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Authors: Paula Rawsthorne
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face with her feet.
The lake swallowed her on impact. Down, down, down she sank. Her eyes and mouth remained clamped shut, her hair splaying out around her like a flaming halo. Every second of the descent felt like
an eternity.
I need to go up, when am I going to go up?
She started to flap her arms against the pressure of the water, trying to fly up through the depths, but the effort only put more strain on her lungs, which felt like they were about to burst.
Her eyes opened to the watery kingdom. Sparkling shafts of sunlight penetrated the clear blue water, fish darted past her falling body, and all around her she could see the sheer cliff faces
continuing down into the seemingly bottomless lake.
Her lungs were burning. Her brain was desperately trying to override her reflexes that were ordering her to open her mouth. Suddenly she felt something – like the pull of a yo-yo string
– and she began to rise. Looking up, she saw the boy through a riot of champagne bubbles, his hand around her arm, his legs kicking frantically. She held on as they broke through the
lake’s shimmering surface. With an enormous gasp, Celia filled her lungs with sweet air, but no sooner had she done this than the depths tugged at her once more. She grabbed at her rescuer,
pushing him under as she tried to keep her head above the water. He wrestled himself out of her grip and swam out of reach. She thrashed around, gulping in water, more terrified than ever.
“Don’t panic,” he gasped. “I’ll get you out, but don’t grab me. You’ll drown us both. Keep still and I’ll do the rest.”
He approached her cautiously, cupping the palm of his hand under her chin, tilting it out of the water. As he pulled her head into his shoulder she fought the urge to cling to him. His limbs
strained and his breath laboured as he propelled them to the giant stone slabs on the opposite side of the lake. Celia clung to the lowest slab, shaking.
“It’s okay. You can reach the bottom now. It’s shallow just here,” he panted.
But she just clung even tighter, too petrified to believe him. He clambered onto the side and took her arms, dragging her out onto the smooth slab. They both collapsed, exhausted.
It was minutes before either of them could speak.
“I can’t believe you saved me,” Celia spluttered, water running out of her nose.
“To be honest,” he wheezed back, “neither can I.”
They shot a look at each other and burst into relief-riddled laughter.
Celia took a surreptitious peek at her rescuer. She reckoned he was a bit younger than her, a little more skinny than lean. His cherubic face sported a brilliant smile that was impossible not to
return, but she noticed that his eyes were flitting to and fro – as if he was trying not to look at her.
She looked down at her gloved hands and it suddenly struck her. “Oh yeah, these things. I know they look odd but the thing is, I don’t even need to wear them,” she said,
delighting in peeling them off and throwing them on the ground.
The boy shrugged. “I hadn’t even noticed the gloves.”
Celia looked down again, puzzled, until she noticed her blouse, now completely transparent and clinging to every detail of her torso. Mortified, she folded her arms across her chest, blushing
deeply.
“Look, I’ve got a towel,” he said, trying to cover her embarrassment, “and I’ve got food if you want it, but I don’t suppose you could face food right
now.”
“No, both would be great. I’m Celia, by the way. Celia Frost. Thank you.”
“No worries. I’m Solomon Giran, but people call me Sol.”
Sol picked up a rucksack from the slab and pulled out a towel, along with sandwiches, packets of sweets and cans of drink.
“You’re organized,” she said, wrapping the towel round her.
“This is nothing. I keep all sorts of stuff here: frying pan for cooking, hacksaw for cutting up wood, rope for making swings.”
“What are you, SAS?”
“Is it that obvious?”
The lake swallowed her on impact. Down, down, down she sank. Her eyes and mouth remained clamped shut, her hair splaying out around her like a flaming halo. Every second of the descent felt like
an eternity.
I need to go up, when am I going to go up?
She started to flap her arms against the pressure of the water, trying to fly up through the depths, but the effort only put more strain on her lungs, which felt like they were about to burst.
Her eyes opened to the watery kingdom. Sparkling shafts of sunlight penetrated the clear blue water, fish darted past her falling body, and all around her she could see the sheer cliff faces
continuing down into the seemingly bottomless lake.
Her lungs were burning. Her brain was desperately trying to override her reflexes that were ordering her to open her mouth. Suddenly she felt something – like the pull of a yo-yo string
– and she began to rise. Looking up, she saw the boy through a riot of champagne bubbles, his hand around her arm, his legs kicking frantically. She held on as they broke through the
lake’s shimmering surface. With an enormous gasp, Celia filled her lungs with sweet air, but no sooner had she done this than the depths tugged at her once more. She grabbed at her rescuer,
pushing him under as she tried to keep her head above the water. He wrestled himself out of her grip and swam out of reach. She thrashed around, gulping in water, more terrified than ever.
“Don’t panic,” he gasped. “I’ll get you out, but don’t grab me. You’ll drown us both. Keep still and I’ll do the rest.”
He approached her cautiously, cupping the palm of his hand under her chin, tilting it out of the water. As he pulled her head into his shoulder she fought the urge to cling to him. His limbs
strained and his breath laboured as he propelled them to the giant stone slabs on the opposite side of the lake. Celia clung to the lowest slab, shaking.
“It’s okay. You can reach the bottom now. It’s shallow just here,” he panted.
But she just clung even tighter, too petrified to believe him. He clambered onto the side and took her arms, dragging her out onto the smooth slab. They both collapsed, exhausted.
It was minutes before either of them could speak.
“I can’t believe you saved me,” Celia spluttered, water running out of her nose.
“To be honest,” he wheezed back, “neither can I.”
They shot a look at each other and burst into relief-riddled laughter.
Celia took a surreptitious peek at her rescuer. She reckoned he was a bit younger than her, a little more skinny than lean. His cherubic face sported a brilliant smile that was impossible not to
return, but she noticed that his eyes were flitting to and fro – as if he was trying not to look at her.
She looked down at her gloved hands and it suddenly struck her. “Oh yeah, these things. I know they look odd but the thing is, I don’t even need to wear them,” she said,
delighting in peeling them off and throwing them on the ground.
The boy shrugged. “I hadn’t even noticed the gloves.”
Celia looked down again, puzzled, until she noticed her blouse, now completely transparent and clinging to every detail of her torso. Mortified, she folded her arms across her chest, blushing
deeply.
“Look, I’ve got a towel,” he said, trying to cover her embarrassment, “and I’ve got food if you want it, but I don’t suppose you could face food right
now.”
“No, both would be great. I’m Celia, by the way. Celia Frost. Thank you.”
“No worries. I’m Solomon Giran, but people call me Sol.”
Sol picked up a rucksack from the slab and pulled out a towel, along with sandwiches, packets of sweets and cans of drink.
“You’re organized,” she said, wrapping the towel round her.
“This is nothing. I keep all sorts of stuff here: frying pan for cooking, hacksaw for cutting up wood, rope for making swings.”
“What are you, SAS?”
“Is it that obvious?”
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