He didn't want to go to bed, not with Deckie lying there in the next bed. Hethought of taking a swim himself, but the thought of getting in the water theyhad been using made him feel polluted. He walked away into the brush.
It got dark immediately under the trees, but not so dark he couldn't see theground. And soon he found a path that led down to the stream, which made thatcurious rushing, plinking sound like some kind of random musical instrument thatwas both string and wind. The water was icy cold when he put his bare feet intoit. Cold and pure and numbing and he kept walking upstream.
The trees broke open over the stream and moonlight poured down from almoststraight overhead. The water had carved its way under some of the trees liningthe banks. None had fallen, but many of them cantilevered perilously over thewater, their roots reaching out like some ancient scaffolding, waiting forsomebody to come in and finish building the riverbank. In the spring runoff orduring a storm, all the gaps under the trees would be invisible, but it was theend of a dryish summer and there wasn't that much water, so the banks wereexposed right down to the base. If I just lay down under one of these trees,when it rained again the water would rise and lift me up into the roots like afish up to an octopus's mouth, and the roots would hold me like an octopus'sarms and I could just lie there and sleep while it sucked the life out of me,sucked it right out and left me dry, and then I'd dissolve in the water and