The Plains of Passage - Jean M. Auel [438]
By noon the sky was clear, and the brisk breeze blowing in their faces was so warm that it was almost balmy. The force of the wind increased, enough to slow them down as they leaned into it. And its warmth blowing across the cold surface of the ice was a deadly caress. The drifts of dry powdery snow became wet and compact, then turned to slush. Little puddles of water began to form in small depressions on the surface. They became deeper and took on a vivid blue color that seemed to glow out of the center of the ice, but the woman and man had no time, or heart, to appreciate the beauty. The horses’ need for water was easily satisfied, but it gave them little comfort now.
A soft mist began to rise, clinging close to the surface; the driving, warm south wind carried it away before it could get too high. Jondalar was using a long spear to feel the way ahead, but he was still almost running, and Ayla was hard-pressed to keep up. She wished she could jump on Whinney’s back and let the horse carry her away, but more and more cracks were opening in the ice. He was almost certain the horizon was closer, but the low-lying fog made distances deceptive.
Little rivulets began streaming over the surface of the ice, connecting the puddles and making footing treacherous. They splashed through the water, feeling its icy chill penetrate, then squish through their boots. Suddenly, a few feet in front of them, a large section of what had seemed to be solid ice fell away, exposing a yawning gulf. Wolf yipped and whined, and the horses shied away, squealing with fear. Jondalar turned and followed the edge of the crack, looking for a way around.
“Jondalar, I can’t keep going. I’m exhausted. I’ve got to stop,” Ayla said with a sob, then started crying. “We’ll never make it.”
He stopped, then went back and comforted her. “We’re almost there, Ayla. Look. You can see how close the edge is.”
“But we almost walked into a crevasse, and some of those puddles have become deep blue holes with streams falling into them.”
“Do you want to stay here?” he said.
Ayla took a deep breath. “No, of course not,” she said. “I don’t know why I’m crying like this. If we stay here, we’ll die for sure.”
Jondalar worked his way around the large crack, but as they turned south again, the winds were as strong as any from the north had been, and they could feel the temperature rising. Rivulets turned into streams crisscrossing the ice and grew into rivers. They worked their way around two more large cracks and could see beyond the ice. They ran the last short distance, and then they stood looking down over the edge.
They had reached the other side of the glacier.
A waterfall of milky clouded water, glacier milk, was just below them, gushing out of the bottom of the ice. In the distance, below the snow line, was a thin cover of light green.
“Do you want to stop here and rest a while?” Jondalar asked, but he looked worried.
“I just want to get off this ice. We can rest when we reach that meadow,” Ayla said.
“It’s farther than it looks. This is not the place to rush or be careless. We’ll rope ourselves together, and I think you should go first. If you slip, I can support your weight. Pick a way down carefully. We can lead the horses.”
“No, I don’t think we should. I think we should take off their halters and packs, and the pole drag, and let them find their own way down,” Ayla said.
“Maybe you’re right, but then we’ll have to leave the packs here … unless…”
Ayla saw where he was looking. “Let’s put everything in the bowl boat and let it slide down!” she said.
“Except a small pack with some necessities that we can take with us,” he said, smiling.
“If we tie it all down well, and watch which way it goes, we should be able to find it.”
“What if it breaks up?”
“What would break?”
“The frame could crack,” Jondalar said, “but even if it did, the hide would probably hold it together.”
“And whatever was inside would still be all right, wouldn’t it?”
“It should be.” Jondalar smiled. “I think that’s a