Fiction: Group 2
Memoirs of a River
German Swiss International Primary School, Li, Jade - 10, Fiction: Group 2
t was the year 1201. My family and I were stuck in a monstrosity of a boat for two weeks. We gave up
all we had, to get into this crowded boat to start a new life in China. Three hundred people were
crammed into one boat, stocked with high hopes for their futures and dreams. The rancid stench of sea
sickness lingered in the air. Every inch of the boat creaked as it bobbed along the waves of the South China
Sea. The passengers’ faces were so miserable that the air seemed noticeably darker and heavier. Every now
and then, the boat would bolt forwards and someone would hurl over the side, emptying both their
stomachs and their hopes.
Suddenly, it started to pour and the boat was tossed from wave to wave. Back and forth, back and forth.
The pounding raindrops pelted the roof. Suddenly a storm broke out. Thunder clapped loudly all around
us. Before I knew it the boat was struck by lightning and like a twig, it snapped in half, separating weeping
families. I thought nothing could get worse. I spoke too soon. Lighting struck again and our side of the boat
began sinking slowly into the sea.
All that remained of our boat were fragments of wood. Men and women screamed as they hung on like
barnacles on all that remained of the ship. Shrill shrieks of panic echoed throughout the sea as passengers
struggled to stay on the surface for air. I was panicking too. I couldn’t see my mother or father or my little
brother. I swam about frantically and then I saw three lifeless bodies slowly sinking deeper, being swallowed
by the black of the ocean. They were gone.
On the surface, I was gasping for air. It hit me. I was on my own now. Was it the rain, or my tears? I
couldn’t tell. Was I close to shore? Could I make it? I made one last paddle before the water enveloped my
body like a dark cloak.
I opened my eyes. Was that an angel hovering above me? No, far too ugly. I lay on a muddy bank, with
light sparkles of water lapping my bare feet. “How could I have survived when I was plummeted into the
water?” I asked myself in confusion, “I must have washed up on the banks of the Pearl River”.
He held out his hand. I hesitantly took it and was helped to my shaky feet. He looked about a year or two
older than me and was a similar height. He spoke to me in a language I never heard before. I dusted the
clumps of mud off my torn, ragged clothes then he gently spoke:
“Come with me”
Bamboo slippers slapped the sand as he led me through a patchwork blanket of swaying flowers. We arrived
at a small hut, behind it stretched a great rice paddy, as far as the eye could see. We walked past a neat bun
of middle aged black hair, hanging up wet clothes to dry. She wore a faded apron and stood up on a high
stool. The local ran up to her and shouts were thrown back and forth but finally came to a conclusion.
“You may stay with us,” said the villager, “but you must work the fields with us.”
I trudged into the swaying field to start my first day of work. By the time I had finished, blisters covered my
hands and sweat dripped from my pores. The villager told me his name was Qing Hai. His family treated me
with great kindness, fed me well and even sent me to school.
Every day after school, Qing Hai would take me to the market and introduce me to new Chinese foods and
everyday I’d feel more like I belonged, in China. Even when the hot weather scorched my skin, I worked
hard, day and night in the fields serving for the family that was so kind to me, who took me in. I could
never repay them. I was family now.
I
