From Pole to Pole: A Book for Young PeopleHedin, Sven Anders
General
From Pole to Pole: A Book for Young People
Hedin, Sven Anders
Geography -- Juvenile literature; Voyages and travels -- Juvenile literature
I lay for ten hours wide awake. At seven o'clock I took the wooden haft
of the spade and went alone through the wood, for Kasim could not move.
I dropped down again and again on fallen trunks to rest; a few more
staggering steps and again a rest on a stump. When I could not hold
myself up, I crawled inch by inch through the brushwood, tearing my
hands and clothes. It grew dusk and then dark in the wood. I felt sleep
gradually creeping over me to rob me of life. For if I had fallen asleep
now, I should never have awakened again. My last struggle was, then,
against drowsiness.
Then the wood suddenly came to an end and the bed of the Khotan river
lay before me. But the bottom was dry, as dry as the sand in the desert!
I was at the summer margin of the river, where water only flows when the
snow melts on the mountains to the south. But I was not going to die on
the bank; I would cross the whole bed before I gave myself up for lost.
The bed was a mile and a quarter broad, a terrible distance for my
strength. I walked slowly with the spade-handle for a stick, crawling
for long distances and often resting and exerting all the force of my
will to resist sleep. Hitherto we had been always making eastwards, but
this night I walked involuntarily south-east. It was as though I were
guided by an unseen hand.
The crescent moon threw a pale light over the dry riverbed. I went
towards the middle and expected to see a silvery streak glisten on a
sheet of water. After an interval, which seemed endless, I descried the
line of wood on the eastern bank. It became more distinct. A fallen
poplar lay projecting over a hollow in the river-bed and on the bank
were close thickets of bushes and reeds. I rested once more. Was it
possible that the whole bed was dry? I felt that all my remaining
strength would be needed to reach the bank. Was I to die of thirst in
the middle of a river-bed? I rose painfully to walk the last bit, but I
had not taken many steps before I stopped short. A duck rose on whirring
wings, I heard the plashing sound of water, and the next moment I stood
at the edge of a fresh, cool, beautiful pool.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
Reviews
Reviews
No reviews yet
Be the first to share your thoughts on this work.
Elsewhere in the archive
Join the Discussion
Join the discussion
Sign in to leave a comment or review.
Sign InorCreate an account