The valley of horses_ a novel - Jean M. Auel [111]
They knew the river in all her moods. He’d had difficulty comprehending her sheer volume until he had seen all her waters together, and she wasn’t full yet. But it wasn’t from the boat that her size was so apparent. During the winter when the waterfall trail was icing over and unusable, but before the Ramudoi moved in with their Shamudoi kin above, commerce between the two was accomplished by means of ropes and large woven platforms suspended over the ledge of the Shamudoi terrace and down to the Ramudoi dock.
The falls hadn’t yet frozen when he and Thonolan first arrived, but his brother was in no shape to make the precarious ascent. They were both lifted up in a basket.
When he saw her from that perspective for the first time, Jondalar began to understand the full extent of the Great Mother River. The blood had drained from his face; his heart pounded with the shock of comprehension as he looked down at the water and the rounded mountains across the river. He was awed and overcome with a deep reverence for the Mother whose birth waters had formed the river in her wondrous act of creation.
He had since learned there was a longer, easier, if less spectacular ascent to the high embayment. It was part of a trail that extended from west to east over the mountain passes and dropped down to the broad river plain on the eastern end of the gate. The western part of the trail, in the highlands and foothills leading to the start of the series of gorges, was more rugged, but parts of it dipped to the river’s edge. They were heading to one such place.
The boat was already pulling out of midchannel toward an excitedly waving group of people lining a beach of gray sand when a gasp caused the older brother to look around.
“Jondalar, look!” Thonolan was pointing upstream.
Bearing down on them in ominous splendor, following the deep midchannel, was a large, jagged, glittering iceberg. Reflecting crystal facets of the translucent edges haloed the monolith with insubstantial shimmer, but the blue-green shadowy depths held its unmelted heart. With practiced skill, the men rowing the boat changed pace and direction, then, feathering the stroke, they paused to watch a wall of glistening cold glide by with deadly indifference.
“Never turn your back on the Mother,” Jondalar heard the man in front of him say.
“I’d say the Sister brought that one, Markeno,” the man beside him commented.
“How did … big ice … come here, Carlono?” Jondalar asked him.
“Iceberg,” Carlono said, first supplying him with the word. “It could have come from a glacier on the move in one of those mountains,” he went on, moving his chin in the direction of the white peaks over his shoulder, since he had resumed rowing. “Or it could have come from farther north, probably by way of the Sister. She’s deeper, doesn’t have as many channels—this time of year especially. There’s more to that berg than the part you see. Most of it is underwater.”
“It is hard to believe … iceberg … so big, come so far,” Jondalar said.
“We get ice every spring. Not always that big. It won’t last much longer, though—the ice is rotten. One good bump and she’ll break up, and there is a midchannel rock downstream, just below the surface. I don’t think that iceberg will make it through the gate,” Carlono added.
“One good bump from that and we would be the ones to break up,” Markeno said. “That’s why you never turn your back on the Mother.”
“Markeno is right,” Carlono said. “Never take her for granted. This river can find some unpleasant ways to remind you to pay attention to her.”
“I know some women like that, don’t you, Jonaalar?”
Jondalar suddenly thought of Marona. The knowing smile on his brother’s face made him realize that was