Covered with mud, she plodded back downstream, glanced longingly at the river, then whistled for Whinney. The deer were not as close as she thought they would be. Had the plains been dry, they would have hurried to reach the river, but with so much water in puddles and temporary creeks, they had slowed. Ayla felt sure the herd of young bucks would not reach their accustomed crossing place before morning.

She returned to her camp and, with great relief, took off her wraps and foot coverings and waded into the river. It was cold, but she was used to cold water. She washed off the mud, then spread her wraps and footwear on the rock outcropping. Her feet were white and wrinkled from being encased in the damp leather-even her hard calloused soles had softened-and she was glad for the sun-warmed rock. It gave her a dry base for a fire, too.

Dead lower branches of pine usually stayed dry in the hardest rain, and though dwarfed to the size of brush, the pine near the river was no exception. She carried dry tinder with her, and, using a firestone and flint, she soon had a small starter fire burning. She kept it fed with twigs and small wood until the larger, slower-burning wood, leaned together in a tepee shape over the fire, dried out. She could start and keep a fire going even in rain-so long as it wasn't a downpour. It was a matter of starting small and keeping at it until the fire was established in wood large enough to dry out as it burned.

She sighed with satisfaction at her first sip of hot tea, after a meal of traveling cakes. The cakes were nourishing and filling, and they could be eaten on the move-but the hot liquid was more satisfying. Though it was still damp, she had set up the hide tent near the fire where it could dry out more while she slept. She glanced at clouds blotting out the stars in the west, and she hoped it would not rain again. Then, giving Whinney an affectionate pat, she crawled into her fur and wrapped it around her.

It was dark. Ayla lay absolutely still, ears straining to hear. Whinney moved and blew softly. Ayla propped herself up to look around. A faint glow could be seen in the eastern sky. Then she heard a sound that raised the hair on the back of her neck, and she knew what had awakened her. She had not heard them often, but she knew the snarling roar from across the river was that of a cave lion. The horse nickered nervously, and Ayla got up.

"It's all right, Whinney. That lion is far away." She added wood to the fire. "It must have been a cave lion I heard the last time we were here. They must live near the other side of the river. They'll take a buck, too. I'm glad it will be daytime when we go through their territory, and I hope they'll be full of deer before we get there. I might as well make tea-then it will be time to get ready."

The glow in the eastern sky was turning rosy when the young woman finished packing everything into the carrying baskets and tightened the cinch around Whinney. She put a long spear into the holder inside each basket and fastened them firmly, then mounted, sitting forward of the carriers, between the two sharp-pointed wooden shafts sticking up in the air.

She rode back toward the herd, circling wide until she was behind the approaching reindeer. She urged her horse forward until she caught sight of the young bucks, then slowed and followed them at a comfortable pace. Whinney fell into the migrating pattern easily. Observing the herd from the vantage point of horseback, as they approached the small river, she saw the lead deer slow, then sniff at the disturbance of mud and leaves on the path of the trap. An alert nervousness pa.s.sed through the deer that even the woman could sense.

The first deer had broached the brush-choked banks to the water along the alternate trail when Ayla decided it was time to act. She took a deep breath and leaned forward in antic.i.p.ation of an increase of speed, which signaled her intention, then let out a loud whoop as the horse galloped toward the herd.

The deer at the rear jumped forward, ahead of the ones in front, shoving them aside. As the horse pounded at them with a screaming woman on her back, all the deer bounded ahead in fright. But they all seemed to be avoiding the path with the pit trap. Ayla's heart sank as she watched the animals skirt around, jump over, or somehow manage to sidestep the hole.

Then she noticed a disturbance in the fast-moving herd, and thought she saw a pair of antlers drop, while others bobbed and eddied around the s.p.a.ce. Ayla yanked the spears out of their holders and slid off the horse, running as soon as her feet touched the ground. A wild-eyed reindeer was mired in the oozing mud at the bottom of the hole, trying to jump out. This time her aim was true. She plunged the heavy spear into the deer's neck and severed an artery. The magnificent stag slumped to the bottom of the pit, his struggles at an end.

It was over. Done. So quickly, and so much more easily than she had imagined. She was breathing hard, but she was not out of breath from exertion. So much thought, worry, and nervous energy had gone into the planning that the easy execution of the hunt hadn't drained it off. She was still keyed up and had no way to spend her excess-and no one with whom to share her success.

"Whinney! We did it! We did it!" Her yelling and gesticulating startled the young horse. Then she leaped on the mare's back and took off in a dead run across the plains.

Braids flying behind her, eyes feverish with excitement, a maniacal smile on her face, she was a wild woman. And all the more frightening-if there had been anyone around to be frightened-for sitting astride a wild animal, whose frantic eyes and laid-back ears betokened a frenzy of a somewhat different nature.

They made a wide circle, and, on the way back, she pulled the horse to a halt, slid down, and finished the circuit with a sprint on her own two legs. This time when she looked down into the muddy hole at the dead reindeer, she panted heavily with good reason.

After she caught her breath, she pulled the spear out of the deer's neck and whistled for the horse. Whinney was skittish, and Ayla tried to calm her with encouragement and affection before putting the harness on her. She walked the horse to the pit trap. With neither bridle nor halter for control, Ayla had to coax and urge the nervous horse. When Whinney finally settled down, the woman tied the trailing ropes of the harness to the antlers of the deer.

"Pull now, Whinney," she encouraged, "just like the log." The horse moved forward, felt the drag, and backed up. Then, in response to more urging, she moved forward again, leaning into the harness as the ropes became taut. Slowly, with Ayla helping in every way she could, Whinney dragged the reindeer out of the hole.

Ayla was elated. At the least, it meant she would not have to dress the meat in the bottom of a mucky pit. She wasn't sure how much more Whinney would be willing to do; she hoped the horse would lend her strength to get the deer back to the valley, but she would only take one step at a time. Ayla led the young mare to the water's edge, untangling the reindeer's antlers from the brush. Then she repacked the baskets so that one nested inside the other and strapped them to her back. It was an unwieldy load with the two spears sticking upright, but with the help of a large rock, she straddled the horse. Her feet were bare, but she hiked up her fur wrap to keep it out of the water and urged Whinney into the river.

It was normally a shallow, wide, fordable part of the river-one of the reasons the reindeer had instinctively chosen the place to cross-but the rain had raised the water level. Whinney managed to keep her footing in the swift current, and, once the deer was in the water, it floated easily. Pulling the animal across the water had one benefit Ayla hadn't thought of. It washed away the mud and blood, and by the time they reached the other side, the reindeer was clean.

Whinney balked a little when she felt the drag again, but Ayla was down by then and helped haul the deer a short distance up the beach. Then she untied the ropes. The deer was one step closer to the valley, but before they went any farther, Ayla had a few tasks yet to do. She slit the deer's throat with her sharp flint knife, then made a straight cut from the a.n.u.s up the belly, chest, and neck, to the throat. She held the knife in her hand with her index finger along the back and the cutting edge up, inserted just under the skin. If the first cut was made cleanly, not cutting into the meat, skinning would be much easier later.

The next cut went deeper, to remove the entrails. She cleaned the usable parts-stomach, intestines, bladder-and put them back into the abdominal cavity along with the edible parts.

Curled around the inside of one of the baskets was a large gra.s.s mat. She opened it out on the ground, then, pushing and grunting, she moved the deer onto it. She folded the mat over the carca.s.s and wrapped it securely with ropes, then attached the ropes from Whinney's harness. She repacked the baskets, putting a spear in each one, and fastened the long shafts firmly in place. Then, feeling rather pleased with herself, she climbed on the horse's back.

About the third time she had to get down to free the load from hindering obstructions-gra.s.s tussocks, rocks, brush-she was no longer feeling so pleased. Finally she just walked beside the horse, coaxing her along until the trussed-up deer snagged on something, then going back to extricate it. It wasn't until she stopped to put her footwear back on that she noticed the pack of hyenas following her. The first stones from her sling only showed the wily scavengers her range, which they stayed just: beyond.

Stinking ugly animals, she thought, wrinkling her nose and shuddering in disgust. She knew they also hunted-only too well. Ayla had killed one such scavenger with her sling-and given her secret away. The clan knew she hunted, and she had to be punished for it. Brun had no choice; it was the Clan way.

Hyenas bothered Whinney, too. It was more than her instinctual fear of predators. She never forgot the pack of hyenas that attacked her after Ayla killed her dam. And Whinney was edgy enough. Getting the deer back to the cave was turning out to be more of a problem than Ayla had antic.i.p.ated. She hoped they would make it before nightfall.

She stopped to rest at a place where the river wound back on itself. All the stops and starts were wearing. She filled her waterbag and a large waterproof basket with water, then took the basket to Whinney, who was still attached to the dusty bundle of deer. She took out a traveling cake and sat down on a rock to eat it. She was staring at the ground, not really seeing it, trying to think of an easier way to get her kill back to the valley. It took a while before the disturbance of the dust penetrated her consciousness, but when it did, it aroused her curiosity. The earth was trampled, the gra.s.s bent down, and the tracks were fresh. Some great commotion had occurred here recently. She got up to examine the tracks closer, and gradually pieced together the story.

From the spoor in the dried mud near the river, she could tell they were in a long-established territory of cave lions. She thought there must be a small valley nearby, with sheer rocky walls and a snug cave where a lioness had given birth to a pair of healthy cubs earlier in the year. This had been a favorite resting place. The cubs had been playfully fighting over a b.l.o.o.d.y piece of meat, worrying loose small pieces with milk teeth, while the sated males lolled in the morning sun, and sleek females indulgently watched the babes at play.

The huge predators were lords of their domain. They had nothing to fear, no reason to antic.i.p.ate an a.s.sault by their prey. Reindeer, under normal circ.u.mstances, would never have strayed so close to their natural predators, but the whooping, screaming horse-riding human had whipped them into a panic. The swift river had not stopped the stampeding herd. They had plunged across, and, before they knew it, they were in the midst of a pride of lions. Both were caught unawares. The fleeing deer, realizing too late that they had run from one danger into another far worse, scattered in all directions.

Ayla followed the tracks and came upon the conclusion of the story. Too late to dodge the flying hooves, one cub had been trampled by the frightened deer.

The woman kneeled beside the baby cave lion, and with the experienced hand of a medicine woman she felt for signs of life. The cub was warm, probably had broken ribs. He was near death, but he still breathed. From signs in the dirt, Ayla knew the lioness had found her baby and nudged him to get up, to no avail. Then, following the way of all animals-save the one that walked on two legs-who must allow the weak to die if the rest are to survive, she turned her attention to her other offspring and moved on.

Only in the animal called human did survival depend on more than strength and fitness. Already puny compared with their carnivorous compet.i.tors, mankind depended on cooperation and compa.s.sion to survive.

Poor baby, Ayla thought. Your mother couldn't help you, could she? It wasn't the first time her heart had been moved by a hurt and helpless creature. For a moment, she thought about taking the cub back with her to the cave, then quickly dismissed the idea. Brun and Creb had allowed her to bring small animals to the clan's cave for her to treat when she was learning the healing arts, though the first time had caused quite a stir. But Brun had not allowed a wolf pup. The lion cub was nearly as big as a wolf already. Someday he would approach Whinney in size.

She got up and looked down at the dying cub, shaking her head, then went to lead Whinney again, hoping the load she was dragging wouldn't get stuck too soon. When they started, Ayla noticed the hyenas moving to follow them. She reached for a stone, then saw that the pack had been distracted. It was only reasonable. It was the niche nature had alloted them. They had found the lion cub. But Ayla wasn't reasonable where hyenas were concerned.

"Get out, you stinking animals! Leave that baby alone!"

Ayla ran back, hurling stones. A yelp let her know one had found its mark. The hyenas backed out of range again as the woman advanced upon them, full of righteous wrath.

There! That will keep them away, she thought, standing with her feet apart, protectively straddling the cub. Then a wry grin of disbelief crossed her face. What am I doing? Why am I keeping them away from a lion cub that's going to die anyway? If I let the hyenas at him, they won't bother me anymore.

I can't take him with me. I couldn't even carry him. Not all the way. I've got to worry about getting the reindeer back. It's ridiculous to think of it.

Is it? What if Iza had left me? Creb said I was put in her path by the spirit of Ursus, or maybe the Cave Lion spirit, because no one else would have stopped for me. She couldn't bear to see someone sick or hurt without trying to help. It's what made her such a good medicine woman.

I'm a medicine woman. She trained me. Maybe this cub was put in my path for me to find. The first time I brought that little rabbit into the cave because it was hurt, she said it showed I was meant to be a medicine woman. Well, here's a baby that's hurt, I can't just leave him to those ugly hyenas.

But how am I going to get this baby to the cave? A broken rib could puncture a lung if I'm not careful. I'll have to wrap him before I can move him. That wide thong I used for Whinney's puller should work. I have some with me.

Ayla whistled for the horse, Surprisingly, the load Whinney was dragging didn't snag on anything, but the young mare was edgy. She didn't like being in cave lion territory; her kind, too, were their natural prey. She had been nervous since the hunt, and stopping every few moments to untangle the heavy load, which restricted her movement, had not contributed to calming her.

But Ayla, concentrating on the baby cave lion, wasn't paying attention to the horse's needs. After she wrapped the young carnivore's ribs, the only way she could think of getting him to the cave was to put him on Whinney's back.

It was more than the filly could take. As the woman picked up the huge young feline and tried to place him on her back, the young mare reared. In a panic, she bucked and pitched, trying to rid herself of the weights and contraptions strapped to her, then vaulted across the steppes. The deer, wrapped in the gra.s.s mat, bounced and jogged behind the horse, then caught on a rock. The restraint added to Whinney's panic, bringing on a renewed frenzy of bucking.

Suddenly, the leather thongs snapped, and with the jolt the carrying baskets, overbalanced by the long heavy spear shafts, tilted up. In open-mouthed astonishment, Ayla watched the overwrought horse race furiously ahead. The contents of the carrying baskets were dumped on the ground, except for the securely fastened spears. Still attached to the baskets cinched around the mare, the two long shafts were dragging along behind her, points down, without hindering her speed at all.

Ayla saw the possibilities immediately-she'd been racking her brain trying to think of a way to get the deer carca.s.s and the lion cub back to the cave. Waiting for Whinney to settle down took a little more time. Ayla, worried that the horse might harm herself, whistled and called. She wanted to go after her, but was afraid to leave either deer or lion cub to the tender mercies of hyenas. The whistling did have an effect. It was a sound Whinney a.s.sociated with affection, security, and response. Making a large circle, she veered back toward the woman.

When the exhausted and lathered young mare finally drew near, Ayla could only hug her with relief. She untied the harness and cinch and examined her carefully to make sure she was unhurt. Whinney leaned against the woman, making soft nickers of distress, her forelegs spraddled, breathing hard and quivering.

"You rest, Whinney," Ayla said when the horse stopped shaking and seemed to calm down. "I need to work on this anyway."

It didn't occur to the woman to be angry because the horse had bucked, run away, and dumped her things. She didn't think of the animal as belonging to her, or under her command. Rather, Whinney was a friend, a companion. If the horse panicked, she had good reason. Too much had been asked of her. Ayla felt she would have to learn the horse's limits, not attempt to teach her better behavior. To Ayla, Whinney helped of her own free will, and she took care of the horse out of love.

The young woman picked up what she could find of the basket's contents, then reworked the cinch-basket-harness arrangement, fastening the two spears the way they had fallen, points down. She attached the gra.s.s mat, which had been wrapped around the deer, to both poles, thus creating a carrier platform between them-behind the horse but off the ground. She lashed the deer to it, then carefully tied down the unconscious cave lion cub. After she relaxed, Whinney seemed more accepting of the cinches and harnesses, and she stood quietly while Ayla made adjustments.

Once the baskets were in place, Ayla checked the cub again and got on Whinney's back. As they headed toward the valley, she was astounded at the efficiency of the new means of transporting. With just the ends of the spears dragging on the ground, not a dead weight snagged by every obstacle, the horse was able to haul the load with much greater ease, but Ayla did not draw an easy breath until she reached the valley and her cave.

She stopped to give Whinney a rest and a drink, and she checked on the baby cave lion. He still breathed, but the wasn't sure he would live. Why was he put in my path? she wondered. She had thought of her totem the moment she saw the cub-did the spirit of the Cave Lion want her to take care of him?

Then another thought occurred to her. If she hadn't decided to take the cub with her, she would never have thought of the travois. Had her totem chosen that way to show her? Was it a gift? Whatever it was, Ayla was sure the cub had been put in her path for a reason, and she would do everything in her power to save his life.

11.

"Jondalar, you don't have to stay here just because I am."

"What makes you think I'm staying just for you?" the older brother said with more irritation than he meant to show. He hadn't wanted to seem so touchy about it, but there was more truth to Thonolan's comment than he wanted to admit.

He'd been expecting it, he realized. He just didn't want to let himself believe his brother would actually stay and mate Jetamio. Yet, he surprised himself with his immediate decision to stay with the Sharamudoi, too. He didn't want to go back alone. It would be a long way to travel without Thonolan, and there was something deeper. It had prompted an immediate response before, when he had decided to make a Journey with his brother in the first place.

"You shouldn't have come with me."

For an instant, Jondalar wondered how his brother could know his thoughts.

"I had a feeling I'd never go back home. Not that I expected to find the only woman I could ever love, but I had a feeling I'd just keep going until I found a reason to stop. The Sharamudoi are good people-I guess most people are once you get to know them. But I don't mind settling here and becoming one of them. You're a Zelandonii, Jondalar. No matter where you are, you will always be a Zelandonii. You'll never feel quite at home any other place. Go back, Brother. Make one of those women who have been after you happy. Settle down and raise a big family, and tell the children of your hearth all about your long Journey and the brother who stayed. Who knows? Maybe one of yours, or one of mine, will decide to make a long Journey to find his kin someday."

"Why am I more Zelandonii than you? What makes you think I couldn't be just as happy here as you?"

"You're not in love, for one thing. Even if you were, you'd be making plans to take her back with you, not to stay here with her."

"Why don't you bring Jetamio back with us? She's capable, strong minded, knows how to take care of herself. She'd make a good Zelandonii woman. She even hunts with the best of them-she'd get along fine."

"I don't want to take the time, waste a year traveling all the way back. I've found the woman I want to live with. I want to settle down, get established, give her a chance to start a family."

"What happened to my brother who was going to travel all the way to the end of the Great Mother River?"

"I'll get there someday. There's no hurry. You know it's not that far. Maybe I'll go with Dolando the next time he trades for salt. I could take Jetamio with me. I think she'd like that, but she wouldn't be happy away from home for long. It means more to her. She never knew her own mother, came close to dying herself with the paralysis. Her people are important to her. I understand that, Jondalar. I've got a brother a lot like her."

"What makes you so sure?" Jondalar looked down, avoiding his brother's gaze. "Or of my not being in love? Serenio is a beautiful woman, and Darvo," the tall blond man smiled and the worry lines on his forehead relaxed, "needs a man around. You know, he may turn out to be a good flint knapper one day."

"Big Brother, I've known you a long time. Living with a woman doesn't mean you love her. I know you're fond of the boy, but that's not reason enough to stay here and make a commitment to his mother. It's not such a bad reason to mate, but not to stay here. Go home and find an older woman with a few children if you want-then you can be sure of having a healthful of young ones to turn into flint knappers. But go back."

Before Jondalar could reply, a boy, not yet into his second tea years, ran up to them out of breath. He was tall for his age, but slender with a thin face and features too fine and delicate for a boy. His light brown hair was straight and limp, but his hazel eyes gleamed with lively intelligence.

"Jondalar!" he exhaled. "I've been looking all over for you! Dolando is ready and the river men are waiting."

"Tell them we come, Darvo," the tall blond man said in the langauge of the Sharamudoi. The youngster sprinted ahead. The two men turned to follow, then Jondalar paused. "Good wishes are in order, Little Brother," he said, and the smile on his face made it plain he was sincere. "I can't say I haven't been expecting you to make it formal. And you can forget about trying to get rid of me. It's not every day a man's brother finds the woman of his dreams. I wouldn't miss your mating for the love of a donii."

Thonolan's grin lit up his whole face. "You know, Jondalar, that's what I thought she was the first time I saw her, a beautiful young spirit of the Mother who had come to make my Journey to the next world a pleasure. I would have gone with her, too, without a struggle...I still would."

As Jondalar fell in behind Thonolan, his brow furrowed. It bothered him to think his brother would follow any woman to her death.

The path zigzagged its way down a steep slope in switchbacks, which made the descent more gradual, through a deeply shaded forest. The way ahead opened up as they approached a stone wall that brought them to the edge of a steep cliff. A path around the stone wall had been laboriously hewn out of the face wide enough to accommodate two people abreast, but not with comfort. Jondalar stayed behind his brother as they pa.s.sed around the wall. He still felt an aching sensation deep in his groin when he looked over the edge at the deep, wide, Great Mother River below, though they had wintered with the Shamudoi of Dolando's Cave. Still, walking the exposed path was better than the other acess.

Not all Caves of people lived in caves; shelters constructed on open sites were common, But the natural shelters of rock were sought, and prized, especially during the winter's bitter cold. A cave or rock overhang could make desirable a location that would otherwise have been spurned. Seemingly insurmountable difficulties would be casually overcome for the sake of such permanent shelters. Jondalar had lived in caves in steep cliffs with precipitous ledges, but nothing quite like the home of this Clave of Shamudoi.

In a far earlier age, the earth's crust of sedimentary sandstone, limestone, and shale had been uplifted into ice-capped peaks. But harder crystalline rock, spewed from erupting volcanoes caused by the same upheavals, was intermixed with the softer stone. The entire plain through which the two brothers had traveled the previous summer, that had once been the basin of a vast inland sea, was hemmed in by the mountains. Over long eons the outlet of the sea eroded a path through a ridge, which had once joined the great range on the north with an extension of it to the south, and drained the basin.

But the mountain gave way only grudgingly through the more yielding material, allowing just a narrow gap bounded by obdurate rock. The Great Mother River, gathering unto herself her Sister and all her channels and tributaries into one voluminous whole, pa.s.sed through the same gap. Over a distance of nearly a hundred miles, the series of four great gorges was the gate to her lower course and, ultimately, her destination. In places along the way she spread out for a mile; in others, less than two hundred yards separated walls of sheer bare stone.

In the slow process of cutting through a hundred miles of mountain ridge, the waters of the receding sea formed themselves into streams, waterfalls, pools, and lakes, many of which would leave their mark. High on the left wall, close to the beginning of the first narrow pa.s.sage, was a s.p.a.cious embayment: a deep broad shelf with a surprisingly even floor. It had once been a small bay, a protected cove of a lake, hollowed out by the unwavering edge of water and time. The lake had long since disappeared, leaving the indented U-shaped terrace high above the existing water line; so high that not even spring floods, which could change the river level dramatically, came close to the ledge.

A large gra.s.s-covered field edged to the sheer drop-off of the shelf, though the soil layer, evidenced by a couple of shallow cooking pits that went down to rock, was not deep. About halfway back, brush and small trees began to appear, hugging and climbing the rugged walls. The trees grew to a respectable size near the rear wall, and the brush thickened and clambered up the steep back incline. Close to the back on a side wall was the prize of the high terrace: a sandstone overhang with a deep undercut. Beneath it were several shelters constructed of wood, part.i.tioning the area into dwelling units, and a roughly circular open s.p.a.ce, with a main hearth and a few smaller ones, that was both an entrance and a gathering place.

In the opposite corner was another valuable a.s.set. A long thin waterfall, dropping from a high lip, played through jagged rocks for a distance before spilling over a smaller sandstone overhang into a lively pool. It ran off along the far wall to the end of the terrace, where Dolando and several men were waiting for Thonolan and Jondalar.

Dolando hailed them when they appeared around the jutting wall, then began descending over the edge. Jondalar jogged behind his brother and reached the far wall just as Thonolan started down a precarious path alongside the small stream that dropped down a series of ledges to the river below. The trail would have been impossible to negotiate in places except for narrow steps tediously chiseled out of the rock, and st.u.r.dy rope handrails. As it was, the cascading water and constant spray made it treacherously slick, even in summer. In winter it was an impa.s.sable ma.s.s of frozen icicles.

In the spring, though it was inundated with heavier runoff and icy patches which threatened footing, the Sharamudoi-both the chamois-hunting Shamudoi, and the river-dwelling Ramudoi, who formed their opposite half-scampered up and down like the agile goatlike antelope that inhabited the steep terrain. As Jondalar watched his brother descend with the reckless disregard of one born to it, he thought Thonolan was certainly right about one thing. If he lived here all his life, he would never get used to this access to the high shelf. He glanced at the turbulent water of the huge river far below and felt the familiar ache in his groin, then took a deep breath, gritted his teeth, and stepped over the edge.

More than once he was grateful for the rope as he felt his foot slip on unseen ice, and he expelled a deep sigh when he reached the river. A floating dock of logs lashed together, swaying with the shifting current, was welcome stability by comparison. On a raised platform that covered more than half the dock were a series of wood structures similar to the ones under the sandstone overhang on the ledge above.

Jondalar exchanged greetings with several inhabitants of the houseboats as he strode along the lashed logs toward the end of the dock where Thonolan was just getting into one of the boats tied there. As soon as he got in, they shoved off and began pulling upstream with long-handled oars. Conversation was kept to a minimum. The deep, strong current was urged on by spring melt, and, while the river men rowed, Dolando's men kept an eye out for floating debris. Jondalar settled back and found himself musing on the unique interrelationship of the Sharamudoi.

People he had met specialized in different ways, and he often wondered what had led them along their particular path. With some, all the men customarily performed one function, and all the women another, until each function became so a.s.sociated with a certain gender that no woman would do what she considered man's work, and no man could bring himself to perform a woman's task. With others, tasks and ch.o.r.es tended to fall more along lines of age-younger people performing the more strenuous tasks, and older ones the sedentary ch.o.r.es. In some groups, women might be in full charge of children, in others much of the responsibility of tending and teaching young children belonged to the elders, both male and female.

With the Sharamudoi, specialization had followed different lines, and two distinct but related groups had developed. The Shamudoi hunted chamois and other animals in the high crags and tors of the mountains and cliffs, while the Ramudoi specialized in hunting-for the process was more like hunting than fishing-the enormous sturgeon, up to thirty feet long, of the river. They also fished for perch, pike, and large carp. The division of labor might have caused them to split into two distinct tribes, except for mutual needs they had of each other which kept them together.

The Shamudoi had developed a process for making beautiful, velvety soft leather from chamois hides. It was so unique that distant tribes in the region would trade for them. It was a closely guarded secret, but Jondalar had learned that oils from certain fish were involved in the process. It gave the Shamudoi a strong reason to maintain a close tie with the Ramudoi. On the other hand, boats were made from oak, with some beech and pine used for fittings, and the long planks of the sides were clenched with yew and willow. The river people had need of the mountain dwellers' knowledge of the forests to find the proper wood.

Within the Sharamudoi tribe, each Shamudoi family had a counterpart Ramudoi family related to it by complex kinship lines that might or might not have anything to do with blood relationship. Jondalar still hadn't sorted them all out, but after his brother mated Jetamio, he would suddenly be endowed with a score of "cousins" among both groups, related through Thonolan's mate, although she had no living blood relatives. Certain mutual obligations would be expected to be met, though for him this would involve little more than using certain t.i.tles of respect when addressing acquaintances among his new kin.

As an unmated male, he would still be free to go if he wished, though he would be even more welcome to stay. But the ties that bound the two groups were so strong that if living quarters became congested, and a family or two of the Shamudoi decided to move away and start a new Cave, their counterpart family of Ramudoi had to move with them.

There were special rites to exchange ties if the counterpart family did not want to move and another family did. In principle, however, the Shamudoi could insist and the Ramudoi would be obligated to follow, because in matters concerning the land, the Shamudoi had the right to decide. The Ramudoi were not without some leverage, however. They could refuse to transport their Shamudoi kin, or to help them look for a suitable location, since decisions dealing with the water fell to them. In practice, any decision as major as moving away was usually worked out together.

Additional ties had developed, both practical and ritual, to strengthen the relationship, many of them centering on the boats. Though decisions regarding boats on the water were the prerogative of the Ramudoi, the boats themselves also belonged to the Shamudoi, who consequently benefited from the products of their use, in proportion to benefits given in return. Again, the principle which had evolved to resolve disputes was much more complicated than the practice. Mutual sharing with unspoken understanding of and respect for each other's rights, territories, and expertise made disputes rare.

The making of boats was a joint effort for the very practical reason that it required both the products of the land and the knowledge of the water, and this gave the Shamudoi a valid claim to the craft used by the Ramudoi. Ritual reinforced the tie, since no woman of either moiety could mate a man who did not have such a claim. Thonolan would have to a.s.sist in the building, or rebuilding, of a boat before he could mate the woman he loved.

Jondalar was looking forward to the boat building, too. He was intrigued with the unusual craft; he wondered how they were made and how to propel and navigate them. He would have preferred some other reason than his brother's decision to stay and mate a Shamudoi woman as a means of finding out. But from the beginning, these people had interested him. The ease with which they traveled on the great river and hunted the huge sturgeon surpa.s.sed the abilities of any people he had ever heard of.

They knew the river in all her moods. He'd had difficulty comprehending her sheer volume until he had seen all her waters together, and she wasn't full yet. But it wasn't from the boat that her size was so apparent. During the winter when the waterfall trail was icing over and unusable, but before the Ramudoi moved in with their Shamudoi kin above, commerce between the two was accomplished by means of ropes and large woven platforms suspended over the ledge of the Shamudoi terrace and down to the Ramudoi dock.

The falls hadn't yet frozen when he and Thonolan first arrived, but his brother was in no shape to make the precarious ascent. They were both lifted up in a basket.

When he saw her from that perspective for the first time, Jondalar began to understand the full extent of the Great Mother River. The blood had drained from his face; his heart pounded with the shock of comprehension as he looked down at the water and the rounded mountains across the river. He was awed and overcome with a deep reverence for the Mother whose birth waters had formed the river in her wondrous act of creation.

He had since learned there was a longer, easier, if less spectacular ascent to the high embayment. It was part of a trail that extended from west to east over the mountain pa.s.ses and dropped down to the broad river plain on the eastern end of the gate. The western part of the trail, in the highlands and foothills leading to the start of the series of gorges, was more rugged, but parts of it dipped to the river's edge. They were heading to one such place.

The boat was already pulling out of midchannel toward an excitedly waving group of people lining a beach of gray sand when a gasp caused the older brother to look around.