marble, and the trunks of uprooted trees dashed downstream upon the
flood.
It seemed impossible that the bed of this raging torrent had been the
narrow sandy bed in which Johan Akkers had run down Conrad with the
green Ford truck.
David climbed out of the Pontiac and walked down to the edge of the
water. As he stood there he saw the level creeping up perceptively
towards his feet. It was still rising.
He looked up at the sky, and judged that the respite in the weather
would not last much longer.
He reached his decision and ran back to the Pontiac.
He reversed well back onto the highest ground and parked it off the
verge with the headlights still directed at the river edge. Then,
standing beside the door, he stripped down to his shirt and underpants.
He pulled his belt from the loops of his trousers and buckled it about
his waist, then he tied his shoes to the belt by their laces.
Barefooted he ran to the edge of the water, and began to feel his way
slowly down the bank. It shelved quickly and within a few paces he was
knee-deep and the current plucked at him, viciously trying to drag him
off-balance.
He posed like that, braced against the current, and waited, staring
upstream. He saw the tree trunk coming down fast on the flood, with its
roots sticking up like beseeching arms. It was swinging across the
current and would pass him closely.
He judged his moment and lunged for it. Half a dozen strong strokes
carried him to it and he grasped one of the roots. Instantly he was
whisked out of the beams of the headlight into the roaring fury of the
river. The tree rolled and bucked, carrying him under and bringing him
up coughing and gasping.
Something struck him a glancing blow and he felt his shirt tear and the
skin beneath it rip. Then he was under water again, swirling end over
end and clinging desperately to his log.
All about him the darkness was filled with the rush and threat of crazy
water, and he was buffeted and flogged by its raw strength, grazed and
bruised by rocks and driftwood.
Suddenly he felt the log check and bump against an obstruction, turning
and swinging out into the current again.
David was blinded with muddy water and he knew there was a limit to how
much more of this treatment he could survive. Already he was weakening
quickly.
He could feel his mind and his movements slowing, like a battered prize
fighter in the tenth round.
He gambled it all on the obstruction which the log had encountered being
the far bank, and he released his death-grip on the root and stuck out
sideways across the current with desperate strength.
His overarm stroke ended in the trailing branches of a thorn tree
hanging over the storm waters. Thorns tore the flesh of his palm as his
grip closed over them, and he cried out at the pain but held on.
Slowly he dragged himself out of the flood and crawled up the bank,
