Jemunu-jah did not look down at the Deyzara. He was contemplating the river, using his exceptional vision to penetrate the rain and study the far side. “Yes, I have. We going to cross this river, on raft.”
Masurathoo sagged visibly. “You can’t be serious, Jemunu-jah. Even with our tools, it will take at least two days to construct something suitable. And then where will we be?”
“On other side of river,” the Sakuntala replied sensibly.
“And what does that gain us? The opportunity to continue this interminable march through hostile varzea?”
“Not interminable, I think.” Raising a long, slender arm, he pointed with his two middle fingers. “Look.”
Masurathoo could not squint: his eyes were either open, shut, or shielded by double lids. But he could hear the human’s shout at the same time he detected movement on the far line of submerged trees.
Whatever it was, it was coming toward them across the river. It took a momentary lessening of the rain for him to resolve the slowly advancing shapes.
There were two rafts. Each supported a pair of minimally clad Sakuntala. A large, dead ti-tokuliu lay in the middle of the nearest. Using long paddles, the Sakuntala were propelling the two unlovely but sturdy craft across the river, their strong arms battling the current. Off to his right, Hasa was gesticulating in the rain, voicing an alternating stream of excited whoops and joyful obscenities.
“Hunting party from a village.” Jemunu-jah’s eyes glistened as he tracked the rafts’ approach. “Hauea! Maybe not the village we seek, but right now I will glad to accept the hospitality of the lowliest of clans.”