All four holds broke at the same time, and I fell, back-downward, looking up at him, my hands and feet still clutching the broken twigs.

Luckily, there were no wild pigs under me, and my fall was broken by the tough and springy bushes.
Usually, my falls destroy my dreams, the nervous shock being sufficient to bridge the thousand centuries in an instant and hurl me wide awake into my little bed, where, perchance, I lie sweating and trembling and hear the cuckoo clock calling the hour in the hall.

But this dream of my leaving home I have had many times, and never yet have I been awakened by it.

Always do I crash, shrieking, down through the brush and fetch up with a bump on the ground.
Scratched and bruised and whimpering, I lay where I had fallen.

Peering up through the bushes, I could see the Chatterer.