Night Sounds Jason crouched in the dense brush listening for all his worth. He had tumbled here, down the hill, after tripping over a root, or was it a rock, while running in the dark. At any rate, he was here now, trying not to whimper, or even to breath too loud. Except for his leg he curled into a near fetal position. His leg was twisted in an unnatural way and the pain in his shin was intense. Chances were better than even that his leg was broken. If it was, he realized, he was as good as dead. With a broken leg he would never get away. There was a rustling sound from above, from near where he had fallen. He gasped in fear, and cringed at the sound his own breath made. He froze in terror when the rustling sound above suddenly stopped. Had they heard him? Had he left a mark on the side of the trail when he had taken his unexpected plunge? Scuff marks in the dirt. Over turned rocks. Broken branches. Any of these could betray him, even if his sharp intake of breath had not already done so. He strained his ears to try and hear if there was still any movement from above. The moonlight cut fitfully through what was left of the canopy above. It was not pitch back – not quite. He could see that he lay in a pile of forest litter rife with newly fallen leaves. Dry, brown, dead leaves that would make an ungodly amount of noise at his slightest movement. He dare not move until he was sure the tail above was empty. And since he could not see the trail he listened. He could hear some movements here and there in the forest, small movements – like those of tiny nocturnal creatures scurrying about on their own private affairs. Not the heavy sounds of deadly pursuit. He heard an owl now and then, and some other bird, or what he assumed was a bird. But nothing from above. Was it safe to move? Was it at least safe enough to straighten out his leg and examine it for fractures? The way it twisted under his own weight was becoming unbearable. At last, simply to relieve the desperate pain of his awkward position, he moved. Just a little, but he moved. He listened. Nothing from above. He moved again. Now at last he could straighten his leg. It throbbed with pain, but as he probed with his fingers he felt no sign of an actual break. He breathed a little easier, then settled back to listen again. Now he heard something else, a low sound that nibbled at the edge of hearing. He concentrated hard, trying to identify the sound. He should know it, of that he was sure. He closed his eyes giving his whole being to naught but his ears. Water! It was the sound of running water. He opened his eyes with a start and dared to hope for the first time since he had broken away. If he could gain the stream, or maybe it was a river, he just might make it. He sat up slowly, so as not to make much noise, and braced himself to try and climb to his feet. There was a small tree near at hand, and he wrapped his big hand around it, took a deep breath. He listened again for any sound from above. Damn it all, he had to try. Jason lurched upward, pulling with all his might. The tree trembled a bit and the remaining leaves in the dry canopy chattered like mad. He froze and listened, but there was no sounds from above. Then, as he let out a sigh of relief his blood ran cold. A new noise rose on the night wind. The baying of hounds. He could wait no longer. He took a tentative step down slope. His left leg gave out completely, throwing him head first down the hill. Even as he tumbled head over heals he was aware of a rush of pursuit from above – leaves being trampled as heavy feet came rushing back along the trail. He banged his head on the hard pack ground as he came to a stop near the bottom of the hill. The blow nearly rendered him unconscious. By shear strength of will he shook it off, forced himself up to a kneeling position. He looked up the hill. Above, silhouetted in the moonlight, he could see two figures crouched, examining the trail. Then bright lights lanced out, darting here and there through the underbrush probing for him. At the same time the hounds bayed again. They were much, much closer now. He turned and bolted blindly through the trees. He heard the scramble of pursuit coming down the hill. His heart pounded. A broken tree limb caught him square in the shoulder, throwing him to the ground. He scrambled back to his feet, not bothering to look back, not bothering about the blood that now oozed from the jagged wound in his shoulder. Then he heard it again. Water. Water over there, to the left. He veered left, stumbled through dense wild grape vines, tore through nettles and grasping thorns. Suddenly he broke clear of all the undergrowth and there it was. The river. For it was a river, a real river – broad and deep and swift. Without hesitation he threw himself into it and prayed to God that it would carry him to his salvation.