Winged Things

Magical realism often gives preference to outcasts and oddbods - those who do not fit into the "natural" order of things. And one of the many ways in which this is demonstrated is through the ability to float or fly. This aspect of magical realism has received much critical ridicule, and perhaps on first glance it may appear to be a childish motif and convenient ruse. But in fact, the ability to float or fly is used consistently as a subversive act, a metaphor made real, that critiques dominant ideologies of a fixed and static type. In other words, the political potency of the image of flight lies in the possibility of something other to the current status quo, not necessarily suggesting that we all must defy gravity in order to change the world. Although that would be nice.

Of course, the image of floating or flight also suggests trancendence, and surely this is as much a requirement of any political change as real world action. We must have faith in the possibility of the world being different to take action. If we did not believe anything could change why would we bother in the first place?

Looking through my literary archives today I have found my own flying baby story, began back in the 90's sometime, and still unfinished. But I am setting myself a challenge. In posting the first part of the story, I am ensuring that I will have to finish it so that I may post the remainder. Sure, that's failproof! Anyway, it has been a long time hiding in the back of My Documents, and it feels only right that it should be allowed to see the light.



MILETTE

Once, on a cold night in April, Jacqueline was swimming in the black river beside the houseboat in which she lived. The water was warmer than the air and eased the incessant pain in her lower back, which tonight was especially agonising. There was no moon, only millions and millions of stars that seemed accelerated in their twinkling. Her large belly appeared to shine as it broke the surface of the water. She let out a deep moan as the pain intensified. From the boat her lover called to her.


"Perhaps my love, you are ready to have our child."

Jacqueline moved her body slowly to look into the face of her love.

"Perhaps you are right," she said a little surprised, and then gasped sharply as she felt a slippery child push forth from her womb. Jacqueline reached down into the warm water and clasped onto the slippery body.

"Here it is," she said, as she lifted the baby from the water.

Jacqueline's lover threw him self into the water fully clothed and took them both into his arms. In the darkness of the night the lovers noticed nothing out of place. But on the boat, under the soft gaslight, the transparent little wings under the baby’s arms were hard not to notice.

It was late in the autumn, yet nature had produced the hottest day in twenty years. Jacqueline was walking to the lake in the dizzying heat. She wanted to swim desperately but she meandered at the back of the crowd of children, watching them rush ahead in anticipation. She was the oldest. She was in charge. She let them run ahead, to remind herself as well as anyone who might be looking that she was much more an adult than a child. Her only concession to the oppressive sunshine was to half close her eyes as she walked and imagine herself far away from her family and her youth. It was hardly surprising then, that she should not notice Francoise, who had just turned three, make a furious dash into the field. His little form caught Jacqueline's sleepy eye just as he disappeared amongst the tall grass on the other side.

She gave chase, but he was gone by the time she reached the grass. Besides, she was bored of chasing and hot, very hot. She'd find some way to explain it to her mother when she got home. Lying down in the grass she closed her eyes and began to imagine what it would feel like to be floating in an icy cool pool of water - her own lake somewhere that she didn't have to share with any of the other children. Her thinking made her cool, or so she thought. It felt like the sun had gone behind the clouds. But there are no clouds today Jacqueline reminded herself as she slowly opened her eyes.

And there he was. Antonino. He was knelt over her blocking out the sun.

"I am Antonino."

She breathed in sharply, but she wasn’t scared. She liked the way he kept her cool. From the look of his strong arms, he could keep her warm as well.

"I have a balloon," he said and she expected something a child might be impressed with. She was not a child. She was sixteen. He disappeared into the long grass and momentarily she thought of leaving, offended by his childish offer. But a sudden roaring sound kept her stuck on the spot. Terror filled her up until she saw the magnificent skin of a hot air balloon emerging from the grass. It grew and grew and grew until Jacqueline knew she must love this man, for he knew how to make her fly. Antonino appeared from the grass and took her with him to the basket. As they climbed in she thought briefly of Francoise, her family, the other children, her home on the ground. She gripped the basket as a gust of wind took the balloon up swiftly, and it seemed to Jacqueline that those thoughts, those troublesome little thoughts, must have stayed on the ground without her. She grinned with delight as Antonino gripped her with same wild joy that she felt watching her home grow smaller and smaller in the distance.