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 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.