Himself that they were gone. At least one still lurked outside waiting for him to come up while the other was most likely now up and away into whatever clouds there might be soaking up moisture as only naril could. He would have given anything for some pf that moisture in a form other than that he now wallowed in. Clouds . . . He tried to think. What had the sky been like? His attention had been on more immediate stuff. Still there were always.
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Friends -- kidnapped by a wild Indian! Katsuk was wild of course . . . and insane. But there were limits to his insanity. The light on the stranded logs had become like sunshine on autumn grass. David watched Katsuk and the hypnotic flow of the river. He came to the decision this might be one of the happiest days of his life: Nothing was demanded of him; he had been cold now he was warm; he had been hungry and had eaten . . . Soon they would eat again. A long orange-brown deerfly landed on his left wrist. He slapped it reflexively wiped the dead insect from his hand on a clump of grass. Katsuk began singing: low-voiced. It was a chant oddly in tune with the river and the golden sunlight. His voice rose and fell full of clicks and coughing sounds. The thought in Katsuk's mind was that he desperately needed a sign. He needed an omen to guide him from this place. Swaying he.
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