The valley of horses_ a novel - Jean M. Auel [158]
Ayla tried to visualize a man like her. She tried to recall her features as she had seen them reflected in the pool, but all she could remember was her hair framing her face. She wore it long then, not tied up in many braids to keep it out of the way. It was yellow, like Whinney’s coat, but a richer, more golden color.
But every time she thought of a man’s face, she saw Broud, with a gloating sneer. She could not imagine the face of a man of the Others. Her eyes grew tired and she lay down again. She dreamed of Whinney and a bay stallion. And then of a man. His features were vague, in a shadow. Only one thing was clear. He had yellow hair.
15
“You’re doing fine, Jondalar! We’ll make a river man out of you yet!” Carlono said. “In the big boats, it doesn’t matter so much if you miss a stroke. The worst you can do is throw off the rhythm since you are not the only rower. In small boats, like this, control is important. To miss a stroke can be dangerous, or fatal. Always be aware of the river—never forget how unpredictable she can be. She’s deep here, so she looks calm. But you only have to dip your paddle in to feel the power in her current. It’s a hard current to fight—you have to work with it.”
Carlono kept up the running commentary as he and Jondalar maneuvered the small two-man dugout near the Ramudoi dock. Jondalar was only half listening, concentrating instead on handling the paddle properly so the boat he was guiding would go where he wanted it to, but he was understanding at the level of his muscles the meaning of the words.
“You may think it’s easier to go downstream because you are not fighting her carrent, but that’s the problem. When yon are working against the flow, you have to keep your mind on the boat and the river all the time. You know if you let up you’ll lose all you’ve gained. And you can see anything coming soon enough to avoid it,
“Going with her, it’s too easy to slack up, let your mind wander and let the river take you. There are rocks midstream whose roots are deeper than the river. The current can throw you at them before you know it, or some water-soaked log lying low in the water will hit you. ‘Never turn your back on the Mother.’ That’s the one rule never to forget. She’s full of surprises. Just when you think you know what to expect and take her for granted, she’ll do the unexpected.”
The older man sat back and pulled his oar out of the water. He scrutinized Jondalar thoughtfully, noting his concentration. His blond hair was pulled back and tied with a thong at the back of his neck, a good precaution. He had adopted the clothing of the Ramudoi, which had been adapted from that of the Shamudoi to suit life near the river.
“Why don’t you head back to the dock and let me out, Jondalar. I think it’s time you tried it alone. There’s a difference when it’s just you and the river.”
“Do you think I’m ready?”
“For one not born to it, you’ve learned fast.”
Jondalar had been anxious to test himself on the river alone. Ramudoi boys usually had their own dugouts before they were men. He had long since proved himself among the Zelandonii. When he was not much older than Darvo, and hadn’t even learned his trade or reached his full growth, he had killed his first deer. Now, he could throw a spear harder and farther than most men, but, though he could hunt the plains, he did not quite feel an equal here. No river man could call himself a man until he had harpooned one of the great sturgeon, and no Shamudoi of the land, until he had hunted his own chamois in the mountains.
He had decided he would not mate Serenio until he had proved to himself that he could be both a Shamudoi and a Ramudoi. Dolando had tried to convince him that it wasn’t necessary