The Plains of Passage - Jean M. Auel [9]
The farther they traveled out of their way, the more irritable and impatient Jondalar felt. In his mind, he was questioning his decision to take the longer southern route, rather than the northwestern one that had been suggested—more than once—and in which direction the river seemed determined to take them. True, he wasn’t familiar with it, but if it was so much shorter, perhaps they should go that way. If he could just be certain that they would reach the plateau glacier farther to the west, at the source of the Great Mother River, before spring, he would do it, he told himself.
It would mean giving up his last opportunity to see the Sharamudoi, but was that so important? He had to admit that he did want to see them. He had been looking forward to it. Jondalar wasn’t sure if his decision to go south really came from his desire to take the familiar, and therefore, safer way to get Ayla and himself back, or his desire to see people who were family to him. He worried about the consequences of making the wrong choice.
Ayla broke into his introspection. “Jondalar, I think we can cross here,” she said. “The bank on the other side looks easy to get up.”
They were at a bend in the river, and they stopped to study the situation. As the turbulent, swiftly flowing stream swept around the curve, it cut deeply into the outside edge, where they were standing, making a high, steep bank. But the inner side of the turn, on the opposite bank, rose gradually out of the water, forming a narrow shore of hard-packed gray-brown soil backed by brush.
“Do you think the horses can get down this bank?”
“I think so. The deepest part of the river must be near this side, where it cuts into the bank. It’s hard to tell how deep it is, or whether the horses will have to swim. It might be better if we would dismount and swim, too,” Ayla said, then noticed that Jondalar seemed displeased, “but if it’s not too deep, we can ride them across. I hate to get my clothes wet, but I don’t feel like taking them off to swim across, either.”
They urged the horses over the precipitous edge. Hooves slipped and slid down the fine-grained soil of the bank and into the water with a splash as they were dunked in the fast current and carried downstream. It was deeper than Ayla had thought. The horses had a moment of panic before they got accustomed to their new element and started swimming against the current toward the sloping opposite shore. As they started up the gradual slope on the inner curve of the bend, Ayla looked for Wolf. Turning around, she saw him still on the high bank, whining and yelping, running back and forth.
“He’s afraid to jump in,” Jondalar said.
“Come, Wolf! Come on,” Ayla called. “You can swim.” But the young wolf whined plaintively and tucked his tail between his legs.
“What’s wrong with him? He’s crossed rivers before,” Jondalar said, annoyed at another delay. He had hoped to travel a good distance that day, but everything seemed to be conspiring to stall them.
They had gotten off to a late start, then had been forced to double back toward the north and west, a direction he didn’t want to go, and now Wolf wouldn’t cross the river. He was also aware that they should stop and check the contents of the pack baskets, after their dunking, even if they were closely woven and essentially watertight. To add to his irritation, he was wet, and it was getting late. He could feel the wind cooling, and he knew they ought to change clothes and let the ones they were wearing dry. The summer days were warm enough, but the soughing night winds still brought the chill breath of the ice. The effects of the massive glacier that crushed the northern lands under sheets of ice as high as mountains could be felt everywhere on earth, but nowhere as much as on the cold steppes near its edge.
If it were earlier, they could travel in wet clothes; the wind and sun would dry them while they rode. He was tempted to start south anyway, just to get some distance behind them