The valley of horses_ a novel - Jean M. Auel [17]
The two men hiked for several days looking for landmarks given them by Dalanar, following the stream that was no different in character at this stage from the other streamlets, rills, and creeks flowing down the slope. It was only convention that selected this particular one as the source of the Great Mother River. Most of them came together to form the beginning of the great river that would rush down hills and meander through plains for eighteen hundred miles before she emptied her load of water and silt into the inland sea far to the southeast.
The crystalline rocks of the massif that gave rise to the mighty river were among the most ancient on the earth, and its broad depression was formed by the extravagant pressures that had heaved up and folded the rugged mountains glistening in prodigal splendor. More than three hundred tributaries, many of them large rivers, draining the slopes of the ranges all along her course, would be gathered into her voluminous swells. And one day her fame would spread to the far reaches of the globe, and her muddy, silty waters would be called blue.
Modified by mountains and massifs, the influence of both the oceanic west and the continental east was felt. Vegetable and animal life were a mixture of the western tundra-taiga and the eastern steppes. The upper slopes saw ibex, chamois, and mouflon; in the woodlands deer were more common. Tarpan, a wild horse that would one day be tame, grazed the sheltered lowlands and river terraces. Wolves, lynxes, and snow leopards slunk noiselessly through shadows. Lumbering out of hibernation were omnivorous brown bears; the huge vegetarian cave bears would make a later appearance. And many small mammals were poking noses out of winter nests.
The slopes were forested mostly with pine, though spruce, silver fir, and larch were seen. Alder was more prevalent near the river, often with willow and poplar, and rarely, dwarfed to little more than prostrate shrubs, pubescent oak and beech.
The left bank ascended from the river in a gradual grade. Jondalar and Thonolan climbed it until they reached the summit of a high hill. Looking out over the landscape, the two men saw rugged, wild, beautiful country, softened by the layer of white that filled hollows and smoothed outcrops. But the deception made traveling difficult.
They had not seen any of the several groups of people—such groups were thought of as Caves whether they lived in one or not—who referred to themselves as Losadunai. Jondalar was beginning to think they had missed them.
“Look!” Thonolan pointed.
Jondalar followed the direction of his outstretched arm and saw a wisp of smoke rising out of a wooded copse. They hurried ahead and soon came upon a small band of people clustered around a fire. The brothers strode into their midst raising both hands in front of them, palms up, in the understood greeting of openness and friendship.
“I am Thonolan of the Zelandonii. This is my brother, Jondalar. We are on our Journey. Does anyone here speak our tongue?”
A middle-aged man stepped forward, holding his hands out in the same manner. “I am Laduni of the Losadunai. In the name of Duna, the Great Earth Mother, you are welcome.” He gripped both of Thonolan’s hands with his and then greeted Jondalar in the same manner. “Come, sit by the fire. We will eat soon. Will you join us?”
“You are most generous,” Jondalar replied formally.
“I traveled west on my Journey, stayed with a Cave of Zelandonii. It’s been some years, but Zelandonii are always welcome.” He led them to a large log near the fire. A lean-to had been constructed over it as protection from wind and weather. “Here, rest, take your pack off. You must have just come off the glacier.”
“A few days ago,” Thonolan said, shrugging off his backframe.
“You are late for crossing. The foehn will come any time now.”
“The foehn?