The Valley Of Horses

8

"Hello! Hello!" Jondalar waved as he called out, running to the river's edge.

He felt an overwhelming sense of relief. He had all but given up, but the sound of another human voice filled him with a fresh surge of hope. It didn't occur to him that they might be unfriendly; nothing could be worse than the utter helplessness he had felt. And they didn't seem unfriendly.

The man who had called to him held up a coil of rope, attached at one end to the strange enormous water bird. Jondalar could see that it was not a living creature, but some kind of craft. The man threw the rope at him. Jondalar dropped it and splashed in after it. A couple of other people, hauling on another rope, scrambled out and waded through water swirling up to their thighs. One of them, smiling when he saw Jondalar's expression – which managed to combine hope, relief, and perplexity over what to do with the wet rope in his hands – took the hawser from him. He hauled the craft in closer, then tied the rope to a tree and went to check on the other line snubbed to a jutting end of a broken branch of a large tree that lay half submerged in the river.

Another occupant of the watercraft hoisted himself over the side and jumped on the log to test its stability. He said a few words in an unfamiliar language, and a ladderlike gangplank was lifted up and stretched across to the log. He climbed back to help a woman assist a third person down the gangplank and along the log to the shore, though it seemed the assistance was allowed rather than needed.

The person, obviously greatly respected, had a composed, almost regal bearing, but there was an elusive quality Jondalar couldn't define, an ambiguity, and he found himself staring. Wind caught at wisps of long white hair tied at the nape of the neck, pulled back from a clean-shaven – or beardless – face lined with years, yet glowing with a soft luminous complexion. There was strength in the line of the jaw, the jut of the chin; was it character?

Jondalar realized he was standing in cold water when he was beckoned out, but the enigma did not resolve itself on closer inspections and he felt he was missing something important. Then he stopped and looked into a face with a compassionate, questioning smile and piercing eyes of some indeterminate shade of gray or hazel. With a flush of wonder, Jondalar suddenly realized the implications of the mysterious person waiting patiently in front of him, and looked for some hint of gender.

Height was no help; a little tall for a woman, a little short for a man. Bulky shapeless clothing hid physical details; even the walk left Jondalar wondering. The more he looked and found no answer, the more relieved he felt. He knew of people like that; born into the body of one sex but with the inclinations of the other. They were neither, or both, and usually joined the ranks of Those Who Served the Mother. With powers derived from both female and male elements centered within them, they were reputed to have extraordinary skill as healers.

Jondalar was far from home and did not know the customs of these people, yet he had no doubt that the person standing in front of him was a healer. Maybe One Who Served the Mother, maybe not; it didn't matter. Thonolan needed a healer, and a healer had come.

But how had they known a healer was needed? How had they known to come at all?

Jondalar threw another log on the fire and watched a burst of sparks chase smoke into the night sky. He slid his bare backside farther down into his sleeping roll and leaned back on a boulder to stare at the undying sparks flung across the heavens. A shape floated into his field of vision, blocking out a portion of the star-splashed sky. It took a moment for his unfocused eyes to shift from the endless depths to the head of a young woman holding a cup of steaming tea out to him.

He sat up quickly and exposed a length of bare thigh and grabbed at the sleeping roll, pulling it up with a glance at his trousers and boots hanging near the fire to dry. She grinned, and her radiant smile changed the rather solemn, shy, softly pretty young woman into a flashing-eyed beauty. He had never seen such an amazing transformation, and his smile in response reflected his attraction. But she had ducked her head to suppress a laugh of mischievous humor, not wanting to embarrass the stranger. When she looked back, only a twinkle remained in her eyes.

"You have a beautiful smile," he said when she gave him the cup of tea.

She shook her head and answered with words that he thought meant she didn't understand him.

"I know you can't understand me, but I still want to tell you how grateful I am you are here."

She watched him closely, and he had the feeling she wanted to communicate as much as he. He kept talking, afraid she would leave if he stopped.

"It's wonderful just to talk to you, just to know you are here." He sipped the tea. "This is good. What kind is it?" he asked, holding up the cup and nodding appreciatively. "I think I can taste chamomile."

She nodded back, acknowledging, then sat near the fire, answering his words with others he understood as little as she understood his. But her voice was pleasant and she seemed to know he wanted her company.

"I wish I could thank you. I don't know what I would have done if you hadn't come." He frowned with worry and tension, and she smiled understandingly. "I wish I could ask how you knew we were here, and how your zelandoni, or whatever you call your healer, knew to come."

She answered him, gesturing toward the tent that had been set up nearby, glowing from the firelight within. He shook his head with frustration. It seemed that she almost understood him; he just couldn't understand her.

"I don't suppose it matters," he said. "But I wish your healer would let me stay with Thonolan. Even without words, it was clear my brother would get no help until I left. I don't doubt the healer's ability. I want to stay with him, that's all."

He was looking at her so earnestly that she laid a hand on his arm to reassure him. He tried to smile, but it was pained. The flap of the tent caught his attention as an older woman came out.

"Jetamio!" she called, adding other words.

The young woman got up quickly, but Jondalar held her hand to detain her. "Jetamio?" he asked, pointing to her. She nodded. "Jondalar," he said, tapping his own chest.

"Jondalar," she repeated slowly. Then she looked toward the tent, tapped herself, then him, and pointed to it.

"Thonolan," he said. "My brother's name is Thonolan."

"Thonolan," she said, repeating it as she hurried toward the tent. She had a slight limp, Jondalar noticed, though it didn't seem to hinder her.

His trousers were still damp, but he pulled them on anyway and made a dash for a wooded copse, not bothering to fasten them or put his boots on. He had been restraining his urge ever since he woke up, but his extra clothing was in his backframe, which had been left behind in the large tent where the healer was treating Thonolan. Jetamio's grin of the evening before made him think twice about casually sauntering over to the secluded patch of brush wearing nothing but his short inner shirt. Nor did he want to chance breaching some custom or taboo of these people who were helping him – not with two women in the camp.

He had first tried to get up and walk in his sleeping roll, and he had waited so long before it occurred to him to put on his trousers, wet or not, that he was close to forgetting his embarrassment and ready to make a run for it. As it was, Jetamio's laughter followed him.

"Tamio, don't laugh at him. It's not nice," the older woman said, but the force of her admonition was lost as she tried to suppress her own laughter.

"Oh, Rosh, I don't mean to make fun of him, I just can't help it. Did you see him try to walk in his sleeping bag?" She started giggling again, though she struggled to contain it. "Why didn't he just get up and go?"

"Maybe the customs of his people are different, Jetamio. They must have traveled a long way. I've never seen clothes like theirs before, and his language isn't even close. Most travelers have a few words that are similar. I don't think I could pronounce some of his words."

"You must be right. He must have some objection to showing his skin. You should have seen him blush last night just because I saw a little of his thigh. I never saw anyone so glad to see us, though."

"Can you blame him?"

"How is the other one?" the young woman said, serious again. "Has the Shamud said anything, Roshario?"

"I think the swelling is down, and the fever, too. At least he's sleeping quieter. The Shamud thinks he was gored by a rhino. I don't know how he lived through it. He wouldn't have much longer if that tall one hadn't thought of that way to signal for help. Even so, it was luck we found them. Mudo must have smiled on them. The Mother always has favored handsome young men."

"Not enough to keep… Thonolan from getting hurt. The way he was gored… Do you think he'll walk again?"

Roshario smiled tenderly at the young woman. "If he has half the determination you did, he'll walk, Tamio."

Jetamio's cheek reddened. "I think I'll go and see if the Shamud needs anything," she said, ducking toward the tent, and trying very hard not to limp at all.

"Why don't you bring the tall one his pack," Roshario called after her, "so he won't have to wear wet britches."

"I don't know which one is his."

"Bring them both, it'll make more room in there. And ask the Shamud how soon we can move… what's his name? Thonolan?"

Jetamio nodded.

"If we're going to be here a while, Dolando will have to plan a hunt. We didn't bring much food. I don't think the Ramudoi can fish with the river like that, though I think they'd be just as happy if they never had to come to shore. I like solid ground under me."

"Oh, Rosh, you'd be saying just the opposite if you had mated a Ramudoi man instead of Dolando."

The older woman eyed her sharply. "Has one of those rowers been making advances? I may not be your real mother, Jetamio, but everyone knows you are just like a daughter. If a man doesn't even have the courtesy to ask, he's not the kind of man you want. You can't trust those river men…

"Don't worry, Rash. I haven't decided to run off with a river man… yet," Jetamio said with a mischievous smile.

"Tamio, there are plenty of good Shamudoi men who will move into our lodging… What are you laughing at?"

Jetamio had both her hands at her mouth, trying to swallow the laughter that kept bubbling forth in snorts and giggles. Roshario turned in the direction the younger woman was looking, and slapped a hand over her mouth to keep from bursting out with laughter herself.

"I'd better get those packs," Jetamio finally managed to say. "Our tall friend needs some dry clothes." She started sputtering again. "He looks like a baby with full pants!" She made a dash for the tent, but Jondalar heard her laughter peal forth as she entered.

"Hilarity, my dear?" the healer said, cocking an eyebrow with a quizzical look.

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to come in here laughing like that. It's just…"

"Either I'm in the next world, or you're a donii who's come to take me there. No earthly woman could be so beautiful. But I can't understand a word you're saying."

Jetamio and the Shamud both turned toward the wounded man. He was looking at Jetamio with a weak smile. Her smile left her face as she kneeled beside him.

"I've disturbed him! How could I be so thoughtless?"

"Don't stop smiling, my beautiful donii," Thonolan said, taking her hand.

"Yes, my dear, you have disturbed him. But don't let it disturb you. I suspect he will be much more 'disturbed' before you are through with him."

Jetamio shook her head and gave the Shamud a puzzled look. "I came to ask if there was anything you needed, or if I could help in any way."

"You just did."

She looked more perplexed. Sometimes she wondered if she ever understood anything the healer said.

The piercing eyes took on a gentler look, with a touch of irony. "I've done all I can. He must do the rest. But anything that gives him more will to live can only help at this stage. You just did that with your lovely smile… my dear."

Jetamio blushed and bowed her head, then realized Thonolan was still holding her hand. She looked up and saw his laughing gray eyes. Her smile in response was radiant.

The healer made a throat-clearing sound, and Jetamio broke contact, a little flustered to realize she had been staring at the stranger so long. "There is something you can do. Since he's awake, and lucid, we might try giving him some nourishment. If there's any broth, I believe he would drink it, if it came from you."

"Oh. Of course. I'll get some," she said, hurrying out to cover her embarrassment. She saw Roshario attempting to talk to Jondalar, who was standing awkwardly and trying to look pleasant. She ducked back in to complete the rest of her errands.

"I need to get their packs, and Roshario wants to know how soon Thonolan can be moved."

"What did you say his name was?"

"Thonolan. That's what the other one told me."

"Tell Roshario a day or two yet. He's not up to a ride over rough water."

"How do you know my name, beautiful donii, and how do I ask yours?" She turned to smile at Thonolan before she hurried out with both packs. He settled back down with a self-satisfied grin, but gave a start when he noticed, for the first time, the white-haired healer. The enigmatic face held a catlike smile; wise, knowing, and a little predatory.

"Isn't young love splendid," the Shamud commented. The meaning of the words was lost on Thonolan, but not the wry sarcasm. It made him look closer.

The voice of the healer was pitched neither deep nor high, and Thonolan looked for some clue of dress or behavior that would tell him if it was a woman's low alto or a man's high tenor. He couldn't decide, and though he wasn't exactly sure why, he relaxed a bit, feeling confident he was in the best of hands.

Jondalar's relief was so evident when he saw Jetamio come out of the tent with the backframes that she was a little ashamed she hadn't gotten them sooner. She knew his problem, but he was so funny. He thanked her profusely with unfamiliar words that nonetheless communicated his gratitude, and then he headed for the patch of high brush. He felt so much better with dry clothes on, he even forgave Jetamio for laughing.

I suppose I did look rather ridiculous, he thought, but those trousers were wet, and cold. Well, a little laughter is a small price to pay for their help. I don't know what I would have done… I wonder how they knew? Perhaps the healer has other powers – that could explain it. Right now, I'm just glad for the healing powers. He stopped. At least I think that zelandoni has healing powers. I haven't seen Thonolan. I don't know if he's better or not. I think it's time I found out. After all, he is my brother. They can't keep me away if I want to see him.

Jondalar strode back to the camp, put his pack down beside the fire, deliberately took the time to stretch out his damp clothes to dry again, and then headed for the tent.

He nearly bumped into the healer, who was leaving just as he ducked to enter. The Shamud sized him up quickly, and before Jondalar could attempt to say anything, smiled ingratiatingly, stepped aside, and waved him on with an exaggerated graceful gesture, acquiescing to the tall, powerful man.

Jondalar gave the healer an appraising look. No hint of relinquished authority showed in the piercing eyes evaluating him in return, though any further disclosure of intent was as obscure as the ambiguous color. The smile, which had seemed ingratiating at first glance, was more ironic on second look. Jondalar sensed that this healer, like many of that calling, could be a powerful friend or a formidable enemy.

He nodded, as though reserving judgment, briefly smiled his thanks, and went in. He was surprised to see that Jetamio had arrived before he did. She was supporting Thonolan's head, holding a bone cup to his lips.

"I might have known," he said, and his smile was pure joy at seeing his brother awake, and apparently much improved. "You did it again."

Both of them looked up at Jondalar. "What did I do, Big Brother?"

"Within three heartbeats of opening your eyes, you managed to get the prettiest woman around waiting on you."

Thonolan's grin was the most welcome sight his brother could imagine. "You are right about the prettiest woman around." Thonolan looked fondly at Jetamio. "But what are you doing in the spirit world? And while I'm thinking of it, just remember, she's my own personal danii. You can keep your big blue eyes to yourself."

"Don't worry about me, Little Brother. Every time she looks at me, all she can do is laugh."

"She can laugh at me anytime she wants," Thonolan said, smiling at the woman. She smiled in return. "Can you imagine waking up from the dead to that smile?" His fondness was beginning to look adoring as he stared into her eyes.

Jondalar looked from his brother to Jetamio and back again. What is going on here? Thonolan just woke up, they can't have said one word to each other, but I'd swear he was in love. He looked at the woman again, more objectively.

Her hair was a rather nondescript shade of light brown, and she was smaller and thinner than the women Thonolan was usually attracted to. She could almost be mistaken for a girl. She had a heart-shaped face with regular features and was really a rather ordinary-looking young woman; pretty enough, but certainly not exceptional – until she smiled.

Then, by some unexpected alchemy, some mysterious redistribution of light and shadows, some subtle shift in arrangement, she became beautiful, completely beautiful. So complete was the transformation that Jondalar had thought of her as beautiful himself. She had only to smile once to create that impression, yet he had the feeling she didn't usually smile often. He remembered she had seemed solemn and shy at first, though it was hard to believe now. She was radiant, vibrantly alive, and Thonolan was looking at her with an idiotic, lovesick grin.

Well, Thonolan has been in love before, Jondalar thought. I just hope she won't take it too hard when we leave.

One of the laces that held closed the smoke-hole flap in the roof of his tent was frayed. Jondalar was staring at it, but not seeing it. He was wide awake, lying in his sleeping roll wondering what had brought him out of the depths of sleep so quickly. He didn't move, but he was listening, smelling, trying to detect anything unusual that might have alerted him to some impending danger. After a few moments, he slipped out of his bedroll and looked carefully out of the opening of his tent but could find nothing wrong.

A few people were gathered around the campfire. He wandered over, still feeling restless and edgy. Something bothered him, but he didn't know what. Thonolan? No, between the skill of the Shamud and Jetamio's attentive care, his brother was doing well. No, it wasn't Thonolan that was troubling him – exactly.

"Hola," he said to Jetamio as she looked up and smiled.

She didn't find him so laughable any more. Their mutual concern for Thonolan had begun to ripen into friendship, though communication was limited to basic gestures and the few words he had learned.

She gave him a cup of hot liquid. He thanked her with the words he had learned that expressed the concept of thanks for them, wishing he could find a way to repay them for their help. He took a sip, frowned, and took another. It was an herb tea, not unpleasant, but surprising. They customarily drank a meat-flavored broth in the morning. His nose told him the kerfed wooden cooking box near the fire had roots and grain simmering in it, but no meat. It took only a quick glance to explain the change in the morning menu. There was no meat; no one had gone hunting.

He quaffed his drink, put down the bone cup, and hurried back to his tent. While waiting, he had finished making the sturdy spears out of the alder saplings and even tipped them with flint points. He picked up the two heavy shafts that were leaning against the back of the tent, then reached inside for his backframe, took several of the lighter throwing spears, and walked back to the fire. He didn't know many words, but it didn't take many to communicate a desire to go hunting, and before the sun was much higher, an excited group was gathering.

Jetamio was torn. She wanted to stay with the wounded stranger whose laughing eyes made her feel like smiling every time he looked at her, but she wanted to go hunting, too. She never missed a hunt if she could help it, not since she had been able to hunt. Roshario urged her to go. "He'll be fine. The Shamud can take care of him without you for a little while, and I'll be here."

The hunting party had already started out when Jetamio called after them and ran up out of breath, still tying on her hood. Jondalar had wondered if she hunted. Young Zelandonii women often did. For women, it was a matter of choice, and the custom of the Cave. Once they started having children, women usually stayed closer to home, except during a drive. When they went on battue, every able-bodied person was necessary to drive a herd into traps or over cliffs.

Jondalar liked women who hunted – most men of his Cave did, though he'd learned the feeling was by no means universal. It was said that women who had hunted themselves appreciated the difficulties and made more understanding mates. His mother had been noted, especially, for her tracking prowess, and she had often joined a hunt even after she had children.

They waited for Jetamio to catch up, then set off at a good pace. Jondalar thought the temperature was dropping, but they were moving so fast that he wasn't sure until they stopped beside a meandering streamlet winding its way across the flat grassland searching for a way to reach the Mother. He noticed the ice thickening along the edges when he filled up his waterbag. He pushed back his hood, the fur around his face limiting peripheral vision – but before long he wasn't alone in pulling it back on. The air was decidedly nippy.

Someone noticed tracks upstream, and they all gathered around while Jondalar examined them. A family of rhinoceroses had stopped for a drink, too, and not long before. Jondalar drew a plan of attack in the wet sand of the bank with a stick, noticing the ice crystals were hardening the ground. Dolando asked a question with a stick of his own, and Jondalar elaborated on the drawing. Understanding was reached and they were all eager to get moving again.

They broke into a jog, following the tracks. The fast pace warmed them, and hoods were loosened again. Jondalar's long blond hair crackled and clung to the fur of his hood. It took longer than he expected to catch up, but when he sighted the reddish brown woolly rhinos ahead, he understood. The animals were moving faster than usual – and straight north.

Jondalar glanced uneasily at the sky; it was a deep azure bowl inverted over them, with only a few scattered clouds in the distance. It didn't appear that a storm was brewing, but he was ready to turn back, get Thonolan, and get out. No one else seemed to have any inclination to leave, now that the rhinos were in sight. He wondered if their lore included the forecasting of snow by the northward movement of the woollies, but he doubted it.

It had been his idea to go hunting, and he'd had little difficulty communicating that; now he wanted to get back to Thonolan and get him to safety. But how was he going to explain that a snowstorm was on the way when there was hardly a cloud in the sky, and he couldn't speak the language? He shook his head; they'd have to kill a rhino first.

When they drew nearer, Jondalar dashed ahead, trying to outdistance the last straggler – a young rhino, not full grown and having a little trouble keeping up. When the tall man pulled ahead, he shouted and waved his arms, trying to get the animal's attention to make him veer or slow down. But the youngster, pushing forward toward the north with the same single-minded determination as the others, ignored the man. They were going to have trouble distracting any of them, it seemed, and it worried him. The storm was coming faster than he thought.

Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed that Jetamio had caught up with him, and he was surprised. Her limp was more noticeable, but she moved with speed. Jondalar nodded his head in unconscious approval. The rest of the hunting party were moving up, trying to surround one animal and stampede the others. But rhinoceroses were not herd animals, sociable and easily led or stampeded, depending upon large numbers for safety – and survival of their kind. Woolly rhinos were independent, cantankerous creatures, who seldom mingled in groups larger than a family, and they were dangerously unpredictable. Hunters were smart to be wary around them.

By tacit agreement, the hunters concentrated on the young one lagging behind, but the shouts of the rapidly closing group neither slowed him down nor hurried him along. Jetamio finally got his attention when she took off her hood and waved it at him. He slowed, turned the side of his head toward the flutter, and seemed decidedly undecided.

It gave the hunters a chance to catch up. They deployed themselves around the beast, those with heavy lances moving in closer, those with light spears forming an outer circle, ready to rush to the defense of the more heavily armed, if necessary. The rhino came to a stop; he seemed unaware that the rest of his troupe were rapidly moving ahead. Then he started out at a rather slow run, veering toward the hood fluttering in the wind. Jondalar moved in closer to Jetamio, and he noticed Dolando doing the same.

Then a young man, whom Jondalar recognized as one who stayed on the boat, waved his hood and rushed in front of them toward the animal. The confused rhino stalled his headlong run toward the young woman and, changing his direction, started after the man. The larger moving target was easier to follow even with limited sight; the presence of so many hunters misled his acute sense of smell. Just as he was getting close, another running figure darted between him and the young man. The woolly rhino stalled again, trying to decide which moving target to follow.

He changed direction and charged after the second who was so tantalizingly close. But then another hunter interceded, flapping a large fur cloak, and, when the young rhino neared it, still another ran past, so close he gave the long reddish fur on his face a yank. The rhinoceros was getting more than confused; he was getting angry, murderously angry. He snorted, pawed the ground, and, when he saw another of those disconcerting running figures, tore after it at top speed.

The young man of the river people was having difficulty staying ahead, and, when he swerved, the rhino swerved in fast pursuit. But the animal was tiring. He had been chasing one after another of the vexatious runners, back and forth, unable to catch up with any. When yet another hood-waving hunter dashed in front of the woolly beast, he stopped, lowered his head until his large front horn touched the ground, and concentrated on the limping figure moving just beyond his reach.

Jondalar raced toward them, his lance held high. He needed to make the kill before the winded rhino caught his breath. Dolando, approaching from another direction, had the same intention, and several others were closing in. Jetamio flapped her hood, warily moving closer, trying to keep the animal's interest. Jondalar hoped he was as exhausted as seemed.

Everyone's attention was riveted on Jetamio and the rhino. Jondalar wasn't sure what caused him to look north – perhaps a peripheral motion. "Look out!" he cried, spurting forward. "From the north, a rhino!"

But his actions seemed inexplicable to the others; they didn't understand his shouts. And they didn't see the enraged female rhinoceros beating down on them full tilt.

"Jetamio! Jetamio! North!" he shouted again, waving his arm and pointing his spear.

She looked north, the way he was pointing, and she screamed a warning to the young man the she-rhino was charging. The rest of them raced to help him, forgetting the young one for the moment. It may have been that he was rested, or that the scent of the charging female had revived him, but suddenly the young male rushed the person waving a hood so provocatively close.

Jetamio was lucky he was so close. He didn't have time to build up speed or momentum, and his snort as he began his advance mapped her attention back, and Jondalar's as well. She threw herself back, dodging the rhino's horn, and ran behind him.

The rhinoceros slowed, looking for the target that had slipped away, and wasn't focusing on the tall man who closed the gap with long strides. And then it was too late. The small eye lost all ability to focus. Jondalar rammed the heavy lance into the vulnerable opening and smashed it into the brain. The next instant, all his sight disappeared when the young woman thrust her spear into the rhino's other eye. The animal seemed surprised, then stumbled, fell to his knees, and, as life ceased to sustain him, dropped to the ground.

There was a shout. The two hunters looked up and sprinted away at full speed in different directions. The full-grown female rhinoceros was hurtling toward them. But she slowed as she neared the young one, overran a few paces before she halted, then turned back to the young male lying on the ground with a spear bristling out of each eye. She nudged him with her horn, urging him to get up. Then she turned her head from side to side and shifted her weight from foot to foot as though trying to make up her mind.

Some of the hunters tried to get her attention, flapped hoods and cloaks at her, but she didn't see or chose to ignore them. She nudged the young rhino again, and then, in answer to some deeper instinct, turned north once more.

"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 pouting 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 and their burden along the unsteady fallen tree and manhandle the stretcher up the even more precarious gangplank-ladder. He understood why Thonolan had been firmly lashed to the conveyance. He followed after, having trouble keeping his own balance, and looked at the men with even greater respect.

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.