Danger In Foreign Lands

• Lulu Postiglione, Grade 6
• Short Story
• 2021

"Help!" I've been screaming my throat horse for hours but it's no use, no one can hear me. The wind howls in my ears, deafening. the sound is closing in around me, unbearably strong. I fight to stay conscious, my sweating hands clinging to the mountain side. I was being tossed around like a puppet on a string by the unmerciful gale. I look down and immediately regret it. There is a four story drop with sharp, jagged rocks at the bottom, waiting for the chance to seize me. But I also catch a glimpse of a lake only a few metres from the rocks. I t doesn't look that deep and it gives me a terrible 0.001% chance-of-working idea. My heart is pounding and tears slip from my chocolate brown eyes, carving wet paths on the surface of my grotty face. I hadn't showered in days, but that was the least of my problems. Above me I hear faint howls of distant wolves as the jungles night predators begin to wake from their slumbers. I glance longingly at my backpack that is hanging precariously on a thin branch only a few measly metres away. If only I could get to it, then I could be able to send out a distress signal. My head is throbbing and I groan in pain, furiously blinking my eyes while I try to keep my vision from blurring. My hands start to slip and I know I am running out of time. I take a deep breath and steady myself. It's now or never. In one swift movement I swing my body and let go, snatching my backpack at the same time. Then I push off the cliff and jump. I clutch my bag to my chest and squeeze my eyes shut, praying that my crazy plan will work. I am falling like a stone and the wind, roaring past, claims all the air left in my lungs, making it impossible for me to breathe. SMASH!! I hit that water with the force of 100 bullet trains and the world turns charcoal black.

*** 2 days later ***

My eyelids flutter and I try to push myself up into a sitting position but firm hands gently lower me back down. I would have argued but I was weak and I let the hands guide me. My eyes open a fraction and I take this as a chance to get my bearings. I spy an old woman in the corner, hunched over a big pot brewing what could only be soup. The smell wafts into the air and reminds me of home and all the delicious food mother would cook for us. The elderly woman's astonishingly fine silver hair catches the sunlight and sparkles like a spiders web in the mid-morning dew. I glance around the room, if that's what you could call it. It looks more like the inside of a tent and it's filled with bottles of mud colored water and objects too exotic to describe. Surrounding the walls are comfy couches and in the center of the tepee, surrounded by a little circle of smooth rocks, is a raging fire, its orange glow casting strange shadows on the walls of the foreign tent. I shudder and fall back to a state of semi-consciousness, and that's when I see it.