young ewe, drowned under a jam of driftwood, held by the press of water.
Mak helped pull the ewe on to a sandbank where I skinned and gutted it, still warm. Exhausted, I carried the meat to camp and trudged back with a basket for the sodden skin. I was too tired to eat the sweet mutton. My leg ached.
“You’ve done well,” Hagar said. “Even when we were all together we still lost sheep and even goats.”
The river, a lighter ribbon in the dark, roared against the log-jam.
“If I’d brought them across one by one, they’d both be alive.”
“The river charges a toll. Better a sheep’s life than yours, Ish.”
If I had died, Hagar would die, too. The sheep and goats would be eaten by wild dogs. Mak and Bar would forget us. Still I regretted that one sheep. Next time I would take longer getting the animals across. And I’d wait for the river to go down. Floods often begin upstream, out of sight. There was more to river crossings than I had thought. Perhaps, I should sacrifice an old animal, a sick one, to the river now and then.
When we came to where the Onger joined the Wunger River I realised why we had crossed it further up. Even my father could not have got us across this river. Its waves, its huge voice, were scary. I asked Hagar where it went.
“Don’t worry about that,” she said. “See, there are the walls of this place, Towmranoo.”
“These old names, what do they mean?”
“Towmranoo,” said Hagar, “means ‘The Place Where We Turn East and Climb into the Mountains’. Wunger? Well,that means ‘The River that Eats People’.”
“All those walls. There must have been a lot of people?”
“They weren’t Travellers.”
“Perhaps they stopped here because they couldn’t cross the river.”
“Perhaps.” Hagar shrugged, but I wondered about the people of the walls. At Hammertun, south of the Narrower Ford, the walls stretched for two or three days. “It is not a safe place,” my father used to say. He must have been thinking of Orklun, too. Its walls must have gone on and on and on.
Where a stream came in, we turned east into tree-covered hills that rose higher and higher. One evening I chopped some green-tipped scrub for the goats to browse and left Hagar and Mak watching the sheep while I went back to where I had tracked a bitch to her litter under a log.
“You don’t want trouble with the pack,” Hagar said. “Grab the strongest and get away.”
Bar hung back, circling uneasily as I drove off the bitch with stones. I stuffed a pup into the basket, and she came for me, but I dropped her with a crack from my stick. Bar rushed in then, and I ran, whistling him off.
The pup, a brown and white bitch, pissed down my tunic. She yelped, but Hagar dabbed milk on her nose until she stopped crying to lick it off.
“You can’t do anything for her now,” Hagar said when I told her about the mother.
I woke to the wild dogs’ howling. My sling loaded, I walked around our flock with Bar and Mak and thought guiltily about the bitch and the other pups.
Our one rode in a basket on Hagar’s donkey. It was soon eating rabbit meat and liked to chew the venison chips, hard as bone.
“Good for her teeth,” said Hagar.
Nip grew and scrambled over Bar and Mak, rushing, yapping, chewing their ears, their tails. Mak growled deep in his throat and moved away, but Bar looked embarrassed and put up with anything she did. I played with her, rolling, barking, chasing her and being chased.
“A fair price for a good pup,” Hagar said. “One ewe.”
Chapter 12
The Loom and the Arrow
East we lifted each day with the land, until the dark line of a gorge showed west and, directly ahead, a blue-shouldered mountain. A white band capped it, explicit against dark clouds.
“In winter snow covers everything.”
I looked at Hagar.
“It’s in the stories and the songs about the Journey, Ish. I’ve heard you sing them, about the summer camps, how in winter they’re covered in snow.”
I had
Mak helped pull the ewe on to a sandbank where I skinned and gutted it, still warm. Exhausted, I carried the meat to camp and trudged back with a basket for the sodden skin. I was too tired to eat the sweet mutton. My leg ached.
“You’ve done well,” Hagar said. “Even when we were all together we still lost sheep and even goats.”
The river, a lighter ribbon in the dark, roared against the log-jam.
“If I’d brought them across one by one, they’d both be alive.”
“The river charges a toll. Better a sheep’s life than yours, Ish.”
If I had died, Hagar would die, too. The sheep and goats would be eaten by wild dogs. Mak and Bar would forget us. Still I regretted that one sheep. Next time I would take longer getting the animals across. And I’d wait for the river to go down. Floods often begin upstream, out of sight. There was more to river crossings than I had thought. Perhaps, I should sacrifice an old animal, a sick one, to the river now and then.
When we came to where the Onger joined the Wunger River I realised why we had crossed it further up. Even my father could not have got us across this river. Its waves, its huge voice, were scary. I asked Hagar where it went.
“Don’t worry about that,” she said. “See, there are the walls of this place, Towmranoo.”
“These old names, what do they mean?”
“Towmranoo,” said Hagar, “means ‘The Place Where We Turn East and Climb into the Mountains’. Wunger? Well,that means ‘The River that Eats People’.”
“All those walls. There must have been a lot of people?”
“They weren’t Travellers.”
“Perhaps they stopped here because they couldn’t cross the river.”
“Perhaps.” Hagar shrugged, but I wondered about the people of the walls. At Hammertun, south of the Narrower Ford, the walls stretched for two or three days. “It is not a safe place,” my father used to say. He must have been thinking of Orklun, too. Its walls must have gone on and on and on.
Where a stream came in, we turned east into tree-covered hills that rose higher and higher. One evening I chopped some green-tipped scrub for the goats to browse and left Hagar and Mak watching the sheep while I went back to where I had tracked a bitch to her litter under a log.
“You don’t want trouble with the pack,” Hagar said. “Grab the strongest and get away.”
Bar hung back, circling uneasily as I drove off the bitch with stones. I stuffed a pup into the basket, and she came for me, but I dropped her with a crack from my stick. Bar rushed in then, and I ran, whistling him off.
The pup, a brown and white bitch, pissed down my tunic. She yelped, but Hagar dabbed milk on her nose until she stopped crying to lick it off.
“You can’t do anything for her now,” Hagar said when I told her about the mother.
I woke to the wild dogs’ howling. My sling loaded, I walked around our flock with Bar and Mak and thought guiltily about the bitch and the other pups.
Our one rode in a basket on Hagar’s donkey. It was soon eating rabbit meat and liked to chew the venison chips, hard as bone.
“Good for her teeth,” said Hagar.
Nip grew and scrambled over Bar and Mak, rushing, yapping, chewing their ears, their tails. Mak growled deep in his throat and moved away, but Bar looked embarrassed and put up with anything she did. I played with her, rolling, barking, chasing her and being chased.
“A fair price for a good pup,” Hagar said. “One ewe.”
Chapter 12
The Loom and the Arrow
East we lifted each day with the land, until the dark line of a gorge showed west and, directly ahead, a blue-shouldered mountain. A white band capped it, explicit against dark clouds.
“In winter snow covers everything.”
I looked at Hagar.
“It’s in the stories and the songs about the Journey, Ish. I’ve heard you sing them, about the summer camps, how in winter they’re covered in snow.”
I had
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