Away from the shoreline the air grows much hotter, fighting
against my sweat to dry out the muddy daubs across my chest and thighs and
forearms.
The avenue here is well grassed, with few patches of stone
showing through the green carpet. Wherever possible I walk along the softer
strands of clover, avoiding the sharper tufts of glass-studded grass and the
gravels that cover smooth rock. My feet are still weak, enjoying ease when they
should be striving to endure any hardship that I assign them.
I keep my eyes wide as I pass along the curve of the hill.
The land on either side is festooned in trees. Occasionally I spot a longer
trunk thrusting above the canopy of its peers: some look ripe for the harvest.
Some look over-ripe, past their prime – good for nothing apart from the fire.
Behind the hill, I find a valley. I do not recognise it.
I can hear the quiet slush of running water somewhere downwind
of me, where the ground descends gently. Closer by, upwind of me, the other
side of the hill meanders for some distance inland, and the avenue clearly
follows its shape, in some places digging into the side of the hill to keep the
incline reasonable. Beyond the river stand other hills, much higher than this
one. I suspect that somewhere up ahead the two seams will narrow the valley
into a gorge.
The thought of passing through a gorge to reach the High
Domain worries at my courage like a dog ... a dog? Another word that hints at
meaning? No, I mean a worm – a worm on the bone. More than once I have to throw
words at the air to keep my legs striding.
No comments:
Post a Comment