The Plains of Passage - Jean M. Auel [95]
Before they went to bed, they packed everything except their sleeping rolls and breakfast essentials, including the dry tent, though it was harder to fold and fit into the pack basket. The hides had been smoked before the skins were made into a tent, so that even after a thorough soaking, they would remain reasonably pliable, but the portable shelter was still somewhat stiff. It would become more flexible again with use.
On their last night in the comfort of the lodge, Ayla watched the flickering light of the dying fire playing across the walls of the substantial shelter, feeling her emotions flicker across her mind with a similar play of brightness and shadow. She was eager to be on their way again, but sorry to be leaving a place that, in the short time they had been there, had come to feel like home—except there were no people. In the past few days, she had caught herself looking up at the crest of the slope hoping to see the people who lived at the Camp returning before they had to leave.
Though she still wished they would arrive unexpectedly, she had given up hoping, and she was looking forward to reaching the Great Mother River and perhaps meeting someone along its route. She loved Jondalar, but she was lonely for people, for women and children, and elders, for laughing and talking, and sharing with others of her kind. But she didn’t want to think much beyond the next day, or the next Camp of people. She didn’t want to think about Jondalar’s people, or how long they still had to travel before they reached his home, and she didn’t want to think about how they were going to cross that large, fast river with only a small round boat.
Jondalar lay awake as well, worried about their Journey and eager to be moving again, though he did think their stay had been very worthwhile. Their tent was dry, they had replenished their meat and replaced necessary equipment that had been lost or damaged, and he was excited about the development of the two-part spear. He was glad he had the bowl boat, but even with it, he was worried about crossing the river. It was a large waterway, wide and swift. They were probably not very far from the sea, and it was not likely to get smaller. Anything could happen. He would be glad when they reached the other side.
10
Alya woke often during the night, and her eyes were open as the first morning glow crept in through the smoke hole and sent its faint illuminating fingers into the tenebrious crannies to disperse the dark and bring the hidden shapes out of the concealing shadows. By the time the obscuring night had retreated to a dim half-light, she was wide awake and could not go back to sleep.
Moving quietly away from Jondalar’s warmth, she slipped outside. The night chill enveloped her bare skin and, with its cooling hint of the massive layers of ice to the north, clothed her with gooseflesh. Looking out across the misty river valley, she saw the vague formations of the still unlighted land on the opposite side, silhouetted against the glowing sky. She wished they were already over there.
Rough warm fur brushed against her leg. Absently she patted the head and scratched the ruff of the wolf who had appeared beside her. He sniffed the air and, finding something interesting, raced off down the slope. She looked for the horses and made out the yellowish coat of the mare grazing in one of the grassy leas near the water. The dark brown horse was not visible, but she was sure he was nearby.
Shivering, she walked through the damp grass toward the small creek and sensed the rising of the sun in the east. She watched the western sky shade from glowing gray to pastel blue, with a scattering of pink clouds, reflecting the glory of the morning sun hidden behind the crest of the slope.
Ayla was tempted to walk up and see the rising sun, but she was stopped by a glint of dazzling brilliance from the other direction. Though the gully-scarred slopes across the river were still wrapped in a somber gray gloom, the mountains to the west, bathed in the