The sun sank at last in torn gossamer pink streamers of vague cloud. Keilin stepped out into the purple twilight, stretching his cramped limbs. After a hundred yards or so he stopped and washed his hands, legs and feet in the surf margin. Even half-wet the walk to the mouth of the valley was pleasant. The sand was still warm on the beach, as was the gentle night breeze.
When Keilin reached the rocky point which had been shown as the mouth of the river, he set off inland across the farmlands. He was city bred, but when he stumbled across a melon in a field he did manage to recognize it.
Keilin picked five melons, and carrying them in his shirt, he marched resolutely away from the sea, and onwards into the valley. Soon the fields gave way to short grass. The tussocks became further apart as he went on, and then there was just dry sand crunching underfoot. He walked, and walked, and walked. The moon rose slowly ahead of him. Eventually the boy could go no further. He sat down with his back to a rock. A cold dry wind blew down the valley. Taking a melon out of his shirt, Keilin tried to work out how to get into it without a knife.
Finally he settled for cracking the fruit against a stone. The hard outer peel split, showering him with seeds. Eagerly he scraped these aside and bit into the flesh. It was surprisingly hard, totally lacking in the sweet succulence he'd expected. It had less taste than the paper he had chewed on, on hungry days in the library. There was moisture, but not much. The only melons he'd ever tasted before had been two he'd stolen in the marketplace. Belatedly he remembered the housewives pressing and smelling them. Keilin worked things through in his quick mind: ripe fruit would be on the market, not still in the fields. Doggedly he ate on, resisting the temptation to try the other melons. It filled his belly. It gave some moisture. It did nothing for his sore feet, but it did lift his spirits considerably.
He had meant to sit for just a few minutes and then press on, but sleep came on silent feet and stole his consciousness. Sheer cold eventually cut through his exhaustion, waking him to stare wide-eyed at the panoply of stars above him. The moon was edging down, and in the darkness and clear sky, Keilin suddenly saw just what a crowded heaven it really was. The smoky sky of Port Tinarana had never allowed him to see one tenth of its icy splendor. Besides, the nights were working time, not stargazing time. He knew what stars were, having read incredulously about them. He'd laughed at the ignorant masses who believed them to be the lights in the windows of God's house. Now it didn't seem so funny. Ah well, perhaps if the mountains didn't offer refuge, he could travel to those stars and find a safe place somewhere.
Stiffly he rose to his feet, and began to walk onward. The night grew still colder as he trudged on. Gradually the sky began to pale in front of him, fading the stars and showing the stark outlines of steep, barren hillsides. Then, when Keilin was sure that he could get no colder and still continue walking, came the miracle of a desert sunrise. Within minutes the colors of the landscape went from grays and blues to sharp reds, yellows and browns, still razor sharp and clear in the night-chilled dry air.
Now that it was light, Keilin could see that the valley bottom was in fact a wide, dry river bed, braided with banks of water-polished and size-sorted stones. Had Keilin been desert-wise, he would have seen that the place was, compared to the surrounding hills, full of life. The sand was patterned with the tracks of insects and birds. There were a few dead-looking tufts of grass and weed stalks among the stones. On the margins of the stream bed were occasional near-leafless bushes, their twigs full of cruel thorns. Despite the thorns, there were signs that something grazed on them. Succulent plants, their flat leaves stonelike, were actually common. But the boy did not see this. To his city eyes it just looked like the outskirts of hell. However, the sun at least was welcome, licking down to warm his numb feet. The mountains surely could not be far now? He'd lost some time by sleeping, but surely by midmorning he'd be there?
Midmorning came . . . and went. The sun he'd welcomed had built up to scorching strength. Not a breath of air moved between the red cliffs of the valley. The cliffs themselves however seemed to shiver. Keilin's feet felt as though they'd never be cool again. Each step on the burning surface was a small agony. He'd learned to avoid dark stones, picking his way across the lighter ones. There was no sign of any mountains. Finally, in the meager shade of a water-cut overhang on the dry river's edge, he stopped. He ate a body-warmed melon, even sucking the limited juice from around the pips, and then drifted into an uneasy sleep. When he woke again it was nearly sundown, and his mouth and throat were mercilessly dry. He sucked and chewed at the pulp of the third melon, dragging out its limited moisture, struggling to swallow the near tasteless muck, ending up spitting out most of it. Still, he was determined. He walked on, and kept going all night, although the terrain became steeper and rougher.