The Plains of Passage - Jean M. Auel [259]
“I think you’re right, Ayla. It’s better not to get these wet,” he said, pulling off his leg-coverings.
Jondalar put on the backpack, and Ayla held the sleeping roll, just to make sure it wouldn’t get wet. The man felt a little silly getting up on the horse with his lower half bare, but feeling Ayla’s skin between his legs made him forget it. The obvious result of his thoughts was not lost on her. If she hadn’t been so filled with her need to hurry, she, too, could have been tempted to stay a little longer. In the back of her mind she thought that some other time they might ride double again, just for fun, but this was not the time for fun.
The water was icy cold when the brown stallion entered the stream, breaking through the crust of ice near the edge. Though the river was swift, and soon deep enough to wet their legs to midway up their thighs, the horse did not lose his footing; it was not so deep that he had to swim. Racer’s two riders tried to curl their legs out of the water at first, but soon felt numbed to the cold river. About halfway across, Ayla turned around to look for Wolf. He was still on the bank, pacing back and forth, avoiding the initial plunge, as he often did. Ayla whistled to encourage him on, and she saw him finally jump in.
They reached the opposite shore without incident, except for feeling cold. The chill wind blowing on their wet legs when they dismounted didn’t help. After pushing most of the water off with their hands, they hurried to put on their pants and moccasin-boots, with liners of downy chamois wool felted together—a departing gift from the Sharamudoi, for which they were more than grateful at that moment. Their legs and feet tingled with the returning warmth. When Wolf reached the shore, he climbed on the bank and shook himself. Ayla checked him over to satisfy herself that he was none the worse for the cold swim.
They located the trail easily and remounted the young stallion. Wolf again tried to keep up, but he soon lagged behind. Ayla worriedly watched him falling farther and farther back. That he had found them the night before eased her fears a little, and she consoled herself with the knowledge that he had often run off hunting or exploring on his own and had always caught up with them again. She hated to leave him behind, but they had to find Whinney.
It was midafternoon before they finally caught sight of horses in the distance. As they drew nearer, Ayla strained to find her friend amidst the others. She thought she caught a glimpse of a familiar hay-colored coat, but she couldn’t be sure. There were too many other horses with coats that were similar, and when the wind carried their scent to the herd, they raced away.
“Those horses have been hunted before,” Jondalar remarked. But he was glad that he caught himself in time before he voiced his next thought out loud: There must be people in this region who like horse-meat. He didn’t want to upset Ayla even more. The herd soon outdistanced a young stallion that was carrying two passengers, but they continued to follow the trail. It was all they could do for now.
The herd turned south, for some reason only they knew, heading back toward the Great Mother River. Before long, the ground began to slope up. The land became rugged and rocky, and the grass more sparse. They continued until they came to a broad field high above the rest of the landscape. When they caught sight of water sparkling below, they realized they were on a plateau on top of the prominence they had skirted around the base of a few days before. The river they had crossed hugged its western face before joining the Mother.
As the herd started to graze, they moved in closer.
“There she is, Jondalar!” Ayla said with excitement, pointing to a particular animal.
“How can you be sure? Several of those horses have a similar