The rest of the plant was useful in other ways: the leaves for weaving into baskets and mats, and the fuzz from the flowers after they went to seed made absorbent padding and excellent tinder. Though with her iron pyrite firestones Ayla didn't need to use them, she knew that the previous year's dry woody stems could be twirled between the palms to make fire, or they could be used as fuel.

"Jondalar, let's take the boat and go out to that island to collect some cattails," Ayla said. "There's a lot of other good things to eat growing out there in the water, too, like the seed pods of those water lilies, and the roots. The rootstalks of those reeds are not bad either. They're under the water, but since we are wet from swimming anyway, we might as well get some. We can put everything in the boat to bring it back."

"You've never been here before. How do you know these plants are good to eat?" Jondalar asked as they unfastened the boat from the travois.

Ayla smiled. "There were marshy places like this near the sea not far from our cave on the peninsula. Not as big as this, but it got warm there in the summer, too, like it is here, and Iza knew the plants and where to find them. Nezzie told me about some others."

"I think you must know every plant there is."

"Many of them, but not every plant, especially around here. I wish there was someone I could ask. The woman on that big island, who left while she was cleaning roots, would probably know. I'm sorry we couldn't visit with them," Ayla said.

Her disappointment was apparent, and Jondalar knew how lonely she was for other people. He missed people, too, and wished they could have visited.

They brought the bowl boat to the edge of the water and scrambled in. The current was slow but more noticeable from the buoyant round craft, and they had to start using the paddles quickly to keep from being carried downstream. Away from shore and the disturbance they had caused with their bathing, the water was so clear that schools of fish could be seen darting over and around submerged plants. Some were of fairly good size and Ayla thought she would catch a few later.

They stopped at a concentration of water lilies that was so dense, they could hardly see the surface of the lagoon. When Ayla slipped out of the boat and into the water, it was not easy for Jondalar by himself to keep the bowl boat in place. The boat had a tendency to spin when he attempted to back-paddle, but when Ayla's feet found the bottom while she was holding on to the side, the small floating bowl steadied. Using the stems of the flowers as a guide, she searched out the roots with her toes and loosened them from the soft soil, collecting them when they floated to the surface in a cloud of silt.

When Ayla hoisted herself back into the boat, she sent it spinning again, but with both of them using the paddles, they got it under control, then aimed for the island that was densely covered with reeds. When they drew near, Ayla noticed that it was the smaller variety of cattail that grew so thickly near the edge, along with bay willow brush, some nearly the size of trees.

They paddled into the heavy growth looking for a bank or sandy shore, forcing their way through the vegetation. But when they pulled the reeds aside, they could not find solid ground, not even a submerged sandbar, and after they pushed through, the passage they made closed rapidly behind them. Ayla felt a sense of foreboding, and Jondalar an eerie feeling of being captured by some unseen presence as the jungle of tall reeds surrounded them. Overhead they saw pelicans flying, but they had a dizzying impression that their straight flight was curving around. When they looked between the large grassy stalks, back the way they had come, the opposite shore seemed to be slowly revolving past them.

"Ayla, we're moving! Turning!" Jondalar said, suddenly realizing that it was not the land opposite but they who were revolving as the winding stream swung the boat and the entire island around.

"Let's get out of this place," she said, reaching for her paddle.

The islands in the delta were impermanent at best, always subject to the whims of the Great Mother of rivers. Even those that supported a rich growth of reeds could wash out from underneath, or the growth that started on a shallow island could become so dense that it would extend a tangle of vegetation out over water.

Whatever the initial cause, the roots of the floating reeds bound together and created a platform for decaying matter – organisms from the water as well as vegetation – which fertilized the rapid growth of more reeds. With time, they became floating islands supporting a variety of other plants. Reed mace, narrow-leaved smaller varieties of cattail, rushes, ferns, even the bay willow brush that eventually became trees, grew along the edges, but extremely tall reed grass, reaching twelve feet in height, was the primary vegetation. Some of the quagmires developed into large floating landscapes, treacherously deceptive with their tangled illusion of solidity and permanence.

Using the small paddles, but no small effort, they forced the little round boat back out of the floating island. But by the time they reached the periphery of the unstable quagmire again, they discovered they were not opposite the land. They were facing the open water of a lake, and across it was a sight so spectacular that they caught their breaths. Outlined against the background of dark green was a dense concentration of white pelicans; hundreds upon thousands of them packed together, standing, sitting, lying on tussocky nests of floating reeds. Above, more of the huge colony were flying at many levels, as though the nesting grounds were too full and they were coasting on their great wings waiting for a space.

Primarily white, with a slight wash of pink and wings edged by dark gray flight feathers, the large birds with their long beaks and sagging throat pouches were tending pods of fuzzy pelican chicks. The noisy young birds hissed and grunted, the adults responded with deep, hoarse cries, and in such great numbers that the combination was deafening.

Partially concealed by reeds, Ayla and Jondalar watched the huge breeding colony, fascinated. Hearing a deep grunting cry, they looked up as a low-flying pelican, coming in for a landing, sailed by overhead on wings that spanned ten feet. It reached a spot near the middle of the lake, then folded back its wings and dropped like a rock, hitting the water with a splash in a clumsy, ungainly landing. Not far away, another pelican with wings outstretched was rushing across the open expanse of water, trying to lift itself into flight. Ayla began to understand why they chose to nest on the lake. They needed a great deal of space to raise themselves into the air, though once up, their flight was artfully graceful.

Jondalar tapped her arm and pointed toward the shallow water near the island where several of the large birds were swimming abreast, moving forward slowly. Ayla watched for a while, then smiled at the man. Every few moments the whole row of pelicans simultaneously dipped their heads into the water, and then altogether, as though on command, lifted them out, dripping water from their great long bills. A few, but not all of them had caught some of the fish they were herding. The next time others might feed, but all continued to move and dip, perfectly synchronized with each other.

Single pairs of another variety of pelican with somewhat different markings, and earlier hatched, more mature young, nested at the edges of the large colony. Within and around the compact aggregation other species of water birds were also nesting and breeding: cormorants, grebes, and a variety of ducks, including white-eyed and red-crested pochards and ordinary mallards. The marsh teemed with a profusion of birds, all hunting and eating the countless fish.