(second in a series of ten)
Fifteen minutes seemed like plenty of time to escape—and then I tried to actually climb the hill. It was the end of the rainy season: the earth was red and slick. Tilting steps jutted out in a few places, but mostly I made my way by scrabbling between slippery stones.
Halfway up I was certain I would fall. Not only would I fall but in the process I’d dislodge a stone, and not just any stone but the very stone that was holding up the entire hillside. I’d fall, the hill would fall and the villagers would wring their hands. Damn Americans!
(On my passport I am accused of being American. A gross oversimplification. I have three hearts: one of them is America.)
In Tokyo or New Hampshire green is an ornament, a respite, a good natured custodian who cleans up and stays in the background. In Sumatra green is a fire, sending its tendrils into roofs and walls and roads, spreading everywhere, filling the air with its green roar.
Until I went to Sumatra I didn't know that green has its own sound. Even when the fishermen come home at night, turn on their stereos and brawl, the sound of the green is still louder.
Also, everything was in flower. The tips of the trees foamed white and red. Everything that could was blooming and I figured I might flower too, if I could just stay still long enough.
No one, I realized, had time to take me to the hospital. I began gingerly to climb down the hill, which was even worse than climbing up. Vines grew faster than I descended. Passing grandfather stopped to smile at me in encouragement and mothers peeked at me from their forest houses and had a cup of coffee in the time it took me to pass.
To my surprise, I arrived at the bottom of the hill alive. The hill likewise remained intact.
As a prophet I possess 100% accuracy, but no clue as to timing.
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