The valley of horses_ a novel - Jean M. Auel [81]
“I will tell you, Thonolan, it was close. But that female was determined to go north—she didn’t want to stay at all.”
“You think snow is on the way?” Thonolan asked, glancing down at his poultice, then back to his worried brother.
Jondalar nodded. “But I don’t know how to tell Dolando that we’d better leave before the storm comes, when there’s hardly a cloud in the sky … even if I could speak their language.”
“I’ve been smelling snow on the way for days. It must be building up to a big one.”
Jondalar was sure the temperature was still dropping, and knew it the next morning when he had to break a thin film of ice in a cup of tea that had been left near the fire. He tried again to communicate his concern, seemingly without success, and nervously watched the sky for more overt signs of weather change. He would have been relieved when he saw curdled clouds pouring over the mountains and filling up the blue bowl of the sky, if it weren’t for the imminent threat they posed.
At the first sign that they were breaking camp, he struck his own tent and packed his and Thonolan’s backframes. Dolando smiled and nodded at his readiness, then motioned him toward the river, but there was a nervousness to the man’s smile and deep concern in his eyes. Jondalar’s apprehension grew when he saw the swirling river and the wooden craft bobbing and jerking, straining at the ropes.
The expressions of the men who took his packs and stowed them near the cut-up frozen carcass of the rhino were more impassive, but Jondalar didn’t see much encouragement either. And for all that he was anxious to get away, he was by no means comfortable about the means of transportation. He wondered how they were going to get Thonolan into the boat, and he went back to see if he could help.
Jondalar watched as the camp was dismantled with speed and efficiency, knowing that sometimes the best assistance one could offer was simply to stay out of the way. He had begun to notice certain details in clothing that differentiated those who had set up shelters on land, and referred to themselves as Shamudoi, from the Ramudoi, the men who stayed on the boat. Yet they didn’t quite seem like different tribes.
There was an ease of communication, with much joking, and none of the elaborate courtesies that usually indicated underlying tensions when two different peoples met. They seemed to speak the same language, shared all their meals, and worked well together. He noticed, though, that on land Dolando seemed to be in charge, while the men on the boat looked to another man for direction.
The healer emerged from the tent, followed by two men carrying Thonolan on an ingenious stretcher. Two shafts from the grove of alder trees on the knoll were wound over and around with extra rope from the boat, forming a support between them to which the wounded man was securely lashed. Jondalar hurried toward them, noticing that Roshario had begun taking down the tall circular tent. Her nervous glances toward the sky and the river convinced Jondalar she was not looking forward to the trip any more than he was.
“Those clouds look full of snow,” Thonolan said when his brother came into sight and started walking beside the litter. “You can’t see the tops of the mountains; snow must be falling up north already. I’ll say one thing, you get a different view of the world from this position.”
Jondalar looked up at the clouds rolling over the mountains, hiding the frozen peaks, tumbling over each other as they pushed and shoved in their hurry to fill the clear blue space above. Jondalar’s frown looked almost as threatening as the sky, and his brow clouded with concern, but he tried to mask his fears. “Is that your excuse for lying around?” he said, trying to smile.
When they reached the log that was jutting out into the river, Jondalar fell back and watched the two river men balance themselves