Pippin Carol Lindsay

Carol Lindsay

Marielle lay floating in the water below the sheer cliff wall, hundreds of swallows darting in and out of their mud nests, up, down, left, right, with lightning flicks of their wings. Frenetically, she thought, an apt use for her ‘word of the week’, assigned to her just yesterday by her mother. She would be sure to describe this moment to her parents at dinner tonight, dropping the word casually, impressing them with her ability to quickly fold such a word into her vocabulary. From flat on her back, the sky was a blue dome hung with brilliant white cumulous clouds, their underbellies flat as a ruler, as if a wire had been drawn clean and straight across their base so they might scoot above the earth with no friction. The white was of such intensity she had to squint to stare at the clouds, so she closed her eyes and waited for one to pass over her, the shadow turning the inside of her eyelids from blood orange to almost purple, then back again as the cloud moved on.

She slowly drifted, pondering the rooted nature of humans, ever tied to the earth by their feet. What might it be like to enter the three-dimensional freedom of the atmosphere, released from the ground to look down on the world from the air? She knew people flew in airplanes and hot air balloons, she had seen it in National Geographic magazines, and had read that one could even see the curvature of the earth from high altitude. But to defy gravity and fly on one’s own power, like the swallows, to maneuver through and with the air, not just breathe it or feel it on one’s skin when the wind blows. She swam to the cliff and climbed to a ledge six feet above the water, causing an uproar among the swallows as they flew in alarm from their nests. She stood on the threshold of the rock shelf, curling her toes over the rim, focusing her vision on the far shore to calm her breath. Drawing her arms out wide, she launched herself as high and far as she could, eyes wide open, seeking the moment when she might escape the pull of gravity and hover in the atmosphere, even if just for a second. The afternoon wore on and Marielle climbed higher and higher up the cliff face, finding small footholds and rock projections from which to leap into the water, her stomach tumbling with every plunge. Each time she found a reference point on the

opposite bank to determine if she floated mid-air before falling, each time disappointed that she sank like a stone. With the last of the sun, she climbed to the uppermost reaches of the cliff, over twenty feet high, the contours of the lakebed clearly visible through the haze of the water. To jump from any point on the cliff was strictly forbidden by her parents, let alone from this height, the danger obvious even to her at age thirteen. She knew she ought to head home but instead found herself weighing options and consequences while peering over the edge, the sound of her heart pulsing in her ears. A swallow flew up and over the cliff top, inches from her knees, deftly veering back down the rock face and over the surface of the water, effortless and nimble. Marielle took ten steps back from the edge and ran full steam over the precipice. When she crawled from the water, the western horizon held but a waning strand of orange and the cool air from the upper canyon was moving down the lake, chilling her wet body. She put on her shoes and hurried home through the meadow, conjuring multiple explanations for her lateness, all of them involving swimming and losing track of time, none of them entailing her feet leaving solid ground. She had never lied to her parents before but knew her antics on the cliff would be sure to cause worry and a certain measure of punishment, so she practiced her excuses as she ran. Nearing the house, she saw there were no lights on, both puzzling and surprising her. As she stepped foot on the front porch, her mother’s voice called from the darkness. “There you are, come sit with us. The moon just crested the hill.” Steam rose from coffee cups at the far end of the porch, smoke-like in the amber glow of moonlight, her parents’ hands visible but their faces concealed by the shadow of the eave. “Oh hi, I didn’t see you guys,” Marielle said brightly. “You scared me!” She immediately regretted her choice of words, imagining their fear at her lateness and opening the door to a reprimand. Instead, they remained oddly calm and invisible in the shadows. “Dinner leftovers are in the fridge. Help yourself,” her mother said, followed by what sounded like a suppressed chuckle. Marielle went into the kitchen, suddenly ravenous. On her third 70

helping of food her mother appeared by her side. “My, you’re certainly hungry. You must have had an active day.” “Uh…I guess,” Marielle stammered, her cheeks reddening. “Just the usual. You know. It was so hot I did a lot of swimming.” “It was a good day for it,” her mother replied. “By the way. Your Dad and I found a new ‘word of the week’ for you. Come up with definitions tonight and use them in sentences, then we’ll go over them tomorrow morning.” “Yeah, sure,” Marielle said, now completely flummoxed by her parents composed behavior. Upstairs in her room, she found a piece of paper on her desk with the word ‘mendacious’ carefully written in her mother’s best handwriting. She got out her dictionary and was shocked at the definition: ‘…not telling the truth, lying’. Marielle laid back on her bed, suddenly feeling hot and ill, her stomach in knots. They knew. She slept sporadically that night and woke early to her mother peeling apples for a pie. “Come help me,” she called to Marielle. “I just picked these pippins and they’re exceptional.” Together they skinned the apples and cut them into small pieces, tossing them with sugar and cinnamon. “Go ahead and have a bite,” her mother encouraged. Marielle popped a chunk into her mouth, the sweet followed by a surge of intense tart on the back of her tongue. “I love pippins,” her mother said. “It’s as if a normally sweet apple gets to have a little adventure, be a bit naughty,” she said, winking at Marielle before folding the apples into the pie crust. Marielle burst into tears. “I’ve been mendacious!” she sobbed. After a full confession of her cliff jumping sins, she and her parents sat on the porch eating hot pie straight from the oven. They discussed the hazards of the cliff and the potential for hidden rocks below the surface, the importance of checking underwater before jumping, and above all, being truthful with her parents about her activities. As they sat and talked, the land around them slowly woke up, birds and dragonflies drifting by, Ponderosa pines emitting a sweet, resinous scent with the warming sun, and in the distance, the heavy chopping sound of a piliated woodpecker. Marielle inhaled deeply. She listened 71

to the voices of her parents and the familiar sounds of the woods and felt a comforting sense of being cradled in this place, protected and safe. Forgiven. That night she was jostled awake to her mother sitting on the side of her bed, looking otherworldly as the moonlight through the window backlit the halo of her wiry hair. “Marielle,” her mother said urgently. “Get up. Come with me!” “Mama, what’s wrong?” Marielle said. “Nothing, love. I just need you to come with me. Leave your nighty on but put on your shoes.” The porch outside was draped in full moon shadows, trees, branches, and needles lying in perfect black silhouette on the ground. Her mother turned abruptly and walked down the path through the meadow without looking back, then climbed up a steep game trail that led to the top of the cliff. A slight breeze blew across the lake below, scattering the moonlight into thousands of shards on its surface. They sat in awed silence, side by side, watching the splinters of moon undulate and ripple. Her mother reached for Marielle’s hand. “Why did you jump from here?” she asked without

verdict.

Marielle thought for a moment. “Because I wanted to glide in the air, without gravity. Like the swallows.” “And did you?” her mother asked. “No. Well, maybe for a second. I’m not sure,” she answered. Her mother stood up and pulled her nightgown over her head, naked and stark in the moonlight. “C’mon then. Show me how, Pippin,” she grinned. Marielle took off her pajamas, held her mother’s hand tightly, and together, they leapt.