Mists of Dawn (61 page)

It
was
a
good
day,
all
in
all,
and
Mark
was
sorry
to see
it
end.
The
valley
was
humming
with
activity,
and Mark
understood
that
this
was
the
time
for
tribal
ceremonies.
Indian
fashion,
these
people
were
in
isolated groups
following
the
herds
most
of
the
year,
and
when they
got
together
they
made
the
most
of
it.
Tlaxcan apologetically
explained
to
Mark
that
he
could
not
participate
in
or
witness
the
ceremonies,
because
he
was still
technically
an
outsider.
After
the
evening
meal, Tlaxcan
escorted
him
back
to
his
tiny
cave,
where someone—Mark
strongly
suspected
that
it
had
been Tlaxcan’s
wife,
Tlaxcal—had
kindled
a
small
fire
and left
enough
dried
bones
to
keep
it
going.

Alone,
Mark
sat
in
the
mouth
of
the
cave,
wrapped in
his
fur
blanket,
and
watched
the
black
shadows
of night
creep
through
the
valley,
soaking
up
the
fading light,
and
clearing
the
way
for
the
cold
night
wind sweeping
down
out
of
the
north.
The
stars
dusted
the dark
sky
with
frozen
pearls,
and
the
waterfall
muttered
and
boomed
in
the
distance.

It
was
infinitely
lonely,
all
the
more
lonely
now
that he
had
once
again
tasted
friendship
and
the
warm glow
of
human
companionship.
The
Danequa—men, women,
and
children—were
gone
from
the
vicinity
as though
they
had
never
existed,
leaving
only
the
dark pines
and
the
moaning
wind
behind
them.

Fires
flickered
into
life
far
across
the
valley,
near the
shores
of
the
deep
pool
at
the
foot
of
the
waterfall.
Alone
in
the
silence
of
the
night,
Mark
heard the
ceremonial
drums
of
the
Danequa
take
up
their rhythmic
chant.
The
throbbing
drums
were
felt,
rather than
heard,
against
the
roaring
backdrop
of
the
mighty cascades.
And
then
came
the
singing,
a
weird
chorus of
plaintive
cries,
with
deep
voices
mixed
with
high ones
in
a
never-ending
flood
of
sound.
There
was
no harmony,
and
the
rhythm
of
the
voices
was
different from
the
rhythmic
beat
of
the
drums.

Sad,
lonely,
wistful,
exciting—the
sounds
of
the
ceremony
were
carried
by
the
sighing
winds
across
the valley
of
the
Danequa
to
where
Mark
sat
alone.
Savage
it
may
have
been,
and
primitive
it
certainly
was, but
Mark
would
have
given
his
heart
and
soul
to
be there
with
them
now,
dancing
under
the
stars.

A
silver
moon
climbed
high
into
the
sky
of
night, and
still
the
drums
played
on,
and
the
singing
sobbed across
the
valley
floor.
Mark
had
hoped
that
the
ceremony
might
end,
and
someone
might
come
by
and just
say
hello
before
morning—but
no
one
came.
This was
a
night
for
the
Danequa,
and
he
was
not
of
the Danequa.

Finally,
unable
to
watch
the
fires
any
longer,
but still
not
tired,
Mark
crawled
on
into
the
tiny
cavern and
stretched
out
on
the
floor
under
the
robe.
He closed
his
eyes,
but
he
could
not
sleep.
The
rhythmic pounding
of
the
drums,
mixed
with
the
humming
roar of
the
waterfall,
marched
in
through
the
cavern
mouth and
thumped
against
his
ears.
The
singing
filled
the cave,
and
Mark
knew
that
he
had
never
been
so
lonely in
his
life.
He
thought
of
home,
as
lonely
people
do, and
he
was
acutely
aware
that
home
was
almost
fifty-two
thousand
years
away.