The Plains of Passage - Jean M. Auel [428]
Ayla frowned, but she nodded her agreement.
They spoke in hushed whispers, the silent brooding ice quieting their voices. They didn’t want to disturb its hulking splendor or warn it of their impending assault.
Jondalar tied one end of the rope around his waist and the other end around Ayla, coiling up the slack and putting his arm through to carry it on his shoulder. Then each of them picked up the lead rope of a horse. Wolf would have to make his own way.
Jondalar felt a moment of panic before he started. What could he have been thinking of? What ever made him think he could bring Ayla and the horses across the glacier? They should have gone the long way around. Even if it took longer, it was safer. At least they would have made it. Then he stepped on the ice.
At the foot of a glacier there was often a separation between the ice and the land, which created a cavelike space beneath the ice, or an overhanging ice shelf that extended out over the accumulated gravels of glacial till. At the place Jondalar chose to start, the overhang had collapsed, providing a gradual ascent. It was also mixed with gravel, giving them better footing. Starting from the collapsed edge a heavy accumulation of gravel—a moraine—led up the side of the ice like a well-defined trail and, except near the top, it did not appear too steep for them or the sure-footed horses. Getting over the top edge could be a problem, but he wouldn’t know how much of one until he got there.
With Jondalar leading the way, they started up the slope. Racer balked for a moment. Although they had trimmed it down, his large load was still unwieldy and the shift in elevation from a moderate to a steeper grade unsettled him. A hoof slipped, then caught hold, and with some hesitation the young stallion started up. Then it was Ayla’s turn, and Whinney dragging the travois. But the mare had hauled the pole drag for so long, across such varied terrain, that she was accustomed to it, and, unlike the large load Racer carried on his back, the wide-spaced poles helped to steady the mare.
Wolf brought up the rear. It was easier for him. He was lower to the ground and his callused paws provided friction against slipping. But he sensed the danger to his companions and followed behind as though guarding the rear, watchful for some unseen menace.
In the bright moonlight, reflections from jagged outcrops of bare ice shimmered, and the mirrorlike surfaces of sheer planes had a deep liquid quality, like still black pools. It was not difficult to see the moraine that was spilling down, like a river of sand and stones in slow motion, but the night lighting obscured the size and perspective of objects and hid small details.
Jondalar set a slow and cautious pace, carefully leading his horse around obstructions. Ayla was more concerned with finding the best path for the horse she was leading than she was for her own safety. As the slope became steeper, the horses, unbalanced by the sharper incline and their heavy loads, struggled for footing. When a hoof slipped as Jondalar tried to lead Racer up a precipitous rise near the top, the horse neighed and tried to rear.
“Come on, Racer,” Jondalar urged, pulling his lead rope taut, as if he could pull him up by sheer brute strength. “We’re almost there, you can do it.”
The stallion made an effort, but his hooves slipped on treacherous ice below a thin layer of snow, and Jondalar felt himself pulled back by the lead rope. He eased up on the rope, giving Racer his head, and finally let go altogether. There were things in the pack he would hate to lose, and even more, it would pain him to lose the animal, but he feared the stallion could not make it.
But when his hooves found gravel, Racer’s slide stopped, and with no restraint on him, he lifted his head and plunged forward. Suddenly the stallion was over the edge, adroitly stepping over a narrow crack at the end of a crevasse as the way leveled out. Jondalar noticed that the color of the sky had shifted