The Seventh Scroll - Smith Wilbur - Страница 52

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Nicholas peered up and realized that the rope had rolled into a vertical

crack in the face, probably the same one that had almost stopped the

dik-dik reaching the top.

However, his own weight was almost five times that of the little

antelope, and had forced the rope much more deeply into the crack.

He was suspended high in the air, with a drop of almost a hundred feet

under him.

"Try and swing yourself loose! Boris shouted down at him. Obediently,

Nicholas kicked himself back and twisted on the rope to try and roll it

clear. He worked until the sweat streamed down into his eyes and the

rope had rubbed him raw under the arms.

"No use," he shouted back at Boris. "Try to haul it out with brute

force!

There was a pause, and then he saw the rope above the crack tighten like

a bar of iron as five strong men hauled on the top end with all their

strength. He could hear the trackers chanting their working chorus as

they threw all their combined weight on the line.

His end of the line did not budge. It was a solid jam, and he knew then

that they were not going to clear it. He looked down. The surface of the

water seemed much further than a hundred feet below.

"The terminal velocity of the human body is one hundred and fifty miles

an hour," he reminded himself. At that speed the water would be like

concrete. "I won't be going that fast when I hit, will I? he tried to

reassure himself.

He looked up again. The men on the top of the cliff were still hauling

with all their weight and strength. At that moment one of the strands of

the nylon rope sheared against the cutting edge of the rock crack, and

began to uncurl like a long green worm.

"Stop pulling!" Nicholas screamed. "Vast heaving!" But Boris was no

longer in sight. He was helping his trackers, adding his weight to the

pull.

The second strand of the rope parted and unravelled.

There was only a single strand holding him now.

It was going to go at any moment, he realized. "Boris, you ham-fisted

bastard, stop pulling!" But his voice never reached the Russian, and

with a pop like a champagne cork the third and final strand of the rope

parted.

He plunged downwards, with the loose end of the severed rope fluttering

above his head. Flinging both arms straight upwards over his head to

stabilize his flight, he straightened his legs, arrowing his body to hit

feet first.

He thought about the island under him. Would he miss its red rock fangs

or would he smash into it and shatter every bone in his lower body? He

dared not look down to judge it in case he destabilized - his fall and

tumbled in midair. If he hit the water flat it would crush his ribs or

snap his spine.

His guts seemed to be forced into his throat by the speed of his fall,

and he drew one last breath as he hit the surface feet first. The force

of it was stunning. It was transmitted up his spine into the back of his

skull, so that his teeth cracked against each other and bright lights

starred his vision. The river swallowed him under. He went down deep,

but he was still moving so fast when he hit the rocky bottom that his

legs were jarred to the hips. He felt his knees buckle under the strain,

and he thought that both his legs had been broken.

The impact drove the air out of his lungs, and it was only when he

kicked off the bottom, desperate for air, that -he realized with a rush

of relief that both his legs were still intact. He broke out through the

surface, wheezing an coughing, and realized that he must have missed the

island by only the length of his body. However, by now the current had

carried him well clear of it.

He trod water on the racing stream, shook the water from his eyes and

looked around him swiftly. The walls of the chasm were streaming past

him, and he estimated his speed at around ten knots - fast enough to

break bone if he hit a rock. As he thought it, another small island

flashed past him almost close enough to touch. He rolled on to his back

and thrust both feet out ahead of him, ready to fend off should he be

thrown on to another outcrop.

"You are in for the whole ride, he told himself grimly.

"There is only one way out, and that is to ride it to the bottom."

He was trying to calculate how far he was above the point where the

river debauched from the chasm through the pink stone archway, how far

he still had to swim.

"Three or four miles, at the least, and the river falls almost a

thousand feet. There are bound to be rapids and probably waterfalls

ahead," he decided. "From here it does not look good. I' say the betting

is three to one against getting through without leaving some skin and

meat on the rocks behind you."

He looked up. The walls canted in from each side, so that at places they

almost met directly over his head. There was only a narrow strip of blue

sky showing, and the depths were gloomy and dank. Over the ages the

river had scoured the rock as it cut its way through.

"Damned lucky this is the dry season. What is it like down in here in

the rainy season?" he wondered. He looked up at the high-water mark

etched on the rock fifteen or twenty feet above his head.

Shuddering at the image he looked down again, concentrating on the river

ahead. He had his breath back by now, and he checked his body for any

damage. With relief he decided that, apart from some bruising and what

felt like a sprained knee, he was unhurt. All his limbs were responding,

and when he swam a few strokes to one side to avoid another spur of

rock, even the sore knee worked well enough to get him out of trouble.

Gradually he became aware of a new sound in the canyon. It was a dull

roar, growing stronger as he sped onward  down The walls of the chasm

converged upon each other, the gut of rock narrowed and the flood seemed

to accelerate as it was squeezed in and confined. The sound of water

built up rapidly into a thunder that reverberated in the canyon.

Nicholas rolled over and swam with all his strength across the current

until he reached the nearest rock wall.

He tried to find a handhold, a place where he could anchor himself, but

the rock was polished smooth by the river. It slipped past under his

desperately grasping hands, and the river bellowed in his head. He saw

the surface around him flatten out and smooth like solid glass. Like a

horse laying back its ears as it gathers itself for a jump, the river

had sensed what lay ahead.

Nicholas pushed himself away from the rock wall to try and give himself

room in which to manoeuvre, and pointed his feet once more down river.

Abruptly the air opened under him and he was launched out into space.

All around him white spurning water filled the air, and he was swirled

off balance and tossed like a leaf in the torrent The drop seemed to

last for ever, and his stomach swooped against his ribs. Then once more

he struck with all his weight and was driven far below the surface.

He fought his way up and abruptly burst out through the surface with his

breathing whistling up his throat.

Through streaming eyes he saw that he was caught up in the bowl of

swirling water below the falls. The waters revolved and eddied, turning

in a stately minuet upon themselves.

As he turned, he saw first the high sheet of white water of the falls

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