Earth's Children [02] The Valley of Horses

by Jean M. Auel

  Ayla smiled, pleased at the attachment developing between the man and Whinney’s foal. She recalled an idea she’d had, and spontaneously mentioned it.

  “Jondalar give name colt?”

  “Name the colt? You want me to name the colt?” He was unsure, and pleased. “I don’t know, Ayla. I’ve never thought about naming anything, much less a horse. How do you name a horse?”

  Ayla understood his dismay. It had not been an idea she had accepted immediately. Names were fraught with significance; they gave recognition. Recognizing Whinney as a unique individual apart from the concept of horse had certain consequences. She was no longer just an animal of the herds who roamed the steppes. She associated with humans, drew her security from and gave her trust to a human. She was unique among her kind. She had a name.

  But it imposed obligations on the woman. The comfort and well-being of the animal required considerable effort and concern. The horse could never be very far from her thoughts; their lives had become inextricably entwined.

  Ayla had come to recognize the relationship, especially after Whinney’s return. Though it wasn’t planned or calculated, there was an element of that recognition in her desire to have Jondalar name the colt. She wanted him to stay with her. If he became attached to the young horse, it could be additional reason to stay where the colt would need to stay—at least for some time—in the valley with Whinney, and with her.

  There was no need to rush the man, though. He wouldn’t be going anywhere for a while, not until his leg healed.

  Ayla woke up with a start. The cave was dark. She lay on her back, peering into the dense unfocusable black, and tried to go back to sleep. Finally, she slipped quietly out of her bed—she had dug a shallow trench in the earth floor of the cave beside the bed now used by Jondalar—and felt her way to the cave mouth. She heard Whinney blow an acknowledgment of her presence as she passed by on her way out.

  I let the fire go out again, she thought, walking along the wall to the edge. Jondalar isn’t as familiar with the cave as I am. If he needs to get up in the middle of the night, he should have more light.

  When she was through, she stayed outside for a while. A quarter moon, setting in the west, was close to the lip of the wall above, across on the upstream side of the ledge, and would soon disappear behind it. It was closer to morning than middle of the night. Below was darkness except for the silvery shimmer of starshine reflected in the whispering stream.

  The night sky made a barely perceptible shift from black to deep blue, but it was noticed at some unconscious level. Without knowing why, Ayla decided not to return to bed. She watched the moon deepen in color before the black edge of the opposite wall swallowed it. She felt an ominous shiver when the last glimmer of light was snuffed out.

  Gradually the sky lightened, and the stars faded into the luminous blue. At the far end of the valley, the horizon was purple. She watched the sharply defined arc of a blood-red sun swell up from the edge of the earth and cast a lurid shaft of light into the valley.

  “Must be a prairie fire to the east,” Jondalar said.

  Ayla spun around. The man was bathed in the livid glow of the fiery orb, which turned his eyes to a shade of lavender never seen by firelight. “Yes, big fire, much smoke. I not know you up.”

  “I’ve been awake for a while, hoping you’d come back. When you didn’t, I thought I might as well get up. The fire is out.”

  “I know. I careless. Not make right to burn for night.”

  “Bank, you didn’t bank it so it would not go out.”

  “Bank,” she repeated. “I go start.”

  He followed her back into the cave, ducking his head as he went through the entrance. It was apprehension more than necessity. The cave opening was high enough for him, but not by much. Ayla got out the iron pyrite and flint and gathered tinder and kindling.

  “Didn’t you say you found that firestone on the beach? Are there more?”

  “Yes. Not many. Water come, take.”

  “A flood? The stream flooded and washed out some of the firestones? Maybe we should go and collect as many as we can find.”

  Ayla nodded absently. She had other plans for the day, but she wanted Jondalar’s help and didn’t know how to bring it up. She was running low on meat, and she didn’t know if he would object to her hunting. She had occasionally gone out with her sling, and he had not questioned where the jerboas, hares, and giant hamsters came from. But even the men of the Clan had allowed her to hunt small game with her sling. She needed to hunt larger game, though, and that meant going out with Whinney and digging a pit trap.

  She wasn’t looking forward to it. She would have preferred hunting with Baby, but he was gone. The absence of her hunting partner was the least of her worries, however. Jondalar concerned her more. She knew that, even if he objected, he couldn’t stop her. It wasn’t as though she were part of his clan—this was her cave, and he wasn’t fully recovered. But he seemed to enjoy the valley, Whinney, and the colt; he even seemed to like her. She didn’t want that to change. It had been her experience that men did not like women to hunt, but she had no choice.

  And she wanted more than his acquiescence—she wanted his support, his help. She did not want to take the foal hunting. She was afraid he might get caught in the stampede and be hurt. He’d stay behind when she left with Whinney, if Jondalar would keep him company, she was sure. She wouldn’t be gone long. She could scout a herd, dig a trap, and return, then hunt the next day. But how could she ask the man to keep a foal company while she hunted? Even if he himself wasn’t able to hunt yet?

  When she made a broth for the morning meal, a good look at her dwindling supply of dried meat convinced her something had to be done soon. She decided the way to begin was to expose her hunting proclivities in a small way first, by showing him her skill with her favorite weapon. His reaction to her sling hunting would give her some idea if it would be worthwhile to ask his help.

  They had formed the habit of walking together in the morning alongside the brush lining the stream. It was good exercise for him, and she enjoyed it. On that morning, she tucked her sling in her waist thong when they left. All she would need was the cooperation of some creature willing to come within range.

  Her hopes were more than fulfilled when a walk into the field away from the stream flushed a pair of willow grouse. She reached for sling and stones when she saw one. As she knocked the first out of the sky, the second took to wing, but her second stone brought it down. Before she retrieved them, she glanced at Jondalar. She saw astonishment, but more important, she saw a smile.

  “That was amazing, woman! Is that how you’ve been catching those animals? I thought you had snares set. What is that weapon?”

  She gave him the leather strap with a bulge in the middle, then went to get the birds.

  “I think this is called a sling,” he said when she returned. “Willomar told me about a weapon like this. I couldn’t quite imagine what he was talking about, but this must be it. You’re good with it, Ayla. That had to take a lot of practice, even with some natural ability.”

  “You like I hunt?”

  “If you didn’t hunt, who would?”

  “Clan man not like woman hunt.”

  Jondalar studied her. She was anxious, worried. Perhaps the men didn’t like women who hunted, but it hadn’t stopped her from learning. Why had she chosen this day to demonstrate her skill? Why did he feel she was looking for approval from him?

  “Most Zelandonii women hunt, at least when they’re young. My mother was noted for her tracking skill. I don’t see any reason why women shouldn’t, if they want. I like women who hunt, Ayla.”

  He could see her tension evaporate; he had obviously said what she wanted to hear, and it was the truth. He wondered, though, why it was so important to her.

  “I need go hunt,” she said. “Need help.”

  “I’d like to, but I don’t think I’m up to it yet.”

  “Not help hunt. I take Whinney,
you keep colt?”

  “So that’s it,” he said. “You want me to mind the colt while you go hunting with the mare?” He chuckled. “That’s a change. Usually, after she has a child or two, a woman stays to mind them. It’s a man’s responsibility to hunt for them. Yes, I’ll stay with the colt. Someone has to hunt, and I don’t want the little fellow to get hurt.”

  Her smile was one of relief. He didn’t mind, he really didn’t seem to mind.

  “You might investigate that fire to the east before you plan your hunt, though. One that big can do your hunting for you.”

  “Fire hunt?” she said.

  “Whole herds have been known to die from the smoke alone. Sometimes you’ll find your meat cooked! Storytellers have a funny fable about a man finding cooked meat after a prairie fire, and the problems he had trying to convince the rest of his Cave to try meat he burned on purpose. It’s an old story.”

  A smile of comprehension crossed her face. A fast-raging fire could overcome a whole herd. I might not have to dig a pit after all.

  When Ayla got out the basket-harness-travois arrangement, Jondalar was intrigued, not able to understand the purpose of the complicated equipment.

  “Whinney take meat to cave,” she explained, showing him the travois while adjusting the straps on the mare. “Whinney take you to cave,” she added.

  “So that’s how I got here! I’ve been wondering for a long time. I didn’t think you carried me here alone. I thought perhaps some other people found me and left me here with you.”

  “No … other people. I find … you … other man.”

  Jondalar’s expression became strained and bleak. The reference to Thonolan caught him by surprise, and the pain of his loss gripped him. “Did you have to leave him there? Couldn’t you have brought him, too?” he flung at her.

  “Man dead, Jondalar. You hurt. Much hurt,” she said, feeling frustration well up inside her. She wanted to tell him she had buried the man, that she sorrowed for him, but she could not communicate. She could exchange information, but she could not explore ideas. She wanted to speak to him of thoughts she wasn’t even sure could be expressed in words, but she felt stifled. He had spent his grief on her the first day, and now she couldn’t even share his sorrow.

  She longed for his ease with words, his ability to marshal them spontaneously into the proper order, his freedom of expression. But there was a vague barrier she couldn’t cross, a lack that she often felt on the verge of breaching, which eluded her. Intuition told her she ought to know—that the knowledge was locked inside her, if only she could find the key.

  “I’m sorry, Ayla. I shouldn’t have shouted at you like that, but Thonolan was my brother.…” The word was almost a cry.

  “Brother. You and other man … have same mother?”

  “Yes, we had the same mother.”

  She nodded and turned back to the horse, wishing she could tell him she understood the closeness of siblings and the special tie that could exist between two men born of the same mother. Creb and Brun had been brothers.

  She finished loading the pack baskets, then picked up her spears to carry them outside to load after they were through the low cave opening. As he watched her making final preparations, he began to see that the horse was more than a strange companion to the woman. The animal gave her a decided advantage. He hadn’t realized how useful a horse could be. But he was puzzled by another set of contradictions she posed: she used a horse to help her hunt and to carry back the meat—an advancement he’d never heard of before—yet she used a spear more primitive than any he’d seen.

  He had hunted with many people, and each group had its own variation of hunting spear, but none was as radically different as hers. Yet there was something familiar about it. Its point was sharp and fire-hardened, and the shaft was straight and smooth, but it was so clumsy. There was no question that it was not meant to be thrown; it was larger than the one he used to hunt rhino. How did she hunt with it? How could she get close enough to wield it? When she came back, he’d have to ask her. It would take too much time now. She was learning the language, but it was still difficult.

  He led the colt into the cave before Ayla and Whinney left. He scratched, stroked, and talked to the young horse until he was sure Ayla and his dam were far away. It felt odd to be in the cave alone, knowing the woman would be gone most of the day. He used the staff to pull himself up, and then, succumbing to his curiosity, he found a lamp and lit it. Leaving the staff behind—he didn’t need it inside the cave—he held the hollowed-out stone lamp in one palm and started following the walls of the cave to see how big it was and where it led. There were no surprises in the size—it was about as big as he had thought, and, except for the small niche, there were no side passages. But the niche held a surprise: every indication of recent cave lion occupation, including a pug-mark, a big one!

  After he had looked over the rest of the cave, he was convinced Ayla had been there for years. He had to be wrong about the cave lion spoor, but when he went back and examined the niche even more carefully, he was certain a cave lion had dwelled in that corner some time within the past year.

  Another mystery! Would he ever find an answer to all the perplexing questions?

  He picked up one of Ayla’s baskets—unused as far as he could tell—and decided to look for firestones on the beach. He might as well try to be useful. While the colt bounded ahead, Jondalar worked his way down the steep path with the help of the staff, then leaned it against the wall near the bone pile. He’d be grateful when he wouldn’t have to use it at all.

  He stopped to scratch and fondle the foal who was nosing his hand, and then laughed when the young horse rolled with exuberant delight in the wallow he and Whinney both used. Squealing with intense pleasure, the colt, with his legs in the air, wriggled in the loose giving earth. He got up and shook himself, throwing dirt in all directions, then found a favorite spot in the shade of a willow and settled down to rest.

  Jondalar walked slowly on the rocky beach, bent over to scan each rock. “I found one!” he shouted in excitement, which startled the colt. He felt a bit foolish. “Here’s another!” he said again, then smiled sheepishly. But as he picked up the brassy gray stone, he was stopped by the sight of another stone, much larger. “There’s flint on this beach!”

  She gets the flint to make her tools right here! If you could find a hammerstone, and make a punch, and … You could make some tools, Jondalar! Good sharp blades, and burins … He straightened up and appraised the pile of bones and rubble which the stream had thrown against the wall. It looks like there is good bone around here, too, and antler. You could even make her a decent spear.

  She might not want a “decent spear,” Jondalar. She might have a reason for using the one she does. But that doesn’t mean you can’t make a spear for yourself. It would be better than sitting around all day. You might even do some carving. You used to have a fair hand for carving, before you gave it up.

  He rummaged through the heap of bones and driftwood piled against the wall, then went around to her midden on the other side of it and searched through the overgrown brush to find disarticulated bones, skulls, and antler among the refuse. He found several handfuls of firestones, while searching for a good hammerstone. When he broke off the cortex of the first nodule of flint, he was smiling. He hadn’t realized how much he missed practicing his craft.

  He thought about everything he could do, now that he had some flint. He wanted a good knife, and an axe, with handles. He wanted to make spears, and now he could fix his clothes with some good awls. And Ayla might like his kind of tools; at least he could show her.

  The day had not dragged the way he had feared, and twilight was settling before he carefully gathered his new flint-knapping tools, and the new flint tools he had made with them, into the hide he had borrowed from Ayla. When he returned to the cave, the colt was nudging and looking for attention, and he suspected the young animal was hungry. Ayla had left behind some cooked grains in a
thin gruel—which the colt had refused at first, then took later, but that had been at midday. Where was she?

  By the time it was dark, he was definitely worried. The colt needed Whinney, and Ayla should be back. He stood out on the far side of the ledge watching for her, then decided to build a fire, thinking she might see it in case she had lost her way. She wouldn’t lose her way, he said to himself, but he made the fire anyway.

  It was late when she finally returned. He heard Whinney and started down the path to meet them, but the colt was ahead of him. Ayla dismounted on the beach, dragged a carcass off the travois, adjusted the poles to accommodate the narrow trail, and led the mare up as Jondalar reached the bottom and stepped aside. She came back with a stick from the fire for a torch. Jondalar took it while Ayla loaded a second carcass back on the travois. He hobbled over to help, but she had moved it already. Watching her handle the dead weight of the deer gave him an appreciation of her strength, and an insight into how she had acquired it. The horse and travois were useful, perhaps even indispensable, but she was still only one person.

  The colt was eagerly searching for his dam’s teat, but Ayla pushed him aside until they reached the cave.

  “You right, Jondalar,” she said as he reached the ledge. “Big, big fire. I not see before so big fire. Far away. Many, many animals.”

  Something in her voice made him look closer. She was exhausted, and the carnage she had seen had left its imprint in the strained hollowness of her eyes. Her hands were black, her face and wrap were smudged with soot and blood. She unfastened the harness and travois, then put an arm around Whinney’s neck and leaned her forehead against the mare in weariness. The horse was standing with her head down and front legs spraddled while her colt eased the fullness of her udders. She looked as tired.

  “That fire must have been far away. It’s late. Have you been riding all day?” Jondalar asked.