Waiting for the kettle to boil I took my usual 5-minute breather on the balcony, around 5.30am. It had rained heavily the night before and the morning found itself under a heavy grey cloak. I always enjoy standing out there; breathing, observing, listening and thinking. The mountains wore skirts of cloud. I came in, tea in hand and sat down, with just the first sentence in my head. Strange how things go off on a tangent as they develop.
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The cloud clung to the sides of the mountain. Beyond it, the sun had risen but the day had dawned pale and would remain that way. Water from last night’s rain clung to everything. Hidden blackbirds chattered in the trees and every now and again a crow would raise its voice above the drip, drip of the water. Pine scent filled the air, which was clean but sombre.
It was time to move.
There was now enough light to get a helicopter in the air and heat imaging would see through the cloud. He was sure he’d heard dogs in the valley below, and the rain wouldn’t cover his scent for long.
He grit his teeth as he tipped a little schnapps from his flask onto the blood-soaked gauze on his thigh. The schnapps was the only thing between a usable leg and infection. In this humidity gangrene would take hold soon if he didn’t find the help he knew was waiting for him.
Four miles to the border. Four miles till the forest sloped down on the other side of the mountain. He put all his weight on the pine branch he was using for a crutch and placed his holed leg forward.
It was time to move.
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