The Lunar Balloon
by Shaylen A. Maxwell"I have a mother and a father," she insists. But it's difficult to believe her. Under a rust-red sky she ties a sapphire-blue balloon around her waist. "I need to go home."
She is 4.4 million years old, although she doesn't look a day older than six. She has nothing on her bones besides tight skin and freckles; so undernourished she's got a pair of knobby knees that smack together when she kneels. The dress isn't fit for a trip to the moon.
"This balloon isn't big enough to lift me," she confesses. She gives the ribbon, fastened around her waist, a tug. The sun is at the horizon and it lights her face amber to match the clouds.
You take a seat in the dirt, careful not to get too dirty. You are expected home, and you'll be late. Better to be late and clean than late and dirty. She won't make her bedtime tonight...
"Once upon a time, the Earth was a sterile globe of molten rocks. My mother was up there, back then," she explains to you, pointing straight up. She lifts her eyes to the sky, and her overgrown bangs get in the way of her view. She brushes them to the side and stares. You gaze, following her fingertips. The moon's creeping up just over the hill, and it's no bigger than a sliver. "The moon is hungry," she says softly.
She is hungry.
"Don't be ungrateful, boy," she warns. "Life is a gift bestowed upon you at the time of your conception. And you owe it to the moon, and you owe it to me."
"Is that so?" you wonder aloud. You don't feel grateful, just yet. But as she reminds you, few do. And this is the first time you've heard her story.
The child repositions herself on the soil, asking you to hand her another balloon. You have three more, tied around your ankles: a citrine yellow, a ruby red, and an emerald green. You untie them and she takes them from you with a tug of her hand. Forgive her for being urgent, she's been an orphan for over 4 million years.
"My mother's name was Theia. She was traversing the stars, snuggly tucked into the crevices of an extraterrestrial stone en route to Earth," she continues. "And pregnant! It was no easy feat, either. You think your Momma had a tough time, you should have seen mine. Waddling around on a big cold rock, surely that would be rather lonesome, don't you think?"
You nod. She ties the rest of the ribbons around her midriff while tucking her patent leather shoes under the exposed root of a nearby tree. She doesn't want to lift off before she's done this story.
"My mother let out a scream as she entered Earth's atmosphere. It was certainly not the ideal time to go into labor, but that's just what happened. Her water broke, her eyebrows were singed off by the flames, and she struggled to breathe. Back then Earth was no more than a thick crust of hot rocks, no blue sky or clouds. Pretty much good for nothing as far as planets go."
Kind of like you.
"As the protoplanet pummeled toward Earth's surface, I was descending the birth canal." You wince and she laughs. "Well, that's how the story goes, boy. Labor is rarely very pretty. My mother was frantic, and alone, with a wailing infant in her clutches. She didn't have a husband like your Momma either. In fact, she was unmarried. Just like Mary, Mommy was a virgin." You laugh this time, and you're entitled to. She doesn't take it personally. She simply juts out her chin and touches the bark of the tree with her thin fingers. "Oh, stop it," she shouts. "How would you know?"
The moon climbs the sky, and the sun descends.
"My mother was not destined to stay lonely though. Within minutes, my mother met my father in a head-on collision. He was part of the jagged stone: inanimate, until mysteriously stirred to life. It was love at first sight. The sparks flew, the Earth erupted, and I was thrown from my mother's arms as we struck the surface. She did her best to hold on, but she couldn't. My father consoled her, as I was thrust to the barren ground."
You study her, but she doesn't waver. You adjust your palms. The soil's leaving imprints in your skin. It hurts.
"You know, if it weren't for her the Earth would be barren to this day. As a result of the collision, the planet and Theia's stone fused to form the oceans, the debris left behind providing the recipe for life to take root within them. And I was among this life, left behind like an egg to be hatched in good time." She pauses and eyes you suspiciously. "Scoff all you like, boy. But I was," she insists. "Though I may not have looked like this back then. At first, I had gills... Behave, boy! Don't roll your eyes at me. I was quite pretty, believe it or not. Like a prehistoric pike with fins and teeth that I could've used to bite you. Who are you to doubt me? You are not so lucky to have lived as I have."
She has a point. She kicks up the dirt and the sky darkens to a violent violet. The clouds part and fall from the sky like chunks of old Play-Doh.
"Everyone has it wrong, you know. Worshiping God and stuff... You owe your life to my mother. She's the real God, even if she wasn't one for formal titles. Next time you want to pray to someone, you can pray to her instead of that stupid Bible of yours..."
She slowly removes her left foot and takes a step forward, her remaining foot still lodged under the roots, just in case. "It's nearly time," she announces.
You nod. The sky goes dark and murky, and the brightest of the stars make their first appearance in the navy firmament over your head. You take a deep breath - you're sort of afraid of the dark. She isn't. But she's had over 4 million years to conquer this phobia.
"I took root in the sea until I could crawl out, but by then I was all alone. My mother and father were carried off in debris from the cataclysm, debris that would eventually clump together to become the moon..."
"I don't believe that," you finally respond. You scoop up a handful of soil and toss it at her. She doesn't flinch. She's not afraid of the dirt, or your disbelief.
"Really? Well then how do you account for the oxygen-isotope similarity between the moon and the Earth?" she asks, narrowing her eyes.
"Since when did you become a scientist?"
"Just as I suspected: You cannot account for it. Now shush..." she scolds, "And don't interrupt unless you're asked. The moon stole away one-third of the Earth's mantle and took my parents with it. Don't you see, boy, I never got my goodbye."
For an instant you think you hear her voice catch in her throat. She just might weep, and it would be quite a feat to witness. She has too much confidence, you think, to be a little girl.
"I have to go home," she confesses. "In four million years I have not slept; the moon keeps me awake. And I see them up there, on the crust of the moon's surface, waving for me to join them. They want me; I know they never meant to leave me."
This time it is you who narrows your eyes.
"I know what you're thinking. Why haven't they come for me, then? If they indeed miss me, right? This is not some typical orphan story, boy." A tear erupts in her left eye, falls down her pale cheek, and catches on her chin. She wipes it away with her fingertips and for a moment nearly lets her foot get loose. She steadies herself and regains her composure. "On the moon they don't have helium balloons. Since they cannot come for me, I have to go to them."
At this, she motions for you to join her. You obey. You stand. You wipe your bottom. And you scurry across the soil, the cuffs of your corduroy pants turning brown in the muck. "Don't go yet," you beg, as you reach her side. After all, you still don't believe she'll go, and you'll miss her terribly if she succeeds. "My mother wants me home and she's making a stew."
"I want to go home to my mother, too."
"Well, then hurry up," you urge.
"I need the night's sky to navigate," she tells you. As though you're not smart enough to figure that one out yourself. "Now hold onto me. And don't get any ideas. I may be over 4 million years old, but I am still a lady and a lady does not like to be groped." You roll your eyes but you approach her. You hold her at her hips, careful not to wrap your arms too tightly around her. She's delicate. "Now hold me down and drag me to the field."
She points and you drag her. You're not a pessimist by nature, but you're enough of a rationalist to see through her logic. Slowly you pull her, keeping her steady as she stares up into the sky. Her eyes are wet but she's grinning. "Mommy, Daddy, I'm coming. I'm coming," she declares. She looks at you and you look back at her. "They'll read me a bedtime story tonight."
"They have stories on the moon?"
"Of course, silly! Just not helium balloons."
"And what about space? Don't you need a helmet to breathe or something, like the astronauts on TV?"
"Nonsense," she states. "I survived the dinosaurs, the Dodo bird, and the Dark Ages. I can survive anything. I'm no ordinary lady, after all."
You smile and you kiss her cheek. It is an impulse, and it surprises you as much as surprises her. She shrieks and she knocks your hands off her waist. Free of your weight, her midriff is tugged upward. "But wait," you shout, as her tiny feet leave the land below. She grips the ribbons in her palms, and you lurch upward, trying to grab onto her shoes. She kicks you away and bruises your wrist. You try again, but within seconds you're no longer tall enough to reach her.
"Say goodbye to me," she cries, as she starts up into the dark abyss. "You may not get a kiss, but you can say something nice."
"Write me?" you suggest. It's the best you could thing of, now that you won't be getting a kiss.
She wipes at her face to remove the residue left from your lips. The stars shine bright above her head and the sliver of the hungry moon awaits her. "I cannot promise you that. They might not have pencils." You smile. You blow her another kiss and she swats it away once more.
"Be safe?"
"I will," she promises. And she lifts her hand in a wave. She may be four million years old, but you'll never believe it.
In the distance you hear your mother. She's cussing into the wind and the moon is barely bright enough to guide you home. "She's calling me," you tell the little girl, now no larger than your thumb she's climbing so fast.
"Thank you for the balloons."
You watch for a second more. You want to wait to see her reach the stars, but your mother sounds like she's ready to boil your bones in vinegar. You shudder, finally turning to run home. The whole way you stumble across the uneven soil, glancing over your shoulder as she continues to ascend. The sky goes black and you lose sight of her by the time you've hit your yard. You slip under the fence and tear your left pant leg at the knee. In the grass, you pause, and listen for the girl. You cannot hear anything over the sounds of the crickets and the hoots of the owl perched upon your roof.
She goes up, up, up and away. The breeze freezes her earlobes. It's a cold night, and the higher she ascends the more her thin frame shivers. She holds tight to the chords, her waist pinched by the ribbon, and she keeps her eyes fixed on the moon. There is no turning back.
At the table, you keep your eyes peeled to the window: for a sign, for a trace of her. She's long gone, you tell yourself. And you believe it. You wonder whether she'll visit, if only in your slumber. After all, they haven't helium balloons or pencils, and you're only a silly boy, after all. An hour later, you say goodnight from your bedside window, before you slip under the warm covers.
You lay awake and wonder: is her nose bleeding from the altitude? Do her balloons pop? Is there a macabre silence as she plummets? Will she fall from the sky and land in her front yard? Will a bed of wild flowers cradle her weight? You close your heavy eyes. Will she shout when you're too asleep to hear it? And will she be rediscovered in the morning by her father, stumbling out and still hung over, finding her lying softly in the soil with a grin upon her face?
Or will she make it? Will she be reunited with them: the parents she's sought for 4.4 million years?
Either way, she'll still find her way home.
She'll crawl up and fall fast asleep in tiny crater, tucked under a layer of moon dust. And she'll have the night light of a thousand stars to keep her from harm.
©Shaylen A. Maxwell
Shaylen A. Maxwell is a native of Southern Ontario and graduated from York University with a degree in psychology and a minor in education. She emerged from the womb penning novels, and is presently working on two: Turtle Bones, and Dante, and the rest of what never happened. An excerpt from the latter will appear in the Fall 2007 edition of Wild Violet. Shaylen currently resides with her menagerie of wild animals: her boyfriend Jonathan, her red wolf, her silly cat, and her four wabbits.