wouldn’t dream of it,” my mother said with the faintest hint of a smile. The kind that caused only one dimple to appear, rather than two. “But I mean it, you know.”
“I’m sorry I never really believed,” I said. “Not the way Jack did.”
“It doesn’t make any difference,” my mother replied. Her eyes focused on the beanstalk for a moment, then returned to mine. “You believe now. Be safe and smart up there, my Gen. Be yourself.”
Before I could answer, she turned away and walked quickly toward the house. I turned to face the beanstalk.
There is no going back now
, I thought.
For better or worse, there was only going forward. There was only going
up
. Seizing the trunk of the beanstalk with both hands, I pushed off from the World Below and began to climb.
N INE
How shall I tell you? How shall I even begin to describe what it was like to climb that beanstalk?
It was hard. A lot harder than I thought it would be, and it wasn’t just that the climb was long or that my dratted skirts slowed me down. I’d never been one of those girls who longed to do everything the boys did. Why should I? I did most of Jack’s chores anyway. But scrambling up that beanstalk hand over hand, hour after hour, I wished I’d had the foresight to put on a pair of pants.
Climbing a beanstalk is not like climbing a tree. A tree trunk is firm and hard. It feels unyielding beneath your feet and hands. Even when the wind moves through its branches, a tree feels solid. You can remind yourself that the tree lives and breathes, just as you do yourself. If you really put your imagination to work, you can conjure up an image of sap flowing, deep within. But it’s difficult to really feel this beneath your hands.
From the moment I first touched it, I knew that the beanstalk was different. Never in my life had I felt anything so magical, so alive.
The surface of the stalk was slightly tacky, which helped my hands maintain a firm grip, and kept my feet from slipping as I braced myself. The stalk itself was precisely the right diameter for me. Thick enough so that I could get a good grip, my fingers just touching as I closed my hand around it, but not so thick that my hands grew tired.
Leaves sprang from the stalk with what I can only describe as wild abandon. Some stayed in close, as if huddled against the stalk for protection; others unfurled into the open air, as if eager to explore. But no matter where they were, the leaves never stopped moving. The slightest breath of air made them dance and flutter.
Though I soon found I could rely on its sturdiness and strength (besides, having committed myself, what choice did I have?), it was slightly disconcerting to realize that not just the leaves, but the entire beanstalk itself, was always in motion. It swayed ever so slightly. Whether this was the result of my own movement, or was simply an attribute of all magic beanstalks, I had no way to discover.
I soon found myself settling into a rhythm, grasping a set of leaves with my right hand, boosting myself upward with my right foot braced against the trunk, then repeating the actions on the opposite side. I grew tired. I stopped to catch my breath, leaning my forehead against the great green trunk. My breath my own once more, I recommenced my climb.
Birds fluttered around my head, as if curious about this new creature invading their airy realm. But finally even those dropped away as I continued to climb. Hand over hand, hour after hour, up, up, up, until the very notion of the passage of time lost all meaning. There was only me and the beanstalk. All around us, the wide-open sky, the great expanse between the World Below and the World Above.
I did not look down.
It never even occurred to me to do this, believe it or not. All my energy, all my attention, was focused on going
up
. The higher I climbed, the more filled with possibilities the air seemed to become.
It got cooler too, after a while. Thin wisps of cloud drifted
“I’m sorry I never really believed,” I said. “Not the way Jack did.”
“It doesn’t make any difference,” my mother replied. Her eyes focused on the beanstalk for a moment, then returned to mine. “You believe now. Be safe and smart up there, my Gen. Be yourself.”
Before I could answer, she turned away and walked quickly toward the house. I turned to face the beanstalk.
There is no going back now
, I thought.
For better or worse, there was only going forward. There was only going
up
. Seizing the trunk of the beanstalk with both hands, I pushed off from the World Below and began to climb.
N INE
How shall I tell you? How shall I even begin to describe what it was like to climb that beanstalk?
It was hard. A lot harder than I thought it would be, and it wasn’t just that the climb was long or that my dratted skirts slowed me down. I’d never been one of those girls who longed to do everything the boys did. Why should I? I did most of Jack’s chores anyway. But scrambling up that beanstalk hand over hand, hour after hour, I wished I’d had the foresight to put on a pair of pants.
Climbing a beanstalk is not like climbing a tree. A tree trunk is firm and hard. It feels unyielding beneath your feet and hands. Even when the wind moves through its branches, a tree feels solid. You can remind yourself that the tree lives and breathes, just as you do yourself. If you really put your imagination to work, you can conjure up an image of sap flowing, deep within. But it’s difficult to really feel this beneath your hands.
From the moment I first touched it, I knew that the beanstalk was different. Never in my life had I felt anything so magical, so alive.
The surface of the stalk was slightly tacky, which helped my hands maintain a firm grip, and kept my feet from slipping as I braced myself. The stalk itself was precisely the right diameter for me. Thick enough so that I could get a good grip, my fingers just touching as I closed my hand around it, but not so thick that my hands grew tired.
Leaves sprang from the stalk with what I can only describe as wild abandon. Some stayed in close, as if huddled against the stalk for protection; others unfurled into the open air, as if eager to explore. But no matter where they were, the leaves never stopped moving. The slightest breath of air made them dance and flutter.
Though I soon found I could rely on its sturdiness and strength (besides, having committed myself, what choice did I have?), it was slightly disconcerting to realize that not just the leaves, but the entire beanstalk itself, was always in motion. It swayed ever so slightly. Whether this was the result of my own movement, or was simply an attribute of all magic beanstalks, I had no way to discover.
I soon found myself settling into a rhythm, grasping a set of leaves with my right hand, boosting myself upward with my right foot braced against the trunk, then repeating the actions on the opposite side. I grew tired. I stopped to catch my breath, leaning my forehead against the great green trunk. My breath my own once more, I recommenced my climb.
Birds fluttered around my head, as if curious about this new creature invading their airy realm. But finally even those dropped away as I continued to climb. Hand over hand, hour after hour, up, up, up, until the very notion of the passage of time lost all meaning. There was only me and the beanstalk. All around us, the wide-open sky, the great expanse between the World Below and the World Above.
I did not look down.
It never even occurred to me to do this, believe it or not. All my energy, all my attention, was focused on going
up
. The higher I climbed, the more filled with possibilities the air seemed to become.
It got cooler too, after a while. Thin wisps of cloud drifted
Similar Books
