The hot sun glistened off his sweaty bronzed back, and a tickle of perspiration ran down the sides of his face; it darkened the sun-bleached hair plastered to his forehead. A long strand had escaped from a leather tie at the nape of his neck, and the wind whipped it, annoyingly, in his face. Flies buzzed around him, landing occasionally to take a bite, and a cramp was starting in his left thigh from holding the tense crouch.
They were petty irritations, hardly noticed. His attention was focused on a stallion nervously snorting and prancing, uncannily aware of impending danger to his harem. The mares were still grazing, but in their seemingly random movements, the dams had put themselves between their foals and the men.
Thonolan, a few feet away, was crouched in the same tense position, a spear held level with his right shoulder and another in his left hand. He glanced toward his brother. Jondalar lifted his head and flicked his eyes at a dun mare. Thonolan nodded, shifted his spear minutely for better balance, and prepared to spring.
As though a signal passed between them, the two men jumped up together and sprinted toward the herd. The stallion reared, screamed a warning, and reared again. Thonolan hurled his spear at the mare while Jondalar ran straight for the male horse, yelling and whooping, trying to spook him. The ploy worked. The stallion was not accustomed to noisy predators; four-legged hunters attacked with silent stealth. He whinnied, started toward the man, then dodged and galloped after his retreating herd.
The two brothers pounded after them. The stallion saw the mare fall behind, and nipped her in the flanks to urge her on. The men yelled and waved their arms, but this time the stallion stood his ground, dashing between the men and the mare, holding them off while trying to nudge her on. She took a few more faltering steps, then stopped, her head hanging. Thonolan's spear stuck out of her side, and bright scarlet rivulets stained her grayish coat and dripped from matted strands of shaggy hair.
Jondalar moved in closer, took aim, and cast his spear. The mare jerked, stumbled, then fell, the second shaft quivering in her thick neck below the stiff brush of a mane. The stallion cantered to her, nosed her gently, then reared with a scream of defiance and raced after his herd to protect the living.
"I'll go get the packs," Thonolan said as they jogged toward the fallen animal. "It'll be easier to bring water here than carry a horse back to the river."
"We don't have to dry it all. Let's take what we want back to the river, then we won't have to carry water here."
Thonolan shrugged. "Why not? I'll get an axe to break the bones." He headed for the river.
Jondalar pulled his bone-handled knife out of the sheath and made a deep cut across the throat. He pulled out the spears and watched blood pool around the mare's head.
"When you return to the Great Earth Mother, thank Her," he said to the dead horse. He reached into his pouch and fondled the stone figurine of the Mother in an unconscious gesture. Zelandoni is right, he thought. If Earth's children ever forget who provides for them, we may wake up someday and find we don't have a home. Then he gripped his knife and prepared to take his share of Donii's provisions.
"I saw a hyena on the way back," Thonolan said when he returned. "Looks like we're going to feed more than ourselves."
"The Mother doesn't like waste," Jondalar said, up to his elbows in blood. "It all goes back to Her one way or another. Here, give me a hand."
"It's a risk, you know," Jondalar said, throwing another stick on the small fire. A few sparks floated up with the smoke and disappeared into the night air. "What will we do when winter comes?"
"It's a long time until winter; we're bound to meet some people before then."
"If we turn back now, we'll be sure to meet people. We could make it at least as far as the Losadunai before the worst of the winter." He turned to face his brother. "We don't even know what winters are like on this side of the mountains. It's more open, less protection, fewer trees for fires. Maybe we should have tried to find the Sarmunai. They might have given us some idea of what to expect, what people live this way."
"You can turn back if you want, Jondalar. I was going to make this Journey alone to begin with… not that I haven't been glad for your company."
"I don't know… maybe I should," he said, turning back to stare at the fire. "I didn't realize how long this river is. Look at her." He waved toward the shimmering water reflecting the moonlight. "She is the Great Mother of rivers, and just as unpredictable. When we started, she was flowing east. Now it's south, and split into so many channels, I wonder sometimes if we're still following the right river. I guess I didn't believe you would go all the way to the end, no matter how far, Thonolan. Besides, even if we do meet people, how do you know they'll be friendly?"
"That's what a Journey is all about. Discovering new places, new people. You take your chances. Look, Big Brother, go back if you want. I mean it."
Jondalar stared at the fire, rhythmically slapping a stick of wood into the palm of his hand. Suddenly, he jumped up and threw the stick on the fire, stirring up another host of sparks. He walked over and looked at the cords of twined fibers strung out close to the ground between pegs, on which thin slices of meat were drying. "What do I have to go back to? For that matter, what do I have to look forward to?"
"The next bend in the river, the next sunrise, the next woman you bed," Thonolan said.
"Is that all? Don't you want something more out of life?"
"What else is there? You're born, you live the best you can while you're here, and someday you go back to the Mother. After that, who knows?"
"There ought to be more to it, some reason for living."
"If you ever find out, let me know," Thonolan said, yawning. "Right now, I'm looking forward to the next sunrise, but one of us should stay up, or we ought to build more fires to keep scavengers away if we want that meat to be there in the morning."
"Go to bed, Thonolan. I'll stay up; I'd lie awake anyway."
"Jondalar, you worry too much. Wake me when you get tired."
The sun was already up when Thonolan crawled out of the tent, rubbed his eyes, and stretched. "Have you been up all night? I told you to wake me."
"I was thinking and didn't feel like going to bed. There's some hot sage tea if you want some."
"Thanks," Thonolan said, scooping steaming liquid into a wooden bowl. He squatted down in front of the fire, cupping the bowl in both hands. The early morning air was still cool, the grass wet with dew, and he wore only a breech-clout. He watched small birds darting and flitting around the scant brush and trees near the river, chirping noisily. A flock of cranes that nested on an island of willows in mid-channel was breakfasting on fish. "Well, did you do it?" he finally asked.
"Do what?"
"Find the meaning of life. Isn't that what you were worried about when I went to bed? Though why you'd stay up all night for that, I'll never know. Now, if there was a woman around… Do you have one of Doni's blessed hidden in the willows…
"Do you think I'd tell you if I did?" Jondalar said, grinning. Then his smile softened. "You don't have to make bad jokes to humor me, Little Brother. I'm going with you, all the way to the end of the river, if you want. Only, what will you do then?"
"Depends what we find there. I thought the best thing for me to do was go to bed. You're not fit company for anyone when you get in one of those moods. I'm glad you've decided to come along. I've sort of gotten used to you, bad moods and all."
"I told you, someone has to keep you out of trouble."