Eleven
T he swamp was cold, dark, silent. For two days they walked immersed up to their knees in murky water, slowly, one step after another, in a tangle of mud, water weeds, gigantic tree roots so tall as to hide the sky. They were tormented by mosquitoes and swarms of insects.
The only sound was the thump of water creatures and the cry of mysterious birds that remained invisible, hidden in the dense foliage.
The swamp was dead.
It was all the same wherever you looked, no reference points, no way of orientating yourself because the sky, covered by a layer of cloud and mist, glimmered only a vague brightness which stayed the same from dawn to dusk. No sun, no starry night vault, no Drinking Gourd to follow.
Perhaps they were going straight, or in the wrong direction, or round in circl
