The Plains of Passage - Jean M. Auel [152]
After traversing the side of a steep grade and around to the right, they reached a sheer rock wall. When they came to a talus slope, Ayla felt a sense of familiarity. She had seen similar accumulations of sharp rocky debris at the base of steep walls in the mountains where she grew up. She even noticed the large white horn-shaped flowers of a stout plant with jagged leaves. The members of the Mammoth Hearth she had met called the unpleasant-smelling plant thorn-apple, because of its spiny green fruit, but it brought back memories from her childhood. It was datura. Creb and Iza had both used it, but for different purposes.
The place was familiar to Jondalar because he had collected gravel from the loose pile of scree to line paths and fireplaces. He felt a wave of anticipation, knowing they were close. Once across the rocky sliding slope, the trail had been evened out with a covering of the rock chips as it wound around the foot of the soaring wall. Ahead they could see sky between the trees and brush, and Jondalar knew they were approaching the edge of the cliff.
“Ayla, I think we should take the poles and the pack baskets off the horses here,” the man said. “The path around the edge of this wall is not all that wide. We can come back and get them later.”
After everything was unloaded, Ayla, following the young man, walked a short distance along the wall toward the open sky. Jondalar, trailing behind to watch, smiled when she reached the edge of the cliff and looked down—then stepped back quickly. She grabbed for the wall, feeling a touch of vertigo, then edged forward and looked out again. Her jaw dropped in amazement.
Far below, down the sheer cliff, was the same Great Mother River they had been following, but Ayla had never viewed her from this perspective. She had seen all the branches of the river contained in a single channel, but it had always been from the level of a bank that was not much higher than the water itself. The urge to look down and watch from this height was compelling.
The often spread-out and meandering river was gathered together between walls of rock that soared straight out of the water from roots that extended deep into the earth. As the deep undercurrent raced elements of itself that moved against rock, the constrained force of the Great Mother River rolled by with silent power, undulating with an oily fluency of heaving swells folding and spilling over themselves. Though many more tributaries would be added before the magnificent river would attain her full capacity, even this far from the delta, she had already reached such an enormous size that the decrease was hardly noticeable, especially looking down upon her full measure of moving water.
An occasional pinnacle of soaring stone broke the surface in midstream, parting the waters with curls of foam, and while she watched, a log, finding its way blocked, bumped its way around one of them. Hardly noticed was a construction of wood directly below, close to the cliff. When she finally looked up, Ayla scanned the mountains on the other side. Though still rounded, they were taller and steeper than they had been downstream, nearly matching the height of the sharper peaks on her side. Separated only by the width of the river, the two ranges had once been joined until the sharp edge of time and tide cut a path through.
Darvalo was waiting patiently for Ayla to take in her first sight of the dramatic entry to the home of his people. He had lived there all his life and took it for granted, but he had seen the reaction of strangers before. It gave him a sense of pride when people were so overwhelmed, and it made him look more closely, seeing it anew through their eyes. When the woman finally turned to him, he smiled, then