He is not in the water

“Wake up! Wake up!” the voice coaxed in a whisper.

Someone was inside with him. Yet it didn’t sound like his father…

Perhaps it was the voice of the bear itself. Perhaps one could hear the bear speaking when one was in the belly of the bear. Perhaps a bear’s grumbling voice would sound like a whisper from down here.

“Wake up, old fool. I cannot do this if you sleep.”

It was only a whisper, but he thought he knew the voice, for it had an unusual accent. It was not speaking its native language… but it did not sound like a Scot. It could not be his grandfather. Oh! What a fate, to be trapped in a bear’s belly with his grandfather! No, thankfully, it was not his grandfather.

“Come now! You will drown.”

Drown? He was not in the bear, he was in the water. But shouldn’t the water be cold? The water was so warm. And shouldn’t it be bright? This water was dark. The water should be bright, and there should be a lady as bright as a moon, who would hold his chin in her hand and carry him to the air. But this hand was rough and slapped at his face.

The voice whispered something in a language he did not recognize, though annoyance was, he thought, recognizable in any language. Then the voice put its arms around him and carried him to the air.

The voice had strong arms for so small a boy.

A boy?

His eyelids flapped like a frightened duck’s wings, and he gasped at the air, but there was no air, and he could only cough.

“Good!” the voice whispered. “Now…”

He was not in the water – he was sitting up in bed, and the boy was holding him up – and yet he still must have been underwater, for there was no air. He panicked and clawed out at nothing, trying to find what was in the place of the air – but there was only air.

“Quiet,” the boy said, and he pushed his two arms down with one of his. The boy was so much stronger than he. He would have liked to have relaxed again into the boy’s arms, but he could not breathe, and that was more important than anything.

“Up now.” The boy pulled the blankets away and then dragged his legs around so that he could sit with his feet on the floor. He could not have sat alone, but the boy held him up. He stared at his knees and fought, desperately fought to breathe. Nothing else mattered.

“Now, you won’t like this…” the boy whispered. He didn’t know what the boy meant. He could not stop to think about it. The boy put one arm around the front of him, across his chest, and leaned him forward against it. It only made it harder to breathe, and he began to struggle.

But then the boy laid his other hand on his back, and it felt as if he was being crushed between the hand and the arm. The boy was stronger than anything he could have imagined. All of the air was pressed out of his lungs, and then he thought his very lungs were being pressed out of him.

He opened his mouth to scream, but no scream came out, nor did his lungs, but only a gush of hot, blood-​​tinged water that splashed on his knees and ran down his bare legs. He closed his eyes in horror at the sight, and found he could not open them again.

But he could breathe, and that was more important than anything.