Free We Are Not Eaten by Yaks by C. Alexander London Page B

down the side of the Roof of the World. Colorful birds took flight all around them. A small red panda cocked its head curiously as the bright yellow raft streaked past, trailing its strange parachute like a tail.
    â€œAhhhh!” both children screamed together. They raced along, the world a blur of white and blue and green. Rocks and bushes smashed into them, knocking their raft around like a pinball.
    â€œOh, no!” Celia shouted.
    â€œWhat is it?” Oliver screamed back to her, because his eyes were closed.
    â€œA cliff!”
    Oliver opened his eyes and saw that they were about to go over the edge. Their parachute was shredded. All he could think to do as they took to the sky again was grab his father’s ankle and scream.
    â€œAhhhh!” both children yelled as they were yanked brutally backwards.
    They stopped.
    Their parachute had tangled and snagged on a boulder, and the life raft swung to a stop several thousand feet above a raging river in the gorge below. The children were dumped into each other, with their father lying on top of them. The raft made a creaking noise as it settled and swung in the breeze. A bright red bird perched for a moment on their father’s foot, screeched and flew off again.
    â€œAre we alive?” Celia wondered, her father’s foot smashing into her face.
    â€œI think so,” Oliver answered, his face dug into his father’s armpit. “It smells like we are.”
    â€œHmmm,” Celia added. At this point, the raft was more like a hammock. They were piled on top of each other in a jumble of legs and arms. Celia was looking down toward the forest and the river, while Oliver was twisted upward, looking at the sky and the icy walls on top of the cliff. They hung for a while with the high mountain wind howling against their yellow raft.
    â€œHey,” Oliver asked, forming an idea. “What’s below us?”
    â€œA river,” Celia said.
    â€œThe riverbank could be pretty soft,” Oliver said, remembering Choden Thordup’s story about jumping from the window of the monastery.
    â€œSo?”
    Oliver suggested shoving his father down and then landing on him like a cushion.
    â€œLike Stephen the Yak,” he said. “Dad wouldn’t mind. He’s not even awake.”
    Celia said no to the idea.
    â€œDaddy’s girl,” Oliver sneered.
    They dangled from the cliff for what felt like hours. They heard a growl in the distance and the calls of strange birds. Below them stretched a dense forest. Above them, the craggy mountain was quilted with patches of white snow. Every few minutes something would creak, and Celia feared it would be the end. But still, they hung. Their father snorted loudly, but didn’t wake up.
    Above him, Oliver watched a massive tiger creep along the narrow ridge and sniff at the tangle of canvas and plastic that attached them to the cliff. One push from his giant paw and they’d fall over the edge. Oliver had learned all about Tibetan tigers on Asia’s Deadliest Animals Two: CAT-astrophe.
    Tibetan tigers are nearly extinct, he thought. And they don’t normally live at this high altitude. Then again, I don’t normally live at this high altitude either.
    Only the hungriest tiger would dare come so close to humans. Was it crazy or starving? Or both? Celia and Oliver would make a nice snack, wrapped in yellow plastic and hanging like peanut butter crackers in a vending machine. The tiger didn’t move or make a sound. It stayed at the edge, poised. The wind ruffled its orange and black fur, but otherwise, it was as still as a statue.
    Celia couldn’t see the tiger from where she was. She didn’t even know that a tiger was watching them. She was watching the river below them and getting more and more antsy. Hanging upside down for an hour was really boring and really uncomfortable, like going to the opera. Her neck was starting to ache from her father’s body