Escape, I Hope
Author: Sachi
From: Hillsborough, USA
Age: 13
Date: 22nd Mar 2000, 2:24 AM
Rating: 5
Comment:
Title: Escape, I Hope
The numbness of the day before left me, but as a sharp, nauseating pain stabbed at the insides of my stomach, I suddenly wished it back.
I struggled desperately to sit up, but the slow gesture was apparently too fast and I ended up spilling my latest meal on the no longer green grass. For awhile I stared at the stinking mess, unconciously trying to figure out what it had once been. I soon tired of this and my eyes strayed to the surroundings.
Expecting to see a wide neverending blue sky above me, I was surprised. The only sky I saw was the blue patch teasing me from outside a small smoke-hole on the top of a skin tent.
That's strange, my people lit their fires outside the tents, and thus had no need for smoke-holes. Realizing this, my heart sank pitifully.
I was at a enemy camp.
What seemed to be a thousand thoughts rushed through my brain, so quickly that I was unable to catch just one. "Calm, calm," I told himself, hoping that I would listen to his own advice.
I did. And I began to devise both possible and impossible ways of escape. Unfortunately, the perposperous escape plans outnumbered the conceivable and after tossing away idea after idea, I decided to do first thing first. I needed to examine my situation.
Peering through the half-open tent flap, I strained to see all that I could. It was then I realized that there was only one tent, and I was in it. The only other things I saw that wouldn't normally be found in the forest was a black horse nibbling happily on soft mosses under a dark green fern tree.
No one else in sight. I decided to wait until someone appeared, for if I was caught in the act of escaping, I would be heavily guarded and my chances would be greatly narrowed. So I waited, and waited, and when no one came, I prepared to grap the horse (for I knew not how far from my camp I was) and make a break for it. If I was lucky.
I wasn't. Sure, I managed to get on the horse and I did get it to gallop, for a little while. For a very little while, for out from a behind a tree, a man in a brown tunic and rugged black boots, around my age stepped out from the bushes. At first I paid no heed to him, for I was as good as gone when he was on foot and I on a horse. But I should have paid heed. All he did was whistle. And the horse stopped.
No matter how much I wiggled and kicked, the horse would not move, and soon I found myself face to face with the whistling man. His face was unreadable as he said simply, "We train our horses well." Then he led me back to the tent and pushed a bowl of a lumpy gray gruel in my hand. He then left me alone, but I knew he was close by.
Fine, I would leave later, on FOOT.
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