"David Freer - The Forlorn" - читать интересную книгу автора (Freer Dave)

echoing in the mouth of the pipe, where a scared, hungry and bitter boy waited. The pipe-mouth circle of
sky blue faded, becoming tinted here and there with orange and violet cloud streaks. It would be dark
soon, and then he would set out.

The mountains . . . how would he get there? All the roads and trails would be watched. He also had no
food, no way of carrying water, and a desert to cross. But he was a city child, to whom the distances on
the map meant little, and the realities of crossing the desert meant nothing at all. He would follow the dry
valley that the map described as the Syrah River. There would be no patrols, for there was no road
there, and surely he would have finished crossing the desert by morning.

The sun sank at last in torn gossamer pink streamers of vague cloud. Keilin stepped out into the purple
twilight, stretching his cramped limbs. After a hundred yards or so he stopped and washed his hands, legs
and feet in the surf margin. Even half-wet the walk to the mouth of the valley was pleasant. The sand was
still warm on the beach, as was the gentle night breeze.

When Keilin reached the rocky point which had been shown as the mouth of the river, he set off inland
across the farmlands. He was city bred, but when he stumbled across a melon in a field he did manage to
recognize it.
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Keilin picked five melons, and carrying them in his shirt, he marched resolutely away from the sea, and
onwards into the valley. Soon the fields gave way to short grass. The tussocks became further apart as
he went on, and then there was just dry sand crunching underfoot. He walked, and walked, and walked.
The moon rose slowly ahead of him. Eventually the boy could go no further. He sat down with his back
to a rock. A cold dry wind blew down the valley. Taking a melon out of his shirt, Keilin tried to work out
how to get into it without a knife.

Finally he settled for cracking the fruit against a stone. The hard outer peel split, showering him with
seeds. Eagerly he scraped these aside and bit into the flesh. It was surprisingly hard, totally lacking in the
sweet succulence he'd expected. It had less taste than the paper he had chewed on, on hungry days in
the library. There was moisture, but not much. The only melons he'd ever tasted before had been two
he'd stolen in the marketplace. Belatedly he remembered the housewives pressing and smelling them.
Keilin worked things through in his quick mind: ripe fruit would be on the market, not still in the fields.
Doggedly he ate on, resisting the temptation to try the other melons. It filled his belly. It gave some
moisture. It did nothing for his sore feet, but it did lift his spirits considerably.

He had meant to sit for just a few minutes and then press on, but sleep came on silent feet and stole his
consciousness. Sheer cold eventually cut through his exhaustion, waking him to stare wide-eyed at the
panoply of stars above him. The moon was edging down, and in the darkness and clear sky, Keilin
suddenly saw just what a crowded heaven it really was. The smoky sky of Port Tinarana had never
allowed him to see one tenth of its icy splendor. Besides, the nights were working time, not stargazing
time. He knew what stars were, having read incredulously about them. He'd laughed at the ignorant
masses who believed them to be the lights in the windows of God's house. Now it didn't seem so funny.
Ah well, perhaps if the mountains didn't offer refuge, he could travel to those stars and find a safe place
somewhere.

Stiffly he rose to his feet, and began to walk onward. The night grew still colder as he trudged on.