He stole eggs from nests, sucking his nourishment eagerly
with no dislike for the fishy flavor, and drinking from stagnant,
brackish ponds.
Suddenly Ross halted, at first thinking that the continuous roll of
sound he heard was thunder. Yet the clouds overhead were massed no more
than before and there was no sign of lightning. Continuing on, he
realized that the mysterious sound was the pounding of surf--he was near
the sea!
Willing his body to run, he weaved forward at a reeling trot, pitting
all his energy against the incessant pull from behind. His feet skidded
out of marsh mud into sand. Ahead of him were dark rocks surrounded by
the white lace of spray.
Ross headed straight toward that spray until he stood knee-deep in the
curling, foam-edged water and felt its tug on his body almost as strong
as that other tug upon his mind. He knelt, letting the salt water sting
to life every cut, every burn, sputtering as it filled his mouth and
nostrils, washing from him the slime of the bog lands.
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