West of Eden

hannas audim senstar, sammad deinarmal na mer ensi edo.
    The deer is killed, a man may die, a woman grows old—only the sammad endures.
    Kerrick was in his usual position in the prow of the boat, tending the fire. But this was a boy's work and he had wanted to row with the others. Amahast had permitted him to try but he was too small, the great oar too clumsy for him to handle. He leaned forward now, squinting his eyes to see through the fog, but West of Eden - Harry Harrison
    nothing was visible. Unseen seabirds cried out with the voices of wailing children, invisible in the mist.
    Only the crash of breaking waves off to the left gave them any guide. Normally they would have waited until the fog had lifted, but not this day. The memory of Hastila being pulled forever beneath the sea was with all of them. They moved as fast as they could: they wanted this voyage over and finished with.
    Kerrick sniffed the air, raised his head and sniffed again.
    "Father," he called out. "Smoke—I can smell smoke!"
    "There is smoke on us and on the meat," Amahast said, yet he paddled a little faster at the thought. Could the sammad be that close?
    "No, this is not old smoke. This is fresh-on the wind from ahead. And listen to the waves. Are they not different?"
    They were indeed. With the reek of the skins and the meat there may have been some doubt about the smoke. But not the waves. Their sound was growing fainter, falling behind them. Many of the tents of the sammad had been pitched on the banks of a great river, where it ran into the sea. The waves might very well be going up this estuary now, dying away in the flow of fresh water there.
    "Pull towards shore!" Amahast ordered, leaning hard into his own oar.
    The sky was growing lighter now: the mist was lifting. Above the screams of the gulls they heard a woman calling out and they shouted in answer.
    Once the sun began burning through the fog it began to lift faster and faster. It still lay close to the surface of the water, but beyond it was the shore and the waiting tents, smoking fires, piles of debris—all of the familiar bustle of their encampment. The boat was seen now and a great shout went up and people rushed from the tents to the water's edge. Everyone was crying out with happiness and there were echoing trumpetings from the meadow where the mastodons were grazing. They were home.
    Men and women both were splashing into the water, calling out—but their shouts of welcome died away as they counted the places in the boat. Five had left on the hunting expedition. Just three had returned. As the boat grated against the sandy bottom it was seized and pulled up onto the beach. Nothing was said but the woman of Hastila suddenly screamed with horror as she realized he was missing, as did the woman of Diken and his children.
    "Both dead," were Amahast's first words, lest they have false hopes that the others were following behind.
    "Diken and Hastila. They are among the stars. Are there many away from the encampment?"
    "Alkos and Kassis have gone up the river, to get fish," Aleth said. "They are the only ones not close by."
    "Go after them," Amahast ordered. "Bring them back at once. Strike the tents, load the beasts. We leave West of Eden - Harry Harrison
    today for the mountains."
    There were shouts and cries of protest at this because they were not prepared for this sudden departure.
    While on the move they would break camp every morning: they did this easily because just the essentials were unpacked. This was not true now. The summer encampment sprawled along both sides of the small river, while in the tents all their baskets, furs, everything were spread about in confusion.
    Ogatyr shouted at them, his voice rising over the women's wails of distress. "Do as Amahast says or you will die in the snows. The season is late, the path long."
    Amahast said nothing more. This reason was as good as any. Perhaps even better than the real reason, for which he could give no evidence. Despite this lack he was sure that he was being watched. He, a hunter, knew when he was being hunted in turn. For all of this day, and the day before, he had felt eyes upon him. He had seen nothing, the sea had always been empty when he looked. Yet something was out there, he knew it. He could not forget that Hastila had been pulled beneath the ocean and had not returned. Now Amahast wanted them to leave, this day, pack the travois and lash them behind the mastodons and turn their faces away from the