Escorted by Anton, I limped toward the sands. The boulders lay farther apart, and smaller in size.
By a small hillock, Anton gave the order:
— Rest of the way on your own.
I turned around… nobody there! Anton and Tishka had vanished. I shuffled around, sat down on a boulder, listened. The silence was broken only by my own movements. A pebble scraping under my foot, or my hands scratching against the rock behind my back.
Darkness fell.
I remembered his story: you black out instantly, only to come to fresh as a cucumber come morning.
Five minutes went by… ten… half an hour…
Sleep wouldn’t come. My mind flickered with old films about captured Komsomol members freeing themselves from their bonds with whatever they had at hand. And me? What was stopping me?
I had to free myself! I shifted onto the ground and hummed under my breath:
Yellow-eyed night,
Show me your grace,
You have to help me,
You, queen of love.
Humming the upbeat little tune, I felt around for the rocks under my back and backside. Finding one with a roughly sharp edge, I started working the rope at my wrists against it.
The whole business turned out to be tiring, awkward, and pointless. But when it’s dark all around, sleep won’t come, and your head keeps nagging «a rope is just a simple cord,» what else is a bound man supposed to do?
Right. Persistence and effort, that’s what’s left!
I frayed the rope through and, worn out with exhaustion, fell asleep.