As Peter had predicted, the sun was often hidden from view; there were no landmarks at all. The reeds were too tall. Sometimes big objects under the water got in their way and knocked them off course – a large tree root or rotting trunk – and they had to work their way around it.
Every five minutes they stopped for a drink out of their bottles. A single mouthful, careful not to let any of the swamp water pollute their supply. They used this time to check their bearings as well. Everywhere looked the same, and visibility in any direction was only about two metres, so they were doubly grateful for the compass. Without it they really would have been effectively blind. They would inevitably go round and round in circles until they collapsed with dehydration and exhaustion. Beck clutched the compass tightly.
The depth of the swamp varied. Sometimes the mud only came up to their waists. Sometimes the bottom fell away and it almost reached their shoulders. Beck still had both arms held up, one to keep the compass steady and the other to protect his cut, and his shoulders felt like lead weights. It also made balancing hard, and before long the muscles in his arms were shrieking, but he had no choice but to keep walking.
Peter shuddered as they started to push their way slowly through the sea of reeds again. His gaze darted all around nervously.
One of Beck’s main concerns here was snakes. They loved dark, dank swamps, and in the black water the boys couldn’t see where they were treading. And Beck was in front. The first to get bitten if he trod on one. But he was powerless to do anything except trust fate and press on.
‘That trick you taught me . . .’ Peter muttered. ‘How to fight claustrophobia? It’s not working.’
‘Don’t think too much, just focus on keeping moving.’ When Beck had taught Peter how to look through the jungle, that had assumed there was something to see. Different kinds of tree, different levels to the terrain. You could get the shape of the jungle around you. But the swamp had no shape. It was just flat, and all you could see after the reeds was more reeds. Their best tactic was just to push on as fast as they could.
Not only was it hot, it was also unnervingly quiet. They had got so used to the background noise of the jungle that they had stopped noticing it – until it was gone. The reeds were perfect sound insulation. Not a single squeak got in from outside. The only sounds came from their shoes squelching in the water and mud. The rustle of reeds around them. And, of course, the maddening buzz of the insects that swarmed around them. It was like being in their own little universe – hot, humid and claustrophobic. Beck wondered if and when there would be an end to this hell-hole.
‘If it’s any help, swamps are formed near large bodies of water.’ It was the only helpful thing he could think of.
‘Like the sea?’ Peter said hopefully.
‘Like the sea. So we can’t have that far to go.’
Peter smiled. Beck could see the effort it took and smiled back.
‘Then we’d better get on . . .’
Because they couldn’t see or hear anything more than a very short distance away, the end came as a surprise.
They had learned to brace themselves against the mass of reeds at their backs. The resistance vanished so suddenly that they fell backwards with shouts of surprise. Beck felt himself falling and his arms windmilled for balance. Everything seemed to slow down. He even had time for a couple of thoughts. Part of him noticed the compass that he had preserved so carefully fly out of his hand. He felt annoyed that the needle would be lost in the depths of the swamp. Another part warned him more urgently that he was falling backwards into the filthy water. It would get on his arm; close over his head.
And then he hit something solid and the breath was knocked out of him.
Time and his thoughts returned to their normal pace. He was lying on a sandy bank. Only his feet were still in the water. Peter was lying next to him, looking equally surprised; he sat up slowly, pulled his feet out of the swamp, and began to giggle.
‘What?’ Beck felt a smile tugging at his own lips. The laugh was infectious – fuelled by adrenalin and relief.
‘You look filthy, Beck.’ Peter fell back onto the sand again, shaking with laughter. Beck looked down at himself, then at Peter, and started to laugh too. From the shoulders down their clothes were stained black and brown, and coated with slime and weed.
In this new world of light and air beyond the smothering embrace of the reeds, Beck’s ears picked up the most beautiful, cleanest sound ever. The sound of waves hitting the shore.