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For the third time his mountain bike had crashed into the hard upturned earth. Deep tracks had been cut into the biking track.
Rowan careered dangerously down the slope, desperately trying to keep his feet on the pedals and as a consequence he scraped all down his left shin. His bike toppled beneath him and he was left hanging in the air, to be thrown onto the dirt. He lay there panting. He was hot and dusty, stinging all over. It was as though he was a piece of meat, being carved by a butcher.
With his bike tangled on the track he went and fetched his canteen, savouring the last few drops. His lips were salty from the ocean spray. He packed his bottle away into his satchel and pondered. He knew it would be a challenge, something he could assess himself on, but right now he wasn’t bothered. As he lay there dripping with sweat and trying to fight back his exasperation, the pestering flies tasting his forehead and arms, he observed his leg.
It was unrecognisable in the dirt and dust; his sweat was like superglue, smothering him in dust. He wiped away the delicately glistening blood and dirt. It wasn’t as bad as it had seemed. He quickly smothered it in antiseptic before applying a bandage.
The young cyclist was tall and square-shouldered. He had a slightly rough appearance with unkempt, oily hair, sharp, inquisitive eyes, hidden by some fancy sunglasses, and a stubby chin. It protruded only slightly.
He was dressed modestly in cyclist gear: tight-fitting, black shorts, a suffocating top stuck to his chest and a pair of tatty trainers, all of which were laden in dirt.
He was only half way there, but he knew he had to return or die of thirst or exhaustion.
Rowan slowly picked himself up and fetched his bike. He thought it would have looked cool if he had swung the tangled mass of burning metal over his shoulders, but he was too tired and fed up so he just wheeled it along side him. With a bandaged leg and an annoyed complexion he set of back down the sloping mountain.
The Troodos Mountains were eerie in the late afternoon, but warm. The coast of Cyprus was smothered in an orange and purple gloom. The laburnums and eucalyptuses soared way above his head, waving only slightly in the gentle breeze and the subtle, pellucid ocean lay several metres below him, as if to catch him if he fell. The mountains were the tusks of a school of narwhals, winding up and up.
Sitting in the gentle water were several fishing boats, their nets reflecting in the sun, the fine wire piercing the glow. How Rowan craved to be in that cool, azure water.
Abruptly a cold mist engulfed him; he heard the explosion of a gun, somewhere in the darkening forest. The burning on his skin and the stinging in his leg ceased. Had it been a gun? Was it his imagination? He reckoned it must have been the sea battering the rocks below or an old eucalyptus falling over. On his way up he had seen several trees upturned and torn from their roots. As Rowan was just about to continue on (his nerves already acting on a hair-trigger) a freezing chill wrapped around him once more. It was a blood-boiling scream. His legs exploded in a frenzy of strides as he ran full throttle down the slope and into the forest. Then Rowan relaxed; the scream had come from a parrot, perched miraculously on a branch. He made no more of it and fetched his bike and made to a clearing in the forest.
In the quickening gloom he could just see a small house. His thirst making the better of him he perched his bike against a tree and tentatively made towards the door.
A light was on in the window, spilling out beams of yellow. The door handle was slimy and wet. Rowan thought it was just his sweat. Having one last look around he stooped under the doorway and made to the table in the corner of a small room. Rowan heard some twigs break. Was it just the branches scraping against the roof? Yes. In the light he could see a washbasin and before he knew it he was pouring ice-cold water over his face. He looked inside the basin; it was glistening brightly. He didn’t have time to scream.
He heard those twigs break again. Then he heard the door quietly open from behind him. Seconds later Rowan heard the sea wash against the rocks once more, but this time the sea seemed a lot nearer. A loud parrot called out, echoing eerily through the forest.
Rowan careered dangerously down the slope, desperately trying to keep his feet on the pedals and as a consequence he scraped all down his left shin. His bike toppled beneath him and he was left hanging in the air, to be thrown onto the dirt. He lay there panting. He was hot and dusty, stinging all over. It was as though he was a piece of meat, being carved by a butcher.
With his bike tangled on the track he went and fetched his canteen, savouring the last few drops. His lips were salty from the ocean spray. He packed his bottle away into his satchel and pondered. He knew it would be a challenge, something he could assess himself on, but right now he wasn’t bothered. As he lay there dripping with sweat and trying to fight back his exasperation, the pestering flies tasting his forehead and arms, he observed his leg.
It was unrecognisable in the dirt and dust; his sweat was like superglue, smothering him in dust. He wiped away the delicately glistening blood and dirt. It wasn’t as bad as it had seemed. He quickly smothered it in antiseptic before applying a bandage.
The young cyclist was tall and square-shouldered. He had a slightly rough appearance with unkempt, oily hair, sharp, inquisitive eyes, hidden by some fancy sunglasses, and a stubby chin. It protruded only slightly.
He was dressed modestly in cyclist gear: tight-fitting, black shorts, a suffocating top stuck to his chest and a pair of tatty trainers, all of which were laden in dirt.
He was only half way there, but he knew he had to return or die of thirst or exhaustion.
Rowan slowly picked himself up and fetched his bike. He thought it would have looked cool if he had swung the tangled mass of burning metal over his shoulders, but he was too tired and fed up so he just wheeled it along side him. With a bandaged leg and an annoyed complexion he set of back down the sloping mountain.
The Troodos Mountains were eerie in the late afternoon, but warm. The coast of Cyprus was smothered in an orange and purple gloom. The laburnums and eucalyptuses soared way above his head, waving only slightly in the gentle breeze and the subtle, pellucid ocean lay several metres below him, as if to catch him if he fell. The mountains were the tusks of a school of narwhals, winding up and up.
Sitting in the gentle water were several fishing boats, their nets reflecting in the sun, the fine wire piercing the glow. How Rowan craved to be in that cool, azure water.
Abruptly a cold mist engulfed him; he heard the explosion of a gun, somewhere in the darkening forest. The burning on his skin and the stinging in his leg ceased. Had it been a gun? Was it his imagination? He reckoned it must have been the sea battering the rocks below or an old eucalyptus falling over. On his way up he had seen several trees upturned and torn from their roots. As Rowan was just about to continue on (his nerves already acting on a hair-trigger) a freezing chill wrapped around him once more. It was a blood-boiling scream. His legs exploded in a frenzy of strides as he ran full throttle down the slope and into the forest. Then Rowan relaxed; the scream had come from a parrot, perched miraculously on a branch. He made no more of it and fetched his bike and made to a clearing in the forest.
In the quickening gloom he could just see a small house. His thirst making the better of him he perched his bike against a tree and tentatively made towards the door.
A light was on in the window, spilling out beams of yellow. The door handle was slimy and wet. Rowan thought it was just his sweat. Having one last look around he stooped under the doorway and made to the table in the corner of a small room. Rowan heard some twigs break. Was it just the branches scraping against the roof? Yes. In the light he could see a washbasin and before he knew it he was pouring ice-cold water over his face. He looked inside the basin; it was glistening brightly. He didn’t have time to scream.
He heard those twigs break again. Then he heard the door quietly open from behind him. Seconds later Rowan heard the sea wash against the rocks once more, but this time the sea seemed a lot nearer. A loud parrot called out, echoing eerily through the forest.
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For the third time his mountain bike had crashed into the hard upturned earth. Deep tracks had been cut into the biking track.
Rowan careered dangerously down the slope, desperately trying to keep his feet on the pedals and as a consequence he scraped all down his left shin. His bike toppled beneath him and he was left hanging in the air, to be thrown onto the dirt. He lay there panting. He was hot and dusty, stinging all over. It was as though he was a piece of meat, being carved by a butcher.
With his bike tangled on the track he went and fetched his canteen, savouring the last few drops. His lips were salty from the ocean spray. He packed his bottle away into his satchel and pondered. He knew it would be a challenge, something he could assess himself on, but right now he wasn’t bothered. As he lay there dripping with sweat and trying to fight back his exasperation, the pestering flies tasting his forehead and arms, he observed his leg.
It was unrecognisable in the dirt and dust; his sweat was like superglue, smothering him in dust. He wiped away the delicately glistening blood and dirt. It wasn’t as bad as it had seemed. He quickly smothered it in antiseptic before applying a bandage.
The young cyclist was tall and square-shouldered. He had a slightly rough appearance with unkempt, oily hair, sharp, inquisitive eyes, hidden by some fancy sunglasses, and a stubby chin. It protruded only slightly.
He was dressed modestly in cyclist gear: tight-fitting, black shorts, a suffocating top stuck to his chest and a pair of tatty trainers, all of which were laden in dirt.
He was only half way there, but he knew he had to return or die of thirst or exhaustion.
Rowan slowly picked himself up and fetched his bike. He thought it would have looked cool if he had swung the tangled mass of burning metal over his shoulders, but he was too tired and fed up so he just wheeled it along side him. With a bandaged leg and an annoyed complexion he set of back down the sloping mountain.
The Troodos Mountains were eerie in the late afternoon, but warm. The coast of Cyprus was smothered in an orange and purple gloom. The laburnums and eucalyptuses soared way above his head, waving only slightly in the gentle breeze and the subtle, pellucid ocean lay several metres below him, as if to catch him if he fell. The mountains were the tusks of a school of narwhals, winding up and up.
Sitting in the gentle water were several fishing boats, their nets reflecting in the sun, the fine wire piercing the glow. How Rowan craved to be in that cool, azure water.
Abruptly a cold mist engulfed him; he heard the explosion of a gun, somewhere in the darkening forest. The burning on his skin and the stinging in his leg ceased. Had it been a gun? Was it his imagination? He reckoned it must have been the sea battering the rocks below or an old eucalyptus falling over. On his way up he had seen several trees upturned and torn from their roots. As Rowan was just about to continue on (his nerves already acting on a hair-trigger) a freezing chill wrapped around him once more. It was a blood-boiling scream. His legs exploded in a frenzy of strides as he ran full throttle down the slope and into the forest. Then Rowan relaxed; the scream had come from a parrot, perched miraculously on a branch. He made no more of it and fetched his bike and made to a clearing in the forest.
In the quickening gloom he could just see a small house. His thirst making the better of him he perched his bike against a tree and tentatively made towards the door.
A light was on in the window, spilling out beams of yellow. The door handle was slimy and wet. Rowan thought it was just his sweat. Having one last look around he stooped under the doorway and made to the table in the corner of a small room. Rowan heard some twigs break. Was it just the branches scraping against the roof? Yes. In the light he could see a washbasin and before he knew it he was pouring ice-cold water over his face. He looked inside the basin; it was glistening brightly. He didn’t have time to scream.
He heard those twigs break again. Then he heard the door quietly open from behind him. Seconds later Rowan heard the sea wash against the rocks once more, but this time the sea seemed a lot nearer. A loud parrot called out, echoing eerily through the forest.
Rowan careered dangerously down the slope, desperately trying to keep his feet on the pedals and as a consequence he scraped all down his left shin. His bike toppled beneath him and he was left hanging in the air, to be thrown onto the dirt. He lay there panting. He was hot and dusty, stinging all over. It was as though he was a piece of meat, being carved by a butcher.
With his bike tangled on the track he went and fetched his canteen, savouring the last few drops. His lips were salty from the ocean spray. He packed his bottle away into his satchel and pondered. He knew it would be a challenge, something he could assess himself on, but right now he wasn’t bothered. As he lay there dripping with sweat and trying to fight back his exasperation, the pestering flies tasting his forehead and arms, he observed his leg.
It was unrecognisable in the dirt and dust; his sweat was like superglue, smothering him in dust. He wiped away the delicately glistening blood and dirt. It wasn’t as bad as it had seemed. He quickly smothered it in antiseptic before applying a bandage.
The young cyclist was tall and square-shouldered. He had a slightly rough appearance with unkempt, oily hair, sharp, inquisitive eyes, hidden by some fancy sunglasses, and a stubby chin. It protruded only slightly.
He was dressed modestly in cyclist gear: tight-fitting, black shorts, a suffocating top stuck to his chest and a pair of tatty trainers, all of which were laden in dirt.
He was only half way there, but he knew he had to return or die of thirst or exhaustion.
Rowan slowly picked himself up and fetched his bike. He thought it would have looked cool if he had swung the tangled mass of burning metal over his shoulders, but he was too tired and fed up so he just wheeled it along side him. With a bandaged leg and an annoyed complexion he set of back down the sloping mountain.
The Troodos Mountains were eerie in the late afternoon, but warm. The coast of Cyprus was smothered in an orange and purple gloom. The laburnums and eucalyptuses soared way above his head, waving only slightly in the gentle breeze and the subtle, pellucid ocean lay several metres below him, as if to catch him if he fell. The mountains were the tusks of a school of narwhals, winding up and up.
Sitting in the gentle water were several fishing boats, their nets reflecting in the sun, the fine wire piercing the glow. How Rowan craved to be in that cool, azure water.
Abruptly a cold mist engulfed him; he heard the explosion of a gun, somewhere in the darkening forest. The burning on his skin and the stinging in his leg ceased. Had it been a gun? Was it his imagination? He reckoned it must have been the sea battering the rocks below or an old eucalyptus falling over. On his way up he had seen several trees upturned and torn from their roots. As Rowan was just about to continue on (his nerves already acting on a hair-trigger) a freezing chill wrapped around him once more. It was a blood-boiling scream. His legs exploded in a frenzy of strides as he ran full throttle down the slope and into the forest. Then Rowan relaxed; the scream had come from a parrot, perched miraculously on a branch. He made no more of it and fetched his bike and made to a clearing in the forest.
In the quickening gloom he could just see a small house. His thirst making the better of him he perched his bike against a tree and tentatively made towards the door.
A light was on in the window, spilling out beams of yellow. The door handle was slimy and wet. Rowan thought it was just his sweat. Having one last look around he stooped under the doorway and made to the table in the corner of a small room. Rowan heard some twigs break. Was it just the branches scraping against the roof? Yes. In the light he could see a washbasin and before he knew it he was pouring ice-cold water over his face. He looked inside the basin; it was glistening brightly. He didn’t have time to scream.
He heard those twigs break again. Then he heard the door quietly open from behind him. Seconds later Rowan heard the sea wash against the rocks once more, but this time the sea seemed a lot nearer. A loud parrot called out, echoing eerily through the forest.