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He had made the kite himself. Impressive for a kid of six.
John had merely watched as his brother cut the brightly coloured paper, folding it and pasting it to a cross of twigs, just like he’d taught him. Arthur was a quiet, distant child, prone to sickness and accident, always wandering off when John couldn’t spare the time to keep him busy.
It was a marvelous bit of work, red with a clumsily-painted dragon and a tail made of scraps of ribbon from their sister’s sewing, the string spare baling twine. On a fine day, the kite could dive and swoop like an eagle.
Father was away on business. That made John the man of the house. And when Arthur went missing one blustery Sunday, his responsibility.
It is near dark when he finds Arthur at the top of the hill, covered with dirt, face streaked with tears, nursing a scraped knee, fine Sunday clothes ruined. Of course, the kite had been drawn like a magnet to the only tree in their fields.
It is an old tree, tall and dark. It had been struck by lightning once, leaving a wide scar in the bark, but it was still covered in leaves, just starting to fall. But the wind can’t free the unfortunate kite. The bare, snarled branches have it trapped at the top.
"Don’t cry, Arthur," John says, pausing to give his brother a pat on the back. "Men don’t cry."
He is already taking off his jacket and rolling up his sleeves. Arthur takes his jacket and watches with quiet awe as John scales the snarled old tree to grab the kite from its clutches. He tears his sleeve on a branch on the way down, leaving a scratch on his arm.
He leans against the tree to catch his breath, handing his little brother the lost kite. It was torn a little, but Arthur doesn’t seem to care.
John takes his hand and walks him back. The sun flickers in the lines of wheat, painting them with tiger stripes in the twilight.
They would both get a scolding when they made it back to the farmhouse, but the gratitude and love in his brother’s eyes was worth it all.