Durc's constant quest for food and water gave him no choice but to stray from his northward course many times. He had wandered eastward until he could see a vast body of water to the east and south. Several times he caught glimpses of people along the shore. They looked tall and skinny, and didn't move like Clan. He thought of approaching them but something inside said "no". Having no other sign from his totem, he was content to leave well enough alone. His destiny waited in the north. Now that he had better weapons and a means to keep warm at night without staying awake to keep moving, he pushed on with ever greater determination.
He came to a river that flowed from the north and followed it until he came to a fork, both branches of which descended from hills rising to the east. Northward lay fertile plains, and his proper course. Another day's journey, a dry camp, and a long morning walk during which his thirst grew to torment brought him to another small westward-flowing river. He thanked the spirits before quenching his thirst. He camped there and crossed the next day.
The river flowed into a larger one that came from the north. He followed it, still avoiding contact with other humans. More than once he made detours around strange camps. Longing for the company of his own kind began to fill him, but so did fear of those babbling Others with whom he knew he could not communicate. Every night he spoke to his totem, but received no sign except another dream of wolves running to the north along a river.
He had one difficult river crossing, losing one of his spears but nothing else. He soon replaced it. Trees grew in these river valleys, though not as tall and straight as those near his old home. The river forked, and he followed the northernmost branch, though he felt that he should stay with the larger one. However, he could see in occasional glimpses from higher ground that they ran parallel for some way. At night he heard wolves. Their song made him feel protected.
Loneliness took the place of cold and hunger as his greatest difficulty. Clan life was shared in close proximity; survival depended on cooperative effort. No one was ever alone for long. Hunters worked in groups, women gathered and did their daily chores together. A young woman might be isolated during her first Woman's Curse, but her mother or other female relatives visited her every day. Complete isolation was the essence of the Death Curse. To be cut off was to be dead. Durc lived, but in pain.
Memories of Ura came to haunt his thoughts and dreams. He recalled Broud cuffing her, relieving his needs with her. Broud! Though he could not excuse his extreme lapse of self-control, Durc somehow could not regret what he had done. He wondered if he had killed Broud. The spirits had sent no punishment--except this horrible empty feeling.
Who would lead now if Broud were dead? Stupid thought, he would never see them again. He missed Uba terribly, his mother of the heart, sister to "mamma". Be still, he told himself. Bear yourself like a man, not a whimpering child. You have lived more years than you have fingers on your hands, hair grows on your chin (though not much, ha-ha), you bear a man's totem mark....
Even a man's heart can break.
Rain fell steadily all day. Durc sat in his pitifully small shelter, one reindeer hide laid over a couple of spruce saplings stripped of branches and tied together at the tops. A few stones weighted down the corners of the hide. The branches helped cushion the floor of his tent and keep his butt dry as water trickled in on the sides. He could not even sit fully upright, but he was dry, and warm enough without a fire. To keep himself busy and prevent his mind from falling into dark thoughts, he plaited bits of bark fiber into a long strand. He wondered why it was so easy to do this, and so hard to weave a basket or a mat. Or was it?
Durc snatched some damp grass from the edge of his bedding. He could see it in his mind, the next step, the way the strands must go. In a few moments he had another tangled mess going nowhere.
He took a long breath and let it out slowly, a mog-ur's trick for regaining calm. With his eyes closed he tried to visualize it again. First the simple men's plait, then Ura's patient fingers moving the reeds as she made a wide mat to dry berries on. As if her spirit moved his fingers, he followed the twists and turns, adding more strands as the piece widened. The rain ended, but he didn't notice in his absorption. He stopped only when daylight failed him.
In his hands he held a mat; not even, not quite flat, not finished at the edges, but by Ursus' bones a mat! But it held his memories of Ura woven all through. He held it to his heart and keened, a long howl like that of his totem, mourning at last.