The valley of horses_ a novel - Jean M. Auel [112]
How long have we been gone? More than a year—we left Dalanar’s Cave last spring. And Thonolan won’t be going back. Everyone is excited about him and Jetamio—maybe you should wait, Jondalar, he said to himself. You don’t want to take the attention from their day … and Serenio might think it was just an afterthought.… Later …
“What took you so long?” a voice called from the shore. “We’ve been waiting for you and we came the long way, by trail.”
“We had to find these two. I think they were trying to hide,” Markeno replied, laughing.
“It’s too late to hide now, Thonolan. This one has hooked you!” said a man from the shore, wading in behind Jetamio to grab the boat and help beach it. He made motions of throwing out a harpoon and jerking it back to engage the hook.
Jetamio blushed, then smiled. “Well, you must admit, Barono, he’s a good catch.”
“You good fisher,” Jondalar returned. “He always before get away.”
Everyone laughed. Though his command of the language wasn’t perfect, they were pleased he had joined in the banter. And he did understand better than he spoke.
“What would it take to catch a big one like you, Jondalar?” Barono asked.
“The right bait!” Thonolan quipped, with a smile at Jetamio.
The boat was pulled onto the narrow beach of gravelly sand, and, after the occupants climbed out, it was lifted and carried up a slope to a large cleared area in the midst of a dense forest of durmast oak. The place had obviously been used for years. Logs, chunks, and scraps of wood littered the ground—the fireplace in front of a large lean-to on one side had no dearth of fuel—yet some wood had been there so long it was rotting. Activity was focused in several areas, each of them containing a boat in some stage of completion.
The boat they had come in was lowered to the ground, and the new arrivals hurried toward the beckoning warmth of the fire. Several others stopped work to join them. An aromatic herb tea was steaming from a wooden trough that had been hollowed out of a log. It was quickly emptied as cups were dipped out. Round heating stones from the river’s edge were heaped in a pile nearby, and a soggy lump of wet leaves, indistinguishable as to variety, sat in the middle of a muddy runnel behind the log.
The trough was well used and about to be refilled again. Two people rolled over the large log to dump the dregs of the previous batch of tea, while a third put the heating rocks in the fire. Tea was kept in the trough, available whenever anyone wanted a cup, and cooking stones were kept in the fire to warm a cup when it cooled. After more pleasantries and gibes aimed at the about-to-be-mated couple, the assemblage put down their cups of wood or tightly woven fibers and drifted back to their various tasks. Thonolan was led off to begin his initiation in the building of boats with some hard work that took less skill: the felling of a tree.
Jondalar had been having a conversation with Carlono about the Ramudoi leader’s favorite topic, boats, and had encouraged him with questions. “What wood makes good boats?” Jondalar had asked.
Carlono, enjoying himself and the interest of the obviously intelligent young man, launched into an animated explanation.
“Green oak is best. It’s tough, but supple; strong, but not too heavy. It loses flexibility if it dries out, but you can cut it in winter and store logs in a pool or bog for a year, even two. More than that, it becomes waterlogged and hard to work, and the boat has trouble finding the right balance in the water. But more important is selecting the right tree.” Carlono was heading into the woods as he talked.
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