The Whale

Jenny Narramore’s entry in Larkmead School’s First Story anthology. Read William Fiennes’s introduction to this project, which fosters creativity, literacy and talent.

Running, running. Dust spirals around browned feet and ... leap! Birds scurrying away; lizards scamper. The dry earth doesn’t feel the tap of bare feet on a hot day.

And down, down the hill and onto the grass. Still running but now smoother, cooler, fresher. Her land, she knew the path well. Up and up and up it went. Rustling through the knee-high jungle, skirt flying around the knees.

She darted like a hare up the hill and there it was ...

The sky met the pure liquid glow of the ocean. The giant copper coin above smiled down on the little panting girl.

Gold hair braided itself in tangles as the breeze hugged her, over and over till the knots would take hours to comb out. In the midst of a sun-kissed face splattered with muddy freckles the eyes darted for a new wave. The world of the ocean swirled in her wide eyes; they had a spirit of their own.

She stood there for a while, and let the purring sea stretch its crystalline paws onto the warm beach, thousands of feet below. She came for only one reason; she had heard the call from home. She knew that her parents would be looking for her by now, and they would come here, they would know where she had gone.

Wide eyes searched, but there was no sign. Nothing ... Even the ocean whose depths she had swum would not give her this treat. There was no more sound, just waves and wind. And although the sun put up all its efforts, and kept the day bright, the ocean in the girl’s eyes stormed with anger.

Running, sprinting. Two pairs of dust-covered shoes pitter-pattering. No birds here, lizards scamper deeper. The earth feels the drum of shoes on the boiling day.

And down, down the hill and onto the ocean of grass. Running slower and searching in the smoother, cooler, fresher grass. Up and up and up it went.

They darted like foxes up the hill and there it was ...

A smiling sun over a little girl.

All three of the children stood there, hand in hand looking at the waves. Would they see it? Could they? How long had they got? They had to get back or their parents would worry. The two eldest looked at each other across their little sister. How could they get her to leave this place where two oceans move together, sapphire sea and emerald grass?

They felt it more than saw it to begin with, a great shadow moving under the ocean’s depths. The king of the ocean rose above the breaking waves, and down. The beautiful cry echoed around the shoreline and the children watched as the great king sank beneath the waves.

The children stood, hand in hand, and then went home, smiles on their freckled faces, with a story to tell.

Jenny Narramore is seventeen years old. She was part of the First Story Group at Larkmead School, Oxford, which was led by Writer-in-Residence Tim Pears.