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

Gradually the sky began to pale in front of him, fading the stars and showing the stark outlines of steep,
barren hillsides. Then, when Keilin was sure that he could get no colder and still continue walking, came
the miracle of a desert sunrise. Within minutes the colors of the landscape went from grays and blues to
sharp reds, yellows and browns, still razor sharp and clear in the night-chilled dry air.

Now that it was light, Keilin could see that the valley bottom was in fact a wide, dry river bed, braided
with banks of water-polished and size-sorted stones. Had Keilin been desert-wise, he would have seen
that the place was, compared to the surrounding hills, full of life. The sand was patterned with the tracks
of insects and birds. There were a few dead-looking tufts of grass and weed stalks among the stones. On
the margins of the stream bed were occasional near-leafless bushes, their twigs full of cruel thorns.
Despite the thorns, there were signs that something grazed on them. Succulent plants, their flat leaves
stonelike, were actually common. But the boy did not see this. To his city eyes it just looked like the
outskirts of hell. However, the sun at least was welcome, licking down to warm his numb feet. The
mountains surely could not be far now? He'd lost some time by sleeping, but surely by midmorning he'd
be there?

Midmorning came . . . and went. The sun he'd welcomed had built up to scorching strength. Not a
breath of air moved between the red cliffs of the valley. The cliffs themselves however seemed to shiver.
Keilin's feet felt as though they'd never be cool again. Each step on the burning surface was a small
agony. He'd learned to avoid dark stones, picking his way across the lighter ones. There was no sign of
any mountains. Finally, in the meager shade of a water-cut overhang on the dry river's edge, he stopped.
He ate a body-warmed melon, even sucking the limited juice from around the pips, and then drifted into
an uneasy sleep. When he woke again it was nearly sundown, and his mouth and throat were mercilessly
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dry. He sucked and chewed at the pulp of the third melon, dragging out its limited moisture, struggling to
swallow the near tasteless muck, ending up spitting out most of it. Still, he was determined. He walked
on, and kept going all night, although the terrain became steeper and rougher.

The fourth melon proved a rare bonus. Near ripe, and far more juicy. The fifth and last had been a bitter
disappointment after it. The boy had had the sense to find deep shade and sleep in that, but now, with his
supplies exhausted, he began to realize that he might end before the desert did. He'd woken in the
midafternoon too thirsty to sleep. It had taken him a while to work out what was different about the harsh
desert light. High above, the sky was patched with great lumbering castles of white cloud. If only . . . if
only it would rain.

His longing for water chilled the jewel on his chest. The fear that that cooling caused just seemed to
worsen it. Damn! Damn! Damn! The whiners thought him dead. He couldn't let them find him again. Not
here. There was no possible place to hide. He forced himself to be calm, to think it all through. The
jewelled pendant was magical. He knew that. It seemed only to work when he was emotionally stirred
up; and then only for some emotions. Hatred did nothing, but fear had some effect; however, real
potency seemed related to sex and its brew of emotions and desires. The things it whisked out of
nowhere were not consciously chosen by him, but their nature did seem to have some connection to the
circumstance. The jewels his first fear had materialized. The mattresses his fall from the library window
had produced. The thought of the girl on the mattress dragged out a tension-easing smile. She'd been so
preoccupied with her own body that it had taken her a good few moments to realize she was no longer in
the privacy of her bedroom. That she hadn't screamed the street down was a miracle of sorts. With one