Shortly before lunchtime on the second day, Stephenson was lying in the shade to escape the unrelenting heat of the sun when he caught sight of something yellow far off in the distant sky. Whatever the object was appeared to be moving slow and approaching from the north. Stephenson perked up grabbed the small black device and soft jogged toward higher ground to gain a better vantage point. Once there he waited patiently for the object to move closer. Ten more minutes passed before a huge rainbow-colored canvas floated into view. When it cleared the obscurity of the tree canopy Stephenson saw it plainly for the first time — it was a hot air balloon coming to his rescue! Overjoyed with glee, he pressed the red button on the homing device and held it for ten seconds. When he released the button, the device began to vibrate and a small obscure green light illuminated beside the antenna.
“Yes,” Stephenson whispered, fist pumping with his free hand. “I’m rescued.”
When the balloon got within a couple of hundred yards it began its descent. Now that it was close he could see that two passengers occupied the balloon’s basket — one was navigating, the other held a rifle. The balloon’s slow, gradual landing offered him ample time to follow its trajectory toward a landing site.
Stephenson was relieved to finally be going home, that was, until he heard what sounded like several tribesmen shouting an undecipherable language in the distance behind him.
Oh, no!
It was clear the tribesmen had also seen the balloon and were coming to investigate. Within minutes he would have unwelcomed company. Stephenson picked up his pace hoping to get to the balloon before the tribesmen did.
The combination of his increased speed, and the balloon slowing down, meant the two should converge in less than five minutes. By the sounds of the mumbled voices closing in behind him in the forest, the tribesmen seemed to be closing the gap at a steady clip.
At last, after a strenuous uphill climb, Stephenson cleared a final rise in the landscape and saw the balloon hovering no more than fifty feet above the ground in a small clearing just up ahead. Behind him, the tribesmen, continuing their pursuit, sounded as though they could pop into view any moment.
Panicked, Stephenson broke into a dead run toward the balloon shouting for them to descend. Although his sprint was all downhill, he had close to the length of a football field to cover. Both balloon passengers heard his shouting and looked his way, but the balloon remained at the same altitude.
“Hurry!” he shouted, gasping for air. “Come down quickly,” he implored, waving his arms up and down. “There are others coming. We’ve got to get out of here, now.”
But all his warnings were to no avail, because no sooner had his words ceased than a crowd of tribesmen, like a herd of hyenas, broke the fringe of the trees in a mad dash toward them.
Seeing this, the two men in the basket instantly joined Stephenson in panic mode. The Navigator was the first to respond, urgently fussing with one of the ropes; soon after the Rifleman reacted and took aim.
Stephenson wasn’t sure what to make of the situation but did the only thing he could do — he kept running. When he’d gotten to within fifty yards or so Stephenson saw what the Navigator of the balloon was up to; he was unraveling a rope ladder.
He wants me to climb?
With that thought completed, Stephenson watched as the Navigator dropped the ladder off the side of the balloon, but kept his altitude. At the balloon’s current height, the ladder was long enough that the tail end reached the ground with extra length to spare.
“Grab hold of the ladder,” the Navigator yelled, pointing. “We’ll pull you up. It’s the only way.”
I’m going to die.
Meanwhile, the tribesmen were drawing closer. They moved much faster than Stephenson on their own turf, especially now that the objective was in sight.
Stephenson was within a few yards of the balloon when the first spear landed a few feet to his right.
“Dear Lord, have mercy,” Stephenson yelled, then lowered his head in a final sprint.
The words had barely left his mouth when a second spear plunged into the ground six inches from his right foot.
BANG! BANG!
The Rifleman, seeing how close the spears had come to Stephenson, popped off two quick rounds at the feet of the lead tribesmen as warning shots.
It was only a temporarily diversion but it was enough. It bought Stephenson the few extra seconds he needed to reach the ladder. With a huge, lunging final leap, Stephenson propelled himself headlong toward the ladder where both outstretched hands found the same rung. He clung to the ladder with a death grip as his weight and momentum turned the ladder into a swinging pendulum dangling beneath the balloon. The Navigator simultaneously pulled a lever to actuate the balloon’s blast valve. This sent a load of heated exhaust up into the mouth of the balloon triggering it to rise quickly. Their ascending altitude, combined with the sloping terrain of the jungle, helped to further separate them from the pursuing tribesmen. In a matter of seconds they were well out of harm’s way.
Though clearly futile, the undeterred tribesman continued chunking spears and rocks up at the floating intruders as Stephenson and the balloon climbed further and further out of reach.
BANG! BANG! BANG!
The Rifleman fired three more times for good measure as the crowd of tribesmen stood shaking their fists and shouting at the sky. All three balloon riders watched in relief as the defeated tribesmen slowly disappeared below them.
Now that they were out of danger, it took the Navigator and Rifleman considerable effort to drag Stephenson up and into the balloon. Exhausted from the chase and barely able to hang on, he was little more than dead weight.
With Stephenson secured inside the basket, the balloon headed north toward the helicopter pad. From there Stephenson would be taken to a limousine that would, in turn, deliver him to the Manaus airport.
Stephenson was restless during his flight back to Boston. He only had two wishes left and his unpreparedness and lack of details pertaining to his first wish had betrayed him. But that wasn’t going to happen this time. For this next wish he knew exactly what he wanted and he was determined to do whatever it took to make it happen.
Now that he knew what to ask for, creating his own private healing pool would not be a problem, it was where to create it that would take some savvy thought. It would need to be in a place that was sure not to ever be disturbed. He spent the last portion of the flight dozing in and out of consciousness replaying the same thought over in his mind.
My private Healing Pool will be perfect, but it must be created in a safe, hidden place.
Immediately after landing in Boston, Stephenson caught a cab to go visit his wife, Rachel. He got a strange look from the cabby when he gave his desired destination — The Holy Cross cemetery in Concord.
“You know we’re in Boston, right?” the cabby asked.
“Yes, sir. I do.”
“Okay, then. You’re the boss.”
Forty-five minutes later the driver pulled up to the cemetery’s entrance and put the cab in park.
“Should I leave the meter running?” the cabby asked.
“No,” Stephenson said, handing the man three, crisp one-hundred dollar bills. “Keep the change.”
“Wow! Thanks,” the cabby said.
Stephenson exited the car without hesitation. “No…thank you.” He turned and walked through the iron gates guarding the cemetery’s entrance with anticipation bombarding his mind.
Once inside he headed for the Northwest corner of the property to a secluded, full acre of land located at the back of the cemetery. He’d purchased it many years ago hoping to secure his family’s privacy. He’d made this same trip many times before, but was now making it, for the first time in a long time, on foot.