The valley of horses_ a novel - Jean M. Auel [184]
The great river gorge was foreboding under the gray overcast sky. Naked rock reared out of the water from deep roots and rose in towering bulwarks on both sides. On the left bank, a series of ramparts of sharp, angular rock climbed in rugged relief all the way to the distant glaciered peaks; on the right, weathered and eroded, the rounded mountaintops gave the illusion of mere hills, but their height was daunting from the small boat. Large boulders and pinnacles broke the surface, parting the current into curls of white water.
They were a part of the medium in which they traveled, propelled by it like the debris floating on its skin and the silt within its silent depths. They did not control their speed or direction; they only steered a course around obstructions. Where the river stretched out more than a mile in width, and swells lifted and dipped the small craft, it seemed more like a sea. When the sides drew together, they could feel the change in energy as the flow was resisted; the current was stronger when the same volume of water surged through the constricted gates.
They had traveled more than a quarter of the way through, perhaps twenty-five miles, when the threatened rain broke forth in a furious squall, whipping up waves they feared would swamp the little wooden boat. But there was no shore, only the steep wet rock.
“I can steer if you bail, Thonolan,” Jondalar said. They hadn’t talked much, but some of the tension between them had dissipated as they paddled in harmony to keep the craft on course.
Thonolan shipped his oar and, with a square wooden scooplike implement, tried to empty the small vessel. “It’s filling as fast as I can bail,” he called over his shoulder.
“I don’t think this will last long. If you can keep up with it, I think we’ll make it,” Jondalar replied, struggling through the choppy water.
The heavy weather lifted, and, though clouds still menaced, they made their way through the entire gorge without further incident.
Like the relaxation that comes with the removal of a tight belt, the swollen muddy river spread out when she reached the plains. Channels twined around islands of willow and reed; nesting grounds for cranes and herons, transitory geese and ducks, and innumerable other birds.
They camped the first night on the flat grassy prairie of the left bank. The foot of the alpine peaks was pulling back from the river’s edge, but the rounded mountains of the right bank held the Great Mother River to her eastward course.
Jondalar and Thonolan settled into a traveling routine so quickly that it seemed they had not stopped for those years while they were living with the Sharamudoi. Yet it wasn’t the same. Gone was the light-hearted sense of adventure, seeking whatever lay around the bend for the simple joy of discovery. Instead, Thonolan’s drive to keep moving was tainted with desperation.
Jondalar had attempted once more to talk his brother into turning back, but it led to a bitter argument. He didn’t bring it up again. They spoke mostly to exchange necessary information. Jondalar could only hope that time would assuage Thonolan’s grief, and that someday he would decide to return home and take up his life again. Until then, he was determined to stay with him.
The two brothers traveled much faster on the river in the small dugout than they could have walked along the edge. Riding on the current, they sped along with ease. As Carlono had predicted, the river turned north when it reached a barrier of ancient mountain stumps, far older than the raw mountains around which the great river flowed. Though ground down with their hoary age, they intervened between the river and the inland sea she strove to reach.
Undeterred, she sought another way. Her northward strategy worked, but not until, when she made her final swing to the east, one more large river brought a contribution of water and silt to the overburdened Mother. With her way finally clear, she could not hold herself to one path.