He unstrapped the two fire-logs from his rucksack then unpacked the things he would need: sleeping bag, notebook, fat paperback with a torn cover, candle-stub, a jar lid to stick it on, sketchbook and the pad of graph paper.
Things seemed quieter, more orderly now. Camp was made. Only food remained. The tent fell silent, flapping occasionally. He crawled out and stood up and looked about: yes, the wind had become a warm breeze and you could tell that even that would die down soon. The wind had been night itself blowing in.
Excerpted from The Lost City by Henry Shukman Copyright © 2008 by Henry Shukman. Excerpted by permission of Knopf, a division of Random House, Inc. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Blood at the Root
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