I sighed deeply and began to struggle on. I only just left. At one point stumbled noisily splashed under the feet of water, and for the wall of reeds, close to the amazement meters in four to five, with a sudden grunt and squeal escaped herd of wild pigs and went smashing reeds. Automatically, I frantically raised his gun, but where could I send him? Is that in the sky. Well wall around, and what's the use to shoot if I do not see a damn thing, just stand and listen to the lapping of this is removed, and the sound of crackling. That's really a pig. So after all human and a heart attack can bring.
Again I leaned back on the reeds and began to think. Somewhere floated childhood memory, or rather the memory of a child reads a book, it seems, "Phoenician ship" called. There Phoenician boy was caught and taken lead, and he did not want to go, and then he sees a pack of dogs throws in a hedge, which seems to be and there is no passage, and vanishes there, and he thought and thought — where the dog get through , there is a kid slips. He pulled his hand from his captor and ran to the same place and the dog, and really slipped.
Maybe there where a herd of wild boars slipped, and one man held a gun, bad, but lean? True, the boar went into the sea, to the north, and I need to south, or at least the west, but at the time I though the sea, though the devil's horns, just to end this reed hell. Here you can break out of the forces so that a finger poshevelnesh, and again climb up with this gamlyatina about "die, to sleep …" No, Shakespeare I need now is a fly in the soup. Hmm, well, borschichka would … Although flies.
Nearby on the wall showed the passage pierced, probably by the same pigs, and I moved on it very quickly, with a cruising speed of some Galapagos tortoises. Channel has become increasingly, and in a moment I looked up — and almost hiccuped for joy in front of me stretched a narrow strip of overgrown Chuck, bathed in natural light and opened the sky, appeared a no horizon, though close. To see something besides the reed stems at the nose was incredibly sweet. I do not know the real name of Chuck, say so, as it is known locally, but wanted to know from him because I was then a lot of joy. Not to say that this is some sweet grass — stalks broad, sharp edges, grew dense and sometimes even with his head — but compared to the reed dubem is just a cinder track.
Hogs left the strip Chuck. I found the trail and pushed on it, still stumbling and falling, but it was still walking, not a prison breakout through the fence. On both sides of the band were all the same I hated the wall of reeds. After a kilometer and a half or two they closed again, but the boar and then broke the trail itself, and along with me. All are easier to break.
Next band of reeds were alternated with strips of Chuck. Next pigs I eventually lost, but was on his way to the north, looking at panicle kolyshimye Nord-Ost. And reeds have gone wrong. Much less a rush, and grew not vsploshnuyu and clumps. Finally, between the two kup horizon swung open at all, and I saw that I was standing on the edge of the sea. The banks were not there, instead of the shore was the same swamp, where the ankle, where the knee, where the above, but still somehow my heart was lighter. Somewhere, I still got out of Kamyshin captivity, and now I had to think, what to do.
I walked away from the reeds into the sea and was swaying. Looked right, looked left. Anything anywhere. How many can see, all the water and the water, and on it ripples, leveling the distance. Tiny waves lapping on the reeds and my knees. Here, perhaps, all day in the sea come and everything will be up to their knees, until shlepneshsya face into the water. But I do not have to go, I have to the people.
Surrounding people, not counting the camp — this village Kazakdarya. God only knows how to go up to him — maybe fifty miles can a hundred. Most recently, it was on the beach, and now far on land. But the people out of it somewhere because there dangling. Cows graze, catch fish, muskrats about poachers, but you never know. If you go in that direction, all the hope that someone come across. If right, to the east, there is nothing at all, the desert for hundreds of miles. That much I know for know, in those places I once had to work Krusoe Robinson on a small island after a shipwreck, about that I have elsewhere described. No, east — is death.
And I trudged back to the west.