The valley of horses_ a novel - Jean M. Auel [162]
The seriousness of his situation occurred to him. Surely they would miss him and come searching for him. Thonolan would notice he was gone, or would he? Their paths crossed less and less often, particularly as he became more involved with the Ramudoi way of life and his brother was becoming more Shamudoi. He didn’t even know where his brother was that day, perhaps hunting chamois.
Well, then, Carlono. Wouldn’t he come looking? He watched me going upstream in the boat. Then Jondalar got a chill of a different sort. The boat! It got away. If they find an empty boat, they’ll think you’ve drowned, he thought. Why should they come looking for you if they think you’ve drowned? The tall man moved around again, jumping, beating his arms, running in place, but he couldn’t stop shivering, and he was getting tired. The cold was affecting his thinking, but he couldn’t keep jumping around.
Out of breath, he slumped down and huddled into a ball, trying to conserve body heat, but his teeth chattered and his body shook. He heard shuffling again, closer, but he didn’t bother to investigate. Then something moved into his view: two feet—two bare, dirty, human feet.
He looked up with a start and was almost shocked out of shivering. Standing in front of him, within arm’s reach, was a child, with two large brown eyes gazing at him from under the shadow of overhanging brow ridges. A flathead! Jondalar thought. A young flathead.
He was agog with wonder, and half expected the young animal to dart back into the bush now that he was seen. The youngster didn’t move. He stood there and, after a few moments of mutual staring, made beckoning motions. Or at least Jondalar had the feeling they were beckoning motions, farfetched as it seemed. The flathead made the motion again, taking a tentative step back.
What could he want? Does he want me to go with him? When the youngster made the motion again, Jondalar took a step after him, sure the creature would run away. But the child only backed away a step and motioned again. Jondalar began to follow, slowly at first, then at a faster pace, still shivering, but intrigued.
In a few moments, the youngster moved aside a screen of brush that revealed a glade. A small, nearly smokeless fire burned in the middle of it. A female looked up, startled, then backed away in fright as Jondalar headed for the flickering warmth. He hunkered down in front of it, gratefully. He was aware, peripherally, that the young flathead and the female were waving their hands and making guttural sounds. He had an impression they were communicating, but he was much more concerned with getting warm, and wished he had a fur or a cloak.
He didn’t pay attention when the woman disappeared behind him, and was caught by surprise when he felt a fur drop over his shoulders. He saw a bare glimpse of dark brown eyes before she bowed her head and scrambled away, but he sensed her fear of him.
Even wet, the soft chamois-leather clothing he wore maintained some of its heat-keeping quality, and with the fire and the fur, Jondalar finally warmed enough to stop shaking. Only then did he realize where he was. Great Mother! This is a flathead camp. He had been holding his hands out to the warming blaze, but when the implications of the fire struck him, he jerked them back as though they were burned.
Fire! They use fire? He reached a hesitant hand for the flame again as though he couldn’t believe his eyes and had to use other senses to confirm it. Then he noticed the fur draped over him. He felt an end, rubbing it between his thumb and forefinger. Wolf, he decided, and well cured. It’s soft; the inner side is amazingly soft. I doubt the Sharamudoi could do much better. The fur didn’t seem to be cut to any shape. It was just one whole hide of