Earth's Children [02] The Valley of Horses

by Jean M. Auel

  She wanted this man to relieve his needs with her, but she didn’t know his signal! If I don’t know his signal, he won’t know my ways either. And if I refused him without knowing, he might never try again. But did he really want me? I’m so big and ugly.

  Ayla finished tucking her last braid under itself, then went to stir up the fire to make some pain medicine for Jondalar. When she brought it to him, he was on his side resting. In bringing him something for pain so he could rest, she did not want to disturb him if he had already found some comfort. She sat down with crossed legs beside his sleeping place and waited for him to open his eyes. He didn’t move, but she knew he was not sleeping. His breathing lacked the regularity, and his forehead showed discomfort he would not have if he was deep in sleep.

  Jondalar had heard her coming and shut his eyes to feign sleep. He waited, muscles tensed, fighting an urge to open his eyes to see if she was there. Why was she so quiet? Why didn’t she leave? The arm he was lying on started to tingle from lack of circulation. If he didn’t move it soon, it would go numb. His leg throbbed. He wanted to shift it to ease the strain of holding it in one position so long. His face itched with the stubble of new beard; his back burned. Maybe she wasn’t even there. Maybe she had gone and he just hadn’t heard her move. Was she just sitting there staring at him?

  She had been watching him intently. She had looked directly at this man more than she had ever looked at any man. It wasn’t proper for women of the Clan to look at men, but she had indulged in many improprieties. Had she forgotten all the manners Iza had taught her, as well as proper care of a patient? She stared down at her hands holding the cup of datura in her lap. That was the correct way for a woman to approach a man, sitting on the ground with head bowed, waiting for him to acknowledge her with a tap on the shoulder. Perhaps it was time to remember her training, she thought.

  Jondalar opened his eyes a crack, trying to see if she was there without letting her know he was awake. He saw a foot and quickly closed his eyes again. She was there. Why was she sitting there? What could she be waiting for? Why didn’t she go and leave him alone with his misery and humiliation. He peeked again through lowered eyelids. Her foot hadn’t moved. She was sitting cross-legged. She had a cup of liquid. Oh, Doni! He was thirsty! Was it for him? Had she been waiting there for him to wake up to give him some medicine? She could have shaken him; she didn’t have to wait.

  He opened his eyes. Ayla was sitting with her head bowed, looking down. She was dressed in one of those shapeless wraps, and her hair was tied up in multiple rows of braids. She had a fresh-scrubbed look. The smudge on her cheek was gone; her wrap was a clean, unworn skin. She had such a guileless quality, sitting with her head bowed. There was no artifice, no coy mannerisms or suggestive sidelong glances.

  Her tight braids contributed to the impression, as did the wrap with its folds and bulges which camouflaged her so well. That was the trick, the artful concealing of her ripe woman’s body and rich lustrous hair. She couldn’t hide her face, but her habit of looking down or aside tended to divert attention. Why did she keep herself hidden? It must be the test she was undergoing. Most women he knew would have flaunted that magnificent body, worn such golden glory to show off to its best advantage, given anything for a face so beautiful.

  He watched her without moving, his discomfort forgotten. Why was she so still? Maybe she didn’t want to look at him, he thought, bringing back his embarrassment and his pain as well. He couldn’t stand it, he had to move.

  Ayla looked up when he rolled off his arm. He couldn’t tap her shoulder to acknowledge her presence no matter how well mannered she wanted to be. He didn’t know the signal. Jondalar was amazed to see contrite shame in her face, and the honest open appeal in her eyes. There was no condemnation, no rejection, no pity. Rather she seemed embarrassed. What did she have to be embarrassed about?

  She gave him the cup. He took a sip, made a face at the bitter medicine, then drank it down and reached for the waterbag to wash the taste out of his mouth. Then he lay back down, not quite able to get comfortable. She motioned for him to sit up, then straightened, smoothed, and rearranged the furs and skins. He did not lie back down immediately.

  “Ayla, there’s so much about you I don’t know and wish I did. I don’t know where you learned your healing arts—I don’t even know how I got here. I only know I’m grateful to you. You saved my life, and, more important, you saved my leg, I’d never get back home without my leg even if I had lived.

  “I’m sorry I made such a fool of myself, but you are so beautiful, Ayla. I didn’t know—you hide it so well. I don’t know why you want to, but you must have your reasons. You are learning fast. Maybe when you can talk more you will tell me, if you are free to. If not, I’ll accept that. I know you don’t understand everything I’m saying, but I want to say it, I won’t bother you again, Ayla. I promise.”

  22

  “Say me right … ‘Don-da-lah.’ ”

  “You say my name just fine.”

  “No. Ayla say wrong.” She shook her head vehemently. “Say me right.”

  “Jondalar. Jon-da-lar.”

  “Zzzon…”

  “Juh,” he showed her, articulating carefully, “Jondalar.”

  “Zh … dzh …” She struggled with the unfamiliar sound.

  “Dzhon- da- larrr,” she finally got out, rolling the r.

  “That’s good! That’s very good,” he said.

  Ayla smiled with her success; then her smile changed to a sly grin. “Dzhon-da-larr ob da Zel-ann-do-nee.” He had said the name of his people more often than he said his own name, and she had been practicing in private.

  “That’s right!” Jondalar was genuinely surprised. She hadn’t said it quite right, but only a Zelandonii would know the difference. His pleased approval made all her effort worth it, and Ayla’s smile of success was beautiful.

  “What means ‘Zelandonee’?”

  “It means my people. Children of the Mother who live in the southwest. Doni means the Great Earth Mother. Earth’s Children, I guess that’s the easiest way to say it. But all people call themselves Earth’s Children, in their own language. It just means the people.”

  They were facing each other, leaning against opposite boles of a birch clump whose stalks had grown into several sturdy trunks of a tree with a common base. Though he used a staff and still had a pronounced limp, Jondalar was grateful to be standing in the green meadow of the valley. From his first tentative steps, he had pushed himself each day. His initial trip down the steep path had been an ordeal—and a triumph. Climbing back up turned out to be easier than going down.

  He still didn’t know how she had gotten him up to the cave in the beginning, without help. But if others had helped her, where were they? It was a question he had long wanted to ask, but first she would not have understood him, and then it seemed inappropriate to blurt it out just to satisfy his curiosity. He had been waiting for the right moment, and this seemed to be it,

  “Who are your people, Ayla? Where are they?”

  The smile left her face; he was almost sorry he asked. After a long silence, he began to think she had not understood him.

  “No people. Ayla of no people,” she answered finally, pushing herself away from the tree and moving out of its shade. Jondalar grabbed his staff and hobbled after her.

  “But you had to have some people. You were born to a mother. Who took care of you? Who taught you healing? Where are your people now, Ayla? Why are you alone?”

  Ayla walked ahead slowly, staring at the ground. She was not trying to avoid replying—she had to answer him. No woman of the Clan could refuse to answer a direct question asked by a man. In fact, all members of the Clan, male and female, responded to direct questions. It was simply that women didn’t ask men searching personal questions, and men seldom posed them to each other. Women were the ones usually asked. Jondalar’s questions brought up many memories, but she did not know the answer to some and did not know how to answer
others.

  “If you don’t want to tell me …”

  “No.” She looked at him and shook her head. “Ayla say.” Her eyes were troubled. “Not know words.”

  Jondalar wondered again if he should have brought it up, but he was curious and she seemed willing. They stopped again at the large jagged chunk of rock that had knocked out part of the wall before coming to rest in the field. Jondalar sat on an edge where the stone had been cleaved to form a seat at a convenient height with a sloping back rest.

  “What do your people call themselves?” he asked.

  Ayla thought for a moment. “The people. Man … woman … baby.” She shook her head again, not knowing how to explain. “The Clan.” She made the gesture for the concept at the same time.

  “Like family? A family is a man, woman, and her children, living at the same hearth.… Usually.”

  She nodded. “Family … more.”

  “A small group? Several families living together is a Cave,” he said, “even if they don’t live in one.”

  “Yes,” she said, “clan small. And more. Clan mean all people.”

  He hadn’t quite heard her say the word the first time, and he did not perceive the hand signal she used. The word was heavy, guttural, and there was that tendency that he could only explain as swallowing the insides of the words. He would not have thought it was a word. She had not spoken any words other than the ones she learned from him, and he was interested.

  “Glun?” he said, trying to copy her.

  It wasn’t quite right, but it was close. “Ayla no say Jondalar words right, Jondalar no say Ayla words right. Jondalar say fine.”

  “I didn’t know you knew any words, Ayla. I’ve never heard you speak in your language.”

  “Not know many words. Clan not speak words.”

  Jondalar didn’t understand. “What do they speak if not words?”

  “They speak … hands,” she said, knowing that was not completely accurate.

  She noticed she had been making the gestures unintentionally in an effort to express herself. When she saw Jondalar’s puzzled look, she took his hands and moved them with the proper motions while she repeated herself.

  “Clan not speak many words. Clan speak … hands.”

  His forehead of puzzlement slowly smoothed out as comprehension took its place. “Are you telling me your people talk with their hands?! Show me. Say something in your language.”

  Ayla thought for a moment, then began. “I want to say so much to you, but I must learn to say it in your language. Your way is the only way left to me now. How can I tell you who my people are? I’m not a woman of the Clan anymore. How can I explain that I am dead? I have no people. To the Clan, I walk the next world, like the man you traveled with. Your sibling, I think, your brother.

  “I would like to tell you I made the signs over his grave to help him find his way, so the grief in your heart will be eased. I would like to tell you I grieved for him, too, though I did not know him.

  “I don’t know the people I was born to. I must have had a mother, and a family, who looked like me … and you. But I only know them as the Others. Iza is the only mother I remember. She taught me the healing magic and she made me a medicine woman, but she is dead now. And so is Creb.

  “Jondalar, I ache to tell you about Iza, and Creb, and Durc …” She had to stop and take a deep breath. “My son is gone from me too, but he lives. That much I have. And now the Cave Lion has brought you. I was afraid men of the Others would be like Broud, but you are more like Creb, gentle and patient. I want to think you will be my mate. When you first came, I thought that was why you were brought here. I think I wanted to believe that because I was so lonely for company, and you are the first man of the Others I have seen … that I can remember. It would not have mattered who you were, then. I wanted you for a mate, just to have a mate.

  “Now, it is not the same. Every day you are here, my feeling for you grows stronger. I know that Others are not too far, and there must be other men who could be a mate. But I don’t want any other, and I am afraid you will not want to stay here with me once you are well. I’m afraid I will lose you, too. I wish I could tell you, I am so … so … grateful you are here, sometimes I cannot bear it.” She stopped, not able to go on, but feeling in some way that she wasn’t finished.

  Her thoughts had not been entirely incomprehensible to the man watching her. Her movements—not just of her hands, but her features, her eyes, her whole body—were so expressive that he was deeply moved. She reminded him of a silent dancer, except for the rough sounds that, strangely, fit together with the graceful movements. He perceived only with his emotions, and he could not quite believe that what he felt was what she had communicated—but when she stopped, he knew she had communicated. He knew, too, that her language of motions and gestures was not, as he had supposed, a simple extension of the gestures he sometimes used for added emphasis to his words. Rather, it seemed, the sounds she made were used for emphasis to her motions.

  When she stopped, she stood a few moments, pensively, then gracefully dropped to the ground at his feet and bowed her head. He waited, and when she didn’t move, he began to feel uncomfortable. She seemed to be waiting for him, and it made him feel she was paying homage. Such deference to the Great Earth Mother was fine, but She was known to be jealous and did not take kindly to one of Her children receiving veneration that was Her due.

  Finally, he reached down and touched her arm. “Get up, Ayla. What are you doing?”

  A touch on the arm was not exactly a tap on the shoulder, but it was as close as she thought he would come to giving her the Clan signal to speak. She looked up at the seated man.

  “Clan woman sit, want talk. Ayla want talk Jondalar.”

  “You don’t have to sit on the ground to talk to me.” He reached forward and tried to lift her up. “If you want to talk, just talk.”

  She insisted on remaining where she was. “Is Clan way.” Her eyes pleaded for him to understand. “Ayla want say …” Tears of frustration began to well. She started over. “Ayla no talk good. Ayla want to say, Jondalar give Ayla talk, want say …”

  “Are you trying to say thank you?”

  “What mean, thank you?”

  He paused. “You saved my life, Ayla. You have taken care of me, treated my wounds, given me food. For that I would say thank you. I would say more than thank you.”

  Ayla frowned. “Not same. Man hurt, Ayla take care. Ayla take care all man. Jondalar give Ayla talk. Is more. Is more thank you.” She looked at him earnestly, willing him to understand.

  “You may not ‘talk good,’ but you communicate very well. Get up, Ayla, or I’ll have to get down beside you. I understand that you are a healer, and it is your calling to take care of anyone who needs help. You may not think it is anything special that you saved my life, but that doesn’t make me less grateful. To me, it is a small matter to teach you my language, to teach you to talk, but I’m beginning to understand that to you it is very important, and you are grateful. It is always difficult to express gratitude, in any language. My way is to say thank you. I think your way is more beautiful. Please get up now.”

  She sensed that he understood. Her smile conveyed more gratitude than she knew. It had been a difficult, but important, concept for her to communicate, and she stood up feeling elated that she had succeeded. She sought to express her exuberance in action, and when she saw Whinney and her colt, she whistled, loud and shrill. The mare perked her ears and galloped to her, and when she neared, Ayla made a running leap and landed lightly on the horse’s back.

  They made a large circuit of the meadow, with the colt following closely. Ayla had been staying so close to Jondalar that she hadn’t ridden much since she found him, and to ride now gave her an exhilarating sense of freedom. When they returned to the rock, Jondalar was standing waiting for them. His mouth was no longer agape, though it had been when she started out. For a moment, a chill had crawled down his back, and he wondered if
the woman was supernatural, perhaps even a donii. He vaguely remembered a dream of a mother spirit in the form of a young woman turning aside a lion.

  Then he recalled Ayla’s all too human frustration over her inability to communicate. Certainly no spirit form of the Great Earth Mother would have such problems. Still, she had an uncommonly gifted way with animals. Birds came at her call and ate out of her hand, and a nursing mare ran to her whistle and allowed the woman to ride on her back. And what about these people who spoke not with words, but with motions? Ayla had given him much to think about that day, he mused, as he scratched the colt. The more he thought about her, the deeper her mystery.

  He could understand why she didn’t speak, if her people did not speak. But who were these people? Where were they now? She said she had no people, and she did live in the valley alone, but who had taught her healing, or the magic way she had with animals? Where had she gotten the firestone? She was young to be such a gifted zelandoni. Usually it took many years to reach her abilities, often at special retreats…

  Could that be who her people were? He knew of special groups of Those Who Served the Mother that devoted themselves to gaining deep insights into profound mysteries. Such groups were greatly esteemed; Zelandoni had spent several years with one. The Shamud had spoken of tests that were self-imposed to gain insights and skills. Could Ayla have lived with such a group that did not speak except with motions? And was she now living alone to perfect her abilities?

  And you were thinking of having Pleasures with her, Jondalar. No wonder she reacted the way she did. But what a shame. To give up Pleasures, as beautiful as she is. You will certainly respect her wishes, Jondalar, beautiful or not.

  The brown colt was butting and rubbing against the man, looking for more attentive scratching from the sensitive hands that always managed to find just the right places in the itchy process of shedding newborn fuzz. Jondalar was delighted when the foal sought him out. Horses had never before been more than sustenance to him, and it had never occurred to him that they might be warm responsive animals that would enjoy his petting.