would be successful. We should both get what we desired.
The wind was still blustering and slapping at our clothes. I drew my blanket closer. Ayanawatta hardly noticed the drop in
temperature. As for the “prehistoric” nature of our dangers, he regretted that some sort of crisis had occurred. Such anomalies
were becoming increasingly common. He believed that the source of our own troubles was also causing the disruptions. The great
prairies offered natural grazing and ample prey for predators. They were, he admitted, generally moving south these days,
and the altering climate took increasing numbers of those that remained.
I said that I had noticed it growing colder.
Still apparently oblivious of the chill, Ayanawatta sighed. “Once,” he said, “this was all unspoiled. Those serpents would
never have come this far downriver. Itmeans you lose all the river game, and before you know it the whole natural order is turned upside down. The consequences
are disastrous. It becomes impossible to lead any kind of settled life. Do you see any villages on the banks these days? Of
course not! It used to be wonderful here. Girls would wave at you. People would invite you in to hear your stories…”
Grumbling thus, he paddled mechanically for a while. The encounter with the river serpent had not so much frightened as irritated
him. Even I had not been terrified of the beast. But Ayanawatta’s sense of order and protocol was upset, and he was becoming
concerned, he said, about the wind.
Again he surprised me. He had a habit of noticing everything while appearing to be entirely concerned with his own words.
For such people, words were sometimes a kind of barrier, the eye of a storm, from which part of them could observe the world
without the world ever guessing.
The wind was the king of the prairie, Ayanawatta continued. The most important force. He suspected that we had somehow engaged
its anger.
He paused in his paddling and took out his flute. He blew a few experimental notes, then began a high, slow tune which made
use of the echoes from the distant mountains and turned them back and forth so that once again it seemed the whole of the
natural world was singing with him.
The wind dropped suddenly. And as it dropped, Ayanawatta’s flute died away.
The extraordinary scenery seemed to go on forever,changing as the light changed, until it was close to twilight. The river ahead had begun to rumble and hiss. Ayanawatta said
we would have to bypass the rapids tomorrow. Meanwhile we would make camp before sunset, and this time, he promised, he would
catch whatever fish the serpent had left us.
In the morning when I awoke Ayanawatta was gone. The only movement was the lazy smoke from his fire, the only sound the distant
lapping of water and the melancholy wail of a river bird. I felt the ground shiver under me. Was this the sound of the rapids
he had spoken about?
I rose quickly, hardly able to believe I was not experiencing an earthquake. I heard the chirping of frogs and insects, steady,
high. I smelled the smoke and the rich, earthy pines, the acrid oaks and sweet ash. I heard a bird flap and dive, and then
I heard a disturbance in the water. I looked up and saw a hawk carrying a bird in its talons. I found myself wondering about
the magical meaning of what I had seen.
The earth shuddered again, and wood snapped within the forest. I looked for Ayanawatta’s bow and arrows, but they were gone.
I found one of his lances, still in the bottom of the boat, and armed myself with it. As I turned, however, it became immediately
obvious that a stone lance, even a magic one, might not be much use against this newcomer. Out of the thick woods, scattering
branches and leaves in all directions, a fantastic apparition loomed over me.
While I was familiar with the Asian use of domestic elephants, I had never seen a man seated on the back ofa black woolly mammoth with tusks at least nine
The wind was still blustering and slapping at our clothes. I drew my blanket closer. Ayanawatta hardly noticed the drop in
temperature. As for the “prehistoric” nature of our dangers, he regretted that some sort of crisis had occurred. Such anomalies
were becoming increasingly common. He believed that the source of our own troubles was also causing the disruptions. The great
prairies offered natural grazing and ample prey for predators. They were, he admitted, generally moving south these days,
and the altering climate took increasing numbers of those that remained.
I said that I had noticed it growing colder.
Still apparently oblivious of the chill, Ayanawatta sighed. “Once,” he said, “this was all unspoiled. Those serpents would
never have come this far downriver. Itmeans you lose all the river game, and before you know it the whole natural order is turned upside down. The consequences
are disastrous. It becomes impossible to lead any kind of settled life. Do you see any villages on the banks these days? Of
course not! It used to be wonderful here. Girls would wave at you. People would invite you in to hear your stories…”
Grumbling thus, he paddled mechanically for a while. The encounter with the river serpent had not so much frightened as irritated
him. Even I had not been terrified of the beast. But Ayanawatta’s sense of order and protocol was upset, and he was becoming
concerned, he said, about the wind.
Again he surprised me. He had a habit of noticing everything while appearing to be entirely concerned with his own words.
For such people, words were sometimes a kind of barrier, the eye of a storm, from which part of them could observe the world
without the world ever guessing.
The wind was the king of the prairie, Ayanawatta continued. The most important force. He suspected that we had somehow engaged
its anger.
He paused in his paddling and took out his flute. He blew a few experimental notes, then began a high, slow tune which made
use of the echoes from the distant mountains and turned them back and forth so that once again it seemed the whole of the
natural world was singing with him.
The wind dropped suddenly. And as it dropped, Ayanawatta’s flute died away.
The extraordinary scenery seemed to go on forever,changing as the light changed, until it was close to twilight. The river ahead had begun to rumble and hiss. Ayanawatta said
we would have to bypass the rapids tomorrow. Meanwhile we would make camp before sunset, and this time, he promised, he would
catch whatever fish the serpent had left us.
In the morning when I awoke Ayanawatta was gone. The only movement was the lazy smoke from his fire, the only sound the distant
lapping of water and the melancholy wail of a river bird. I felt the ground shiver under me. Was this the sound of the rapids
he had spoken about?
I rose quickly, hardly able to believe I was not experiencing an earthquake. I heard the chirping of frogs and insects, steady,
high. I smelled the smoke and the rich, earthy pines, the acrid oaks and sweet ash. I heard a bird flap and dive, and then
I heard a disturbance in the water. I looked up and saw a hawk carrying a bird in its talons. I found myself wondering about
the magical meaning of what I had seen.
The earth shuddered again, and wood snapped within the forest. I looked for Ayanawatta’s bow and arrows, but they were gone.
I found one of his lances, still in the bottom of the boat, and armed myself with it. As I turned, however, it became immediately
obvious that a stone lance, even a magic one, might not be much use against this newcomer. Out of the thick woods, scattering
branches and leaves in all directions, a fantastic apparition loomed over me.
While I was familiar with the Asian use of domestic elephants, I had never seen a man seated on the back ofa black woolly mammoth with tusks at least nine
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