Boys -- Juvenile fiction; Fantasy literature; Nature -- Juvenile fiction; Self-reliance -- Juvenile fiction
He was not calling to his own mother far away on the great plain; he
had forgotten her. Now he only thought of the beautiful woman of the
Hills, who was so strong, and loved him and made him call her
"Mother"; and to her he cried in his need for help. Now he
remembered her warm, protecting bosom, and how she had cried every
night at the fear of losing him; how when he ran from her she
followed him, calling to him to return. Ah, how cold was the sea's
bosom, how bitter its lips!
Struggling still with the great wave, struggling in vain, blinded
and half-choked with salt water, he was driven violently against a
great black object tumbling about in the surf, and with all the
strength of his little hands he clung to it. The water rolled over
him, and beat against him, but he would not lose his hold; and at
last there came a bigger wave and lifted him up and cast him right
on to the object he was clinging to. It was as if some enormous
monster of the sea had caught him up and put him in that place, just
as the Lady of the Hills had often snatched him up from the edge of
some perilous precipice to set him down in a safe place.
There he lay exhausted, stretched out at full length, so tossed
about on the billows that he had a sensation of being in a swing;
but the sea grew quiet at last, and when he looked up it was dark,
the stars glittering in the dim blue vault above, and the smooth,
black water reflecting them all round him, so that he seemed to be
floating suspended between two vast, starry skies, one immeasurably
far above, the other below him. All night, with only the twinkling,
trembling stars for company, he lay there, naked, wet, and cold,
thirsty with the bitter taste of sea-salt in his mouth, never daring
to stir, listening to the continual lapping sound of the water.
Morning dawned at last; the sea was green once more, the sky blue,
and beautiful with the young, fresh light. He was lying on an old
raft of black, water-logged spars and planks lashed together with
chains and rotting ropes. But alas! there was no shore in sight, for
all night long he had been drifting, drifting further and further
away from land.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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