The valley of horses_ a novel - Jean M. Auel [82]
A few white flakes were beginning to sift down from a gray overcast sky when Roshario and the Shamud gave tightly bound bundles of poles and hides—the large tent—to a couple of the Ramudoi to carry on board and started across the log themselves. The river, reflecting the mood of the sky, roiled and swirled violently—the increased moisture in the mountains making its presence felt downstream.
The log was bobbing to a different motion than the boat, and Jondalar leaned over the side and reached a hand toward the woman. Roshario gave him a grateful look and took it, and was almost lifted up the last rung and into the boat. The Shamud had no qualms about accepting his assistance either, and the healer’s look of gratitude was as genuine as Roshario’s.
One man was still on shore. He released one of the moorings, then raced up the log and clambered aboard. The gangplank was hauled in quickly. The heaving craft that was trying to pull away and join the current was restrained by only one line and long-handled paddles in the hands of the rowers. The line was slipped with a sharp jerk, and the craft jumped at its chance for freedom. Jondalar clung tightly to the side as the craft bobbed and bounced into the mainstream of the Sister.
The storm was building rapidly and the swirling flakes reduced visibility. Floating objects and refuse traveled with them at varying speeds—heavy water-soaked logs, tangled brush, bloated carcasses, and an occasional small iceberg-making Jondalar fear a collision. He watched the shore slipping by, and his glance was held by the stand of alder on the high knoll. Something, attached to one of the trees, was flapping in the wind. A sudden gust broke its hold and carried it toward the river. As it dropped, Jondalar suddenly realized that the stiff, dark-stained leather was his summer tunic. Had it been flapping from that tree all this time? It floated for a moment before it became waterlogged and sank.
Thonolan had been released from his stretcher and was propped up against the side of the boat, looking pale, in pain, and frightened, but he smiled gamely at Jetamio who was beside him. Jondalar settled near them, frowning as he remembered his fear and his panic. Then he recalled his incredulous joy when he first saw the boat approaching, and he wondered again how they had known he was there. A thought struck him: could it have been that bloody tunic flapping in the wind that told them where to look? But how had they known to come in the first place? And with the Shamud?
The boat jounced over the rough water, and, taking a good look at its construction, Jondalar became intrigued by the sturdy craft. The bottom of the boat appeared to be made of a solid piece, a whole tree trunk hollowed out, wider at the midsection. The boat was made larger by rows of planks, overlapped and sewn together, extending up the sides and joined in front at the prow. Supports were spaced at intervals along the sides, and planks extended between them for seats for the rowers. The three of them were in front of the first seat.
Jondalar’s eye followed the structure of the craft and skipped over a log that had been shoved against the prow. Then he looked back and felt his heart pound. Near the prow, caught in the tangled branches of the log in the bottom of the boat, was a leather summer tunic stained dark with blood.
9
“Don’t be so greedy, Whinney,” Ayla cautioned, watching the hay-colored horse lapping up the last drops of water from the bottom of a wooden bowl. “If you drink it all, I’ll have to melt more ice.” The filly snorted, shook her head, and put her nose back in the bowl. Ayla laughed. “If you’re that thirsty, I’ll get more ice. Are you coming with me?”
Ayla’s steady flow of thought directed at the young horse had become