Chapter Eight: Advice on Flying (Part Two)

Tales of Corwin

The next morning, Mark rose early, before his parents were up. He put on his bathing suit, grabbed a towel, and went down to the dock. The dawn was still grey. The water was completely still. Mark scanned the lake carefully, but there was not a boat in sight. He reached down from the end of the dock into the lake, and blessed himself with the water. Thank you for this beautiful lake, dear God, he whispered. I’m your man, whatever comes. Then he walked back to the foot of the dock. He closed his eyes and tried to remember that feeling from his dream: you don’t make yourself go up, you make everything else go down. Taking a deep breath, he spread his arms as if for flight, and ran down the length of the dock. At the end of the dock he suddenly pulled up short, feeling completely ridiculous. His momentum carried him a bit too far, however, and he lost his balance, windmilled his arms, and fell off the end of the dock into the water. He didn’t dare to repeat the exercise that morning, for fear that his first big splash had drawn the attention of his parents. The second morning, he decided he would just run down to the end of the dock and dive into the lake. He would try to pay attention to that brief time between leaving the dock and entering the water—how it felt to be zooming horizontally through the air—but he wouldn’t try to make that time last any longer than usual. He dove in as planned and repeated the exercise a dozen times or more; it didn’t matter if it woke his parents, since he wasn’t doing anything out of the ordinary. The third morning it was raining gently. At first, Mark decided to stay in bed; the sound of the rain on the cottage roof was soothing, and the thought of going out into that rain for a swim (or a flight) was unappealing. But when he went back to sleep, he had a vivid dream: he was standing on a cliff in the Starved Rock State Park, well beyond where people were ordinarily allowed to go. It was night time, and a gibbous moon was shining. He was looking out off the cliff, and he was considering jumping. Then suddenly Mark panicked; he realized that he was dreaming, and with a sick dread recalled how much trouble he could get into by dreaming of flying. He woke in a sweat and lost all interest in going back to sleep. He decided to get up and make pancakes. The fourth morning, he awoke in the grey dawn to find that the rain was over. The weather was cool and still, and banks of grey mist were slowly moving across the lake like surface clouds. Mark resolved to try again. He put on his swimsuit and grabbed a towel—then put the towel back down. I won’t be needing it, he thought deliberately. When he reached the foot of the dock, he immediately ran forward with his arms outstretched for flight. Monday night, around nine o’clock, Sandra was reading at home. In her favorite chair, in her bathrobe, with tea and biscotti on the table beside her, she was enjoying the privacy of an evening off. Her attention wandered from the book, and she began to wonder—just idly—whether perhaps Mark was back from his trip home yet. His parents sounded like nice people. She could imagine what it must be like to want to spend time with your parents. And a cottage on a lake in Maine! She put her book down, and got up to get a fresh cup of tea. Just then, there was a knock at the door. Mug in hand, she went to the door and turned on the porch light. Peeking through the window by the door, she could see Mark, in jeans and a hoodie. His wavy brown hair looked wilder than usual, and he was smiling. She unlocked the door and pulled it open. “Mark!” she said. “Come in! Would you like a cup of tea?” “Hi Sandra, it’s good to see you,” said Mark. “I feel like I’ve been away forever. So much has happened—so much I want to tell you. But, gee —” and here he seemed to notice for the first time that she was in her bathrobe, “—I wasn’t thinking.