" St John shook the child angrily.
The little guy's face was still, bloodless, eyes closed and no sign at all that he was even still alive as frantically, St John began to swim for shore.
He was almost half drowned himself as he towed Stringfellow toward a patch of shoreline where there were no weeds or obstacles, gasping and panting, feeling his lungs burning, his legs as heavy as lead being dragged down by the weight of the waterlogged material of his jeans, but he refused to give up.
"C'mon kid …. Dammit, don't you do this to me! You irritating little insect, don't die on me!" He raged, using what little strength he had left to haul Stringfellow up onto the small patch of muddy beach and then frantically tried to remember the life saving techniques they had learned last summer when they had spent the day with his friend Larry at the lifeguard tower where he was on duty.
With shaking hands, St John rolled Stringfellow over on to his side and watched as water ran out of the corner of his mouth then he was using his hands to gently massage the younger boy's chest, carefully pushing up along each side of his tiny ribcage, encouraging more water out of his mouth.
"C'mon dammit, breathe! String!"
He yanked the younger boy's arms up over his head, trying to pump the water out of his lungs and air in, then realised that it was useless.
Then suddenly he remembered. He needed to do mouth to mouth or the little guy was a gonner ….
Pushing Stringfellow on to his back, St John ran his cold, shaking fingers down the side of the his brother's neck, seeking out a pulse, but found none, then after holding his shaking hand lightly over String's mouth to see if he could feel any breath, he used his thumb and finger to pinch String's nose closed as he tipped his head back slightly, allowing the boy's bottom jaw to drop open so that he could see if there were any obstacles in his mouth, blocking his airway.
Seeing no sign of any obstruction, St John leaned carefully over the insensate boy, sealing his lips tightly around String's, pumped two short breaths into his brother's lungs to inflate his chest, then counted out chest compressions as he had been taught, stopping long enough to check to see if String was breathing, his chest moving up and down, before repeating the process.
Suddenly, String began to cough, choking out more water as he fought to draw air deep into his lungs, and St John quickly moved back out of the way, as his brother rolled over, heaving violently as he tried to sit up, head down as he gasped raggedly, and then he was taking the little guy in his arms, pulling him to him roughly as Stringfellow continued to cough and gasp, cradling him in his arms and rocking him gently.
"Thank God …. Thank God …. I thought I'd lost you too kid …."
Instead of pushing his brother away, Stringfellow Hawke clung to St John, intermittently sobbing and coughing and gasping for breath, as they both sat on the shoreline, staring silently out into the centre of the lake, transfixed by the sight of the smouldering wreckage of the boat, shocked and confused and terrified, St John wrapping warm, strong, loving arms around the younger boy's shivering body, until at last, he realised that they couldn't just keep sitting there.
They had to go and get help ….
Although St John could not help thinking that both of his parents were beyond any kind of help now ….
They had to go and tell someone what had happened here. They had to go and raise the alarm.
"C'mon kid …. We have to go home. Back to the cabin, get on the radio to Uncle Dom. He'll know what to do …." St John encouraged, but Stringfellow was still so shocked and stunned instead of allowing his brother to help him to his feet, he clung on tighter, burying his face in St John's wet shirt, sobbing uncontrollably.
"It's ok, String, I'm here …. I'll take care of you," St John vowed, raising his hand to gently cup the back of the little guy's head reassuringly. "I'll never let anything bad happen to you, I swear …."
After several more minutes of just sitting in stunned silence, St John again tried to coax Stringfellow to his feet, but even though he finally managed to get him upright, the little guy seemed rooted to the spot, big blue eyes filled with tears, fixed unblinking on the spot where the wreckage still smoked and smouldered.
St John tugged gently on his hand, but again he refused to budge.
"Mom …. Dad …." When at last he was able to speak, Stringfellow's voice was so small, so thin and so filled with pain, it tore at St John's heart.
"They're gone, String. I couldn't see them …." He confessed, knowing that the blast could have sent their bodies into the deeper, fast running water in the centre of the lake and that the current would take them down stream, and he couldn't help thinking that it was no bad thing that he hadn't been able to see them, for he did not want his last memory of them to be that of their broken, twisted bodies.
He could still see his father's smiling face as he had ducked down into the galley to help their Mother, and he was grateful that that would be his last abiding memory of his father in this life.
They had been right at the heart of the explosion, but even if they had survived that, logic told St John that by the time he had located Stringfellow and pulled him to safety, even if he had gone back out into the water, it would have been too late to do anything to save their parents, even if he had found them.
"Can't leave them …." Stringfellow stuttered through chattering teeth, and St John began to realise that it wasn't just the fact that they were both soaking wet and starting to get cold.
The little guy was in shock.
They both were.
They couldn't stay here any longer. They needed to get help.
St John knew that he wasn't hurt physically, he had just been winded and was exhausted and half drowned after rescuing Stringfellow, but maybe his brother had been hit by debris from the explosion and had been knocked out, and that was why he had been out of it, sinking to the bottom of the lake and had almost drowned.
He needed to get String to a doctor to get him checked out. They both needed to get into some warm clothes, and they needed to call Dom or the Sheriff or someone ….
With tears streaming unashamedly down his face, St John Hawke reached out and pulled his distraught brother into his arms, holding onto his quivering little body tightly as he gazed down into his big blue eyes.
"We're gonna be alright, buddy. You and me. I know you think you should stay, that maybe you could help them …. But …. They're gone, kid," his own voice cracked on a sob now as he realised exactly what he was saying.
"And I need you to be a man about this right now, String. We both need to face this like men. It's what they would have wanted. We have to do the right thing, String, and that means going back to the cabin and getting on the radio to let someone know what happened here," he reasoned softly, looking down into his little brother's face and seeing the fear and shock and confusion in his eyes, but also something else, the one thing he had counted on.
Trust.
String was smart, he knew that what St John was saying was true, but his heart was still heavy in his chest as he allowed St John to take him by the hand and drag him away from the ghastly sight on the lake, leading him through the rough terrain of the mountain woodland back to the place that they called home, and into a more uncertain future.
They had gone further down the lake than he had realised, and it was hard work, legs like rubber pumping furiously to keep up with St John's longer stride, but his brother did not make a fuss or get angry with him when it became obvious that he was having trouble keeping up, instead he slowed his own pace, shortened his own stride to match his brother's and encouraged him to keep going, helping him up when he tripped and stumbled because he couldn't see where he was going for the tears streaming silently down his face, ashamed to be crying like a baby, then noticed the trail of tears coursing down St John's face too, as eventually the younger boy's legs threatened to buckle under him, and his big brother scooped him up into his arms and carried him the rest of the way home, strong arms enveloping him, cradling him against the solid wall of his muscular chest, as String wrapped his own stick thin arms around St John's neck and hung on.
Reaching the cabin at last, St John headed straight up the stairs to the bedroom he and String shared, setting his little brother down on the edge of the bed briefly, while he dug out clean clothes for them both to get into, and then he lifted Stringfellow off the bed and took him into the bathroom, turning the shower on full blast, as hot as he could stand it, and then without embarrassment or hesitation he stripped the clothes off himself and his brother and pulled Stringfellow in to the jet of hot water with him, rubbing his little arms and chest trying to get some warmth back into his body and all the time Stringfellow remained mute and almost catatonic as he endured his brother's tender ministrations.
Dried off and dressed in clean clothes and a little warmer at last, St John looked at his little brother's white face, eyes wide, pupils dilated, and knew that he was in shock.
His own body was shaking violently in reaction too now, the adrenalin that had enabled him to get them both back here safely having almost gone.
Obediently, Stringfellow took his brother's hand and followed him back down the stairs to the big living area, and allowed St John to sit him down on the couch, raising his feet up so that he could lie back, and then St John was throwing a thick blanket over him and tucking it around him, reaching out to push back a tendril of damp hair from his forehead before going to the bar to pour out a splash of brandy for each of them.
"Dad'll kill …." String mumbled through a mouthful of chattering teeth, watching as St John returned with two beautiful cut glass balloon glasses each with about an inch of dark amber liquid sloshing inside, then realised what he had been about to say and fresh tears began to roll unhindered down his cheeks.
"I don't think he'd mind, kid …. Drink it. It's medicinal …." St John advised, downing his own medicine in one gulp and then almost fought not to gag as the alcohol burned its way down his throat.
Reluctantly, Stringfellow took a sip, wrinkling his nose at the strong smell even before he took his first taste. It burned his mouth and his throat and he too was coughing by the time he had swallowed the first gulp and St John had to take the glass off him before he spilled what was left all over himself.
"Sinj …."
There was hint of panic in the younger boy's voice as St John began to walk away from him, wanting to take his mother's precious crystal glass back to the bar before it got broken, his intention being to then go to the radio, located in a cupboard just off the kitchen, to try to reach Dominic Santini, but the fear and the panic he saw and heard in Stringfellow's voice brought him to an abrupt halt.
"Don't leave me …. Don't leave me!"
"I'm not leaving you, String …." St John assured, setting the glass down on the bar before striding quickly back to squat down beside his brother as he lay on the couch, big blue eyes filled with fear. "I'll never leave you, kid, I promise, but I have to go use the radio. We have to try to reach Uncle Dom …. Ok?"
String nodded gently, but when St John made to rise, he immediately reached out to grab his hand.
St John Hawke looked into his little brother's face and he was suddenly consumed by a tidal wave of tenderness and love for the little guy.
He'd been so brave, so grown up, but the shock was getting to him now, and all he really wanted was his big brother to stay with him, to reassure him that he wasn't alone, but he was also scared of acting like a baby in his brother's eyes, especially as his brother had already explained that he needed to be a man about this …. He was afraid of letting his brother down, of letting himself down ...
"C'mere squirt …." St John reached out and pulled the young boy into his arms, cradling his slender shaking body to him as the tears and sobs overwhelmed his frail frame.
The boys held on tightly to each other, and finally St John too allowed his grief free reign.
He did not care if it was the macho thing to do or not. They were brothers, and they needed each other.
What shame was there in them holding each other and sharing their grief, comforting each other, supporting each other?
All they had left was each other.
St John Hawke was enough of a man not to be ashamed to let his little brother see him weep.
They held onto each other tightly, and then at last, St John lifted Stringfellow from the couch and carried him with him to the radio, cradling him on his lap as he pulled up one of the dining chairs to sit on and reached out to the radio to make their call for help.
Stringfellow dropped his head to rest on St John's broad shoulder, in awe of his older brother, touched by his silent tears and the gentle way he had held him close, snuggling in closer, his arms wrapped tightly around St John's waist and neck, as he sniffled and snuffled and tried to get himself under control so that he could face the ordeal ahead, when Dominic or the sheriff or whoever turned up to find out what had happened.
When it was done, and the boys sat silently, waiting for help to come, St John placed a loving hand on the back of Stringfellow's head, drawing his gaze up to his face at last, and the smile Stringfellow saw there took his breath away, filled with such sadness and love and something more, a silent promise that so long as he lived, his big brother would always be there for him and Stringfellow did not need to force himself to return the smile with equal sorrow and a fierce love, making his own silent pledge, that he would never forget this day, the compassionate and loving way his brother had taken care of himself, the fact that he had saved his life ... and that if St John ever needed him he would not fail him …. He would be there to save him too, one day ...