Dann was so hungry he was taking big bites and chewing and swallowing, and taking another bite. Mara copied him.
‘Anything you don’t finish, give back,’ said the woman. She was not eating but watching the children eat. ‘Eat,’ said the man to her. ‘You must.’ But he had only eaten a little himself.
‘Is it the Rock People’s food?’ asked Dann, surprising his sister, but pleasing her, for she knew that he did notice things, remembered, and came out with it later, even when you’d think he was too little to understand.
‘Yes, it is,’ said the man, ‘and you’d better learn to like it because I doubt whether you’ll get much else – at least, not for a while.’
‘Probably for a good long while,’ said the woman, ‘the way things are going.’
The man and the woman stood up and went forward to the very edge of a rock to take a good, long look at the water. It was still at the same height. And all the hills were crowded, simply crammed, with animals waiting for the flood to go down, just as they were. Down below, the great plain of brown water hurried past, still carrying bushes where little animals clung, and trees where big animals balanced; but now it seemed that there was less fret and storm in the water.
‘It has reached its peak,’ said the woman.
‘If there isn’t more to come,’ said the man.
The sky was still a hard, clear blue, like a lid over everything. The sun was shining hot and fierce, and there were no new big waves from the north.
Dann had gone to sleep holding a half-eaten hunk of the white stuff. The woman took it from him and put it in her bag. She sat down and her eyes closed and her head fell forward. The man’s eyes closed and he sank down, asleep.
‘But we must keep awake,’ the little girl was pleading, ‘we must. Suppose the bad people come? Suppose a snake bites us?’ And then she tumbled off to sleep, but later only knew she had been asleep because she was scrambling up, thinking, Where’s my brother? Where are the others? And her head was aching because she had been lying in the sun, which had moved and was going down, sending pink reflections from the sky across the water. But the water that had covered everything had gone down and was a river racing down the middle part of the valley. Dann was awake and holding the hand of the woman, and they were standing higher up where they could see everything easily. This hill was now surrounded by brown mud, and the yellow grasses were just beginning to lift up.
‘Where are we going to cross over?’ asked the woman.
‘I don’t know, but we’ve got to,’ said the man.
Now the rocks around them did not have animals all over them, for they were carefully making their way back towards the high ground on the ridge. Mara thought that soon they would all be thirsty again. And then: We’ll be thirsty too, and hungry. They had slept all afternoon.
‘I think it would be safe to have a try,’ said the man. ‘Between the waterholes there will be hard ground.’
‘A bit dangerous.’
‘Not as dangerous as staying here if they are coming after us.’
The dark was filling the sky. The stars came out, and up climbed a bright yellow moon. The mud shone, the tufts of grass shone, and the fast water that was now a river shone.
The man jumped down off the rocks and down the hill to the bottom, where his feet squelched as he took a few steps. ‘It is hard underneath,’ he said.
He picked up Dann, who was sleepy and silent, and said to Mara, ‘Can you manage?’
When Mara jumped down there was a thickness of mud under her feet, but a hardness under that. The moonlight was so strong it made big shadows from the rocks, and from the branches that were stuck in the mud, and sad shadows from the drowned animals lying about everywhere. The grasses dragged at their feet, but they went on, past the hill where they had been first, and where now there were no animals at all, and then they reached the edge of the river. The other side seemed a long way off. The man picked up one of the torn-off branches, held the leafy part, carefully stepped to the very edge of the water. He poked the branch in and it went right down. He went squelching along the edge and tried again, and it went down. He did it farther along and this time the wood only went in to about the height of the children’s knees. ‘Here,’ he said, and the woman lifted Mara up. The two big people stepped into the brown water, which was racing past, rippling and noisy, but not deep, not here. The man went ahead with Dann, poking the wood of the branch into the water at every step, and the woman, with Mara, was just behind. Mara thought, Suppose the flood comes down now? We’ll be drowned. And she was trembling with fear. They were right in the middle now, and everything glistened and shone because of the moon, which was making a gold edge on every ripple. The mud on the other side of the water was a stretch of yellowish light. They were going so slowly, a step and then a stop, while the man poked the water, and then another step and a stop. It seemed to go on and on, and then they were out of the water and on the mud. Close by were some trees. They had had water quite high up their trunks, though usually they were on the edge of a waterhole. They seemed quite fresh and green, and that was because they were here, not far from water, while the trees around Mara’s home were dying, or dead. There were dark blotches on the branches. Birds. They must have been sitting here safely all through the flood.
Now they were well past the water. Mara felt herself being set down, while the woman’s whole body seemed to lift itself up because of the relief of not having Mara’s weight. And again Mara thought, She must be so tired, and weak too, because I’m not so heavy really.
They were walking carefully through the dirty and wet tussocks of grass, away from the water. They reached the rise that was as far as they had been able to see from the top of the big hill they had been on and, when they were over it, ahead were trees, quite a lot. So this couldn’t be anywhere near their home – Mara had been thinking wildly, although she knew it couldn’t be true, that perhaps they were going back home. She was trying to remember if she had ever seen so many trees all together. These had their leaves, but as she passed under them she could smell their dryness. These thirsty trees must have been thinking of all that water rushing past, just over the ridge, but they couldn’t get to it.
The man stumbled and fell because he had tripped over a big white thing. It was a bone. He was on his feet at once, telling Dann, who had taken another tumble and was wailing, ‘Don’t cry, hush, be quiet.’
Ahead was another river, full of fast water, and the wet had reached all the way up here to the edge of the trees and had pushed away earth from under a bank, making a cave; and in the cave were a lot of white sticks: bones. The man poked his branch into the bones and they came clattering out.
‘Do you realise what we are seeing?’
‘Yes,’ said the woman, and although she was tired she was actually interested.
‘What is it, what is it?’ Mara demanded, tugging at the woman’s hand and then at the man’s.
‘This is where the old animals’ bones piled up, and the water has exposed them – look.’
Mara saw tusks so long and thick they were like trees; she saw enormous white bones; she saw cages made of bones, but she knew they were ribs. She had never imagined anything could be this big.
‘These are the extinct animals,’ said the man. ‘They died out hundreds of years ago.’
‘Why did they?’
‘It was the last time there was a very bad drought. It lasted for so long all the animals died. The big ones. Twice as big as our animals.’
‘Will this drought be as long as that?’
‘Let’s hope not,’ he said, ‘or we’ll all be extinct too.’ The woman laughed. She actually laughed; but Mara thought it was not funny, it was dreadful. ‘Really we should cover all these bones up again and mark where they are, and when things get better we can come and examine them properly.’
He believed that things were going to get better, Mara thought.
‘No time now,’ the woman said.
The
man was poking with his branch at the wet earth, and it was falling away and the bones kept tumbling out, clashing and clattering.
‘Why here?’ whispered Mara.
‘Probably another flood like this brought down dead animals and they piled up here. Or perhaps it was a graveyard.’
‘I didn’t know animals had graveyards.’
‘The big animals were very intelligent. Nearly as clever as people.’
‘This is no graveyard,’ said the woman. ‘All the different species together? No, it was a flood. We’ve seen today how it must have happened.’
The man was pulling from the mass of bones a ribcage so big that when he stood inside it the ribs were like a house over him. The ends of the ribs rested on the wet earth and sank in because of the weight. The big central bone, the spine, was nearly as thick as the man’s body. If some of the ribs had not been broken away, leaving gaps, the man would not have been able to pull it: it would have been too heavy.
‘What on earth could that have been?’ said the woman, and he answered, ‘Probably the ancestor of our horse. They were three times as big.’ He went on standing there, with the broken ribs curving over him, the moon making another shadow cage with a blotch in it that was his shadow, lying near.
‘Don’t forget where this place is,’ said the woman to Mara. ‘We’ll do our best to come back, but with things as they are who knows…’ And she stopped herself from going on, thinking she would frighten Mara. Who was thinking, That means she doesn’t know how frightening all the other things she has said were. And how could Mara remember where the bones were when she didn’t know where she was going?
‘Come on,’ said the woman, ‘we must hurry.’
But the man didn’t want to leave. He would have liked to go on poking about among those old bones. But he came out from the ribs of the ancient horse and lifted up Dann, and they walked on, Mara holding tight to the woman’s hand.
Soon it was dry underfoot. They were back in the dryness that Mara knew. She could hear the singing beetles hard at it in the trees. She felt her tunic: dry. The mud on her legs and feet was dry. Soon they would all be thirsty again. Mara was already a bit thirsty. She thought of all that water they had left and longed for it. Her skin felt dry again. The moon was getting its late look, and was going down the sky.
It was hot. Everything was rustling with dryness: grass, bushes, a little creeping wind. Then, ahead, was a Rock Village, and the man said to the little boy, ‘Don’t make a sound,’ and the woman said to Mara, very low, ‘Quiet, quiet,’ and they were running towards the village. It was not empty like the other one, for it had a feel of being lived in, and from a window in a house light came, just a little, dim light. And in a moment they had reached this house, and the man had slid the door along, and a tall woman came out at once. She put her hand on Mara’s shoulder; and when the little boy, half asleep, slid down out of the man’s arms, she put her other hand on his shoulder; and the three big people whispered over Mara’s head, fast and very low, so she could not hear; and then she heard, ‘Goodbye Mara, goodbye Dann,’ and then these two who had rescued them – and carried them and held them and fed them, brought them safely through all that water – they were running off, bending low, and in a moment had disappeared up into the trees that grew among rocks.
‘Come in,’ said this new woman in a whisper. And pushed the children inside, and followed them, and pulled the door across in its groove.
They were inside a room, like the other rock room, but this was bigger. In the middle was a table made of blocks of stone, like the other. Around it were stools made of wood. On the wall was a lantern, the same as the ones that were used in storerooms or servants’ rooms, which burned oil.
On the walls too were lamps of the kind that went out by themselves when the light was bright enough and came on when it was dark, and dimmed and lightened as the light changed; but these globes were broken, just like the ones at home. It had been a long time since these clever lamps had worked.
The woman was saying, ‘And now, before anything else, what is your name?’
‘Mara,’ said the child, not stumbling over it.
And now the woman looked at the little boy, who did not hesitate but said, ‘My name is Dann.’
‘Good,’ she said. ‘And my name is Daima.’
‘Mara, Dann and Daima,’ said Mara, smiling in what she meant to be a special way at Daima, who smiled back in the same way. ‘Exactly,’ she said.
And now, the way Daima looked them over made Mara examine herself and her brother. Both were filmed with dust from the last bit of walking and there were crusts of mud all up their legs.
Daima went next door and came back with a wide, shallow basin made of the metal Mara knew never chipped or broke or bent. This was put on the floor. Mara took off Dann the brown, slippery garment and stood him in the basin and began to pour water over him. He stood there half asleep, and yet he was trying to catch drops of water with his hands.
‘We are so thirsty,’ said Mara.
Daima poured half a cup of water from a big jug, this time made of clay, and gave it to Mara to give to Dann. Mara held it while he drank it all, greedily; and when Mara gave the cup back to Daima she thought it could happen as it did yesterday – yesterday?…it seemed a long time ago – when Dann drank all the water and it was not noticed that she had not drunk anything. So she held the cup out firmly and said, ‘I’m thirsty too.’ Daima said, smiling, ‘I hadn’t forgotten you,’ and poured out half a cup.
Mara knew this carefulness with water so well there was no need to ask. When Dann stepped out of the basin, Mara pulled off the brown thing and stood in the dirtied water. Daima handed her the cup to pour with and Mara poured water over herself, carefully, for she knew she was being watched to see how well she did things and was aware of everything she did. Then, just as she was going to say, Our hair, it’s full of dust, Daima took a cloth and energetically rubbed it hard over Mara’s hair, interrupting herself to examine the cloth, which was brown and heavy with dust. Another cloth was used to rub Dann’s hair, as dirty as Mara’s. The two dusty cloths were thrown into the bathwater to be washed later.
The two children stood naked. Daima took the tunics they had taken off to the door, slid it back a little and shook them hard. In the light from the wall lamp that fell into the dark they could see dust clouds flying out. Daima had to shake the tunics a long time.
Then they went back over Dann’s head and Mara’s head. She knew they were not dirty now. She knew a lot about this stuff the tunics were made of: that it could not take in water, that dust and dirt only settled on it but did not sink in, that it need never be washed, and it never wore out. A tunic or garment could last a person’s life and then be worn by the children and their children. The stuff could burn, but only slowly, so there would be time to snatch it out of flames, and there would not even be scorch marks. There were chests of the things at home; but everyone hated them and so they were not worn, only by the slaves.
Now Daima asked, ‘Are you hungry?’
‘Yes,’ said Mara. The little boy said nothing. He was nearly asleep, where he stood.
‘Before you go to sleep remember something,’ said Daima, bending down to him. ‘When people ask, you are my grandchildren. Dann, you are my grandson.’ But he was asleep, and Mara caught him and carried him where Daima pointed, to a low couch of stone that had on it a pad covered with the same slippery, brown stuff. She laid him down but did not cover him because it was already so hot.
On the rock table Daima had put a bowl with bits of the white stuff Mara had eaten yesterday, but now it was mixed with green leaves and some soup. Mara ate it all, while Daima watched.
Then Mara said, ‘May I ask some questions?’
‘Ask.’
‘How long will we be here?’ And as she asked, again, she knew the answer.
‘You are staying here.’
Mara was not going to let herself cry.
‘Where are my father
and mother?’
‘What did Gorda tell you?’
Mara said, ‘I was so thirsty while he was telling me things, I couldn’t listen.’
‘That’s rather a pity. You see, I don’t know much myself. I was hoping you could tell me.’ She got up, and yawned. ‘I was awake all night. I was expecting you sooner.’
‘There was a flood.’
‘I know. I was up there watching it go past.’ She pointed to the window, which was just a square hole in the wall with nothing to cover it or stop people looking in. It was light outside: the sun was up. Daima pointed through it, past some rock houses to a ridge. ‘That’s where you came. Over that ridge is the river. Not the place you crossed, but the same one higher up. And beyond that is another river – if you can call them rivers now. They are just waterholes.’ Then she took Mara by the shoulders and turned her round so that she was facing into the room. ‘Your home is in that direction. Rustam is there.’
‘How far is it from here?’
‘In the old days, by sky skimmer, half a day. Walking, six days.’
‘We came part of the way with a cart bird. But it got tired and stopped.’ And now Mara’s eyes filled and she said, beginning to cry, ‘I think it must be dead, it was so thin.’
‘I think you are tired. I’m going to put you to bed.’
Daima took Mara into an inner room. It was like the outer room without the big table of rocks in the middle, but it had couches made of rocks, three of them, built against the walls. It wasn’t thatch here but a roof of thin pieces of stone.
Daima showed Mara which shelf to use and a little rock room that was the lavatory and said, ‘I shall lie down for a little too. Don’t take any notice when I get up.’ And she lay down on a shelf that had pads on it to make it soft, and seemed to be asleep.
Mara on her rocky shelf, which was hard in spite of the pads, was far from sleeping. For one thing she was worrying about Dann next door. Suppose he woke and found himself alone in a strange place? She wanted to wake Daima and tell her, but didn’t dare. Several times she crept off this hard shelf that was supposed to be a bed and crept to the doorway to listen, but then Daima got up and went next door. Mara had time to take a good look at her.