Earth's Children [02] The Valley of Horses
Page 57
“I … I’m sorry, Ayla. I shouldn’t have run off like that.”
“Sometimes I need to run. Yesterday, I let Whinney run for me. She goes farther.”
“I’m sorry about that, too.”
She nodded. Courtesy again, she thought, custom. What does it really mean? In silence, she leaned against Whinney and the horse dropped her head over the woman’s shoulder. Jondalar had seen them in a similar pose before, when Ayla was upset. They seemed to be drawing support from each other. He was finding satisfaction in stroking the colt, himself.
But the young horse was too impatient to put up with such inaction for long, as much as he loved attention. He tossed his head, raised his tail, and bounded off. Then with a bucking jump, he turned around, came back, and bumped the man, as though asking him to come and play. Ayla and Jondalar both laughed, breaking the tension.
“You were going to name him,” she said. It was just a statement, carrying no urging tones. If he didn’t name the colt, she most probably would.
“I don’t know what to name him. I’ve never had to think of a name before.”
“I never did either, until Whinney.”
“What about your … son? Didn’t you name him?”
“Creb named him. Durc was the name of a young man in a legend. It was my favorite of all the legends and stories, and Creb knew it. I think he chose the name to please me.”
“I didn’t know your Clan had legends. How do you tell a story without talking?”
“The same way you’d tell one with words, except, in some ways, it’s easier to show something than to tell it.”
“I suppose that’s true,” he said, wondering what kind of stories they told, or rather, showed. He wouldn’t have thought flatheads were capable of imagining stories.
They were both watching the colt, tail out, head reaching forward, enjoying a good run. What a stallion he’s going to be, Jondalar thought. What a racer.
“Racer!” he said. “What do you think of naming him Racer?” He had used the word so often in reference to the colt that it fit him.
“I like it. It’s a good name. But if it is to be his, he should be named properly.”
“How do you name a horse properly?”
“I’m not sure if it is proper for a horse, but I named Whinney the way children of the Clan are named. I’ll show you.”
With the horses following them, she led him to a draw on the steppes that had once been a riverbed, but had been dry for so long that it was partially filled in. One side had eroded to show the horizontal layers of strata. To Jondalar’s surprise, she loosened a layer of red ochre with a stick and gathered up the deep brownish red earth in both hands. Back at the stream, she mixed the red earth with water to a muddy paste.
“Creb mixed the red color with cave bear grease, but I don’t have any, and I think plain mud is better for a horse. It dries and brushes off. It’s the naming that counts. You’ll have to hold his head.”
Jondalar beckoned. The colt was full of lively antics but understood the gesture. He stood still while the man put an arm around his neck and scratched. Ayla made some movements in the Old Language requesting the attention of the spirits. She did not want to make it too serious. She still wasn’t sure if spirits were offended by the naming of a horse, though naming Whinney had produced no ill effects. Then she picked up a handful of red mud.
“The name of this male horse is Racer,” she said, making the gestures at the same time. Then she smeared the wet red earth down his face, from the tuft of white hair on his forehead to the end of his rather long nose.
It was done quickly, before the colt could wriggle out of Jondalar’s grasp. He pranced away, tossing his head, trying to rid himself of the unaccustomed wetness, then butted up against Jondalar, leaving a red streak on his bare chest.
“I think he just named me,” the man said, smiling. Then, true to his name, Racer sped down the field. Jondalar brushed at the reddish smear on his chest. “Why did you use this? The red earth?”
“It is special … holy … for spirits,” she said.
“Sacred? We call it sacred. The blood of the Mother.”
“The blood, yes. Creb … the Mog-ur rubbed a salve of red earth and cave bear grease on Iza’s body after her spirit left. He called it the blood of birth, so Iza could be born into the next world.” The memory still brought her pain.
Jondalar’s eyes widened. “Flatheads … I mean, your Clan uses the sacred earth to send a spirit to the next world? Are you sure?”
“No one is buried properly without it.”
“Ayla, we use the red earth. It is the blood of the Mother. It is put on the body and the grave so she will take the spirit back into Her womb to be born again.” A look of pain came into his eyes. “Thonolan had no red earth.”
“I had none for him, Jondalar, and I couldn’t take the time to get it. I had to get you back here, or I would have needed to make a second grave. I did ask my totem, and the spirit of Ursus, the Great Cave Bear, to help him find his way.”
“You buried him?! His body was not left to scavengers?”
“I put his body next to the wall and loosened a rock so the gravel and stones covered him. But I had no red earth.”
Jondalar found the idea of flathead burials the hardest to comprehend. Animals did not bury their dead. Only humans thought about where they came from, and where they were going after this life. Could her Clan spirits guide Thonolan on his way?
“It is more than my brother would have had if you hadn’t been there, Ayla. And I have so much more—I have my life.”
26
“Ayla, I can’t remember when I’ve tasted anything this good. Where did you learn to cook like this?” Jondalar said, reaching for another piece of the rich, delicately seasoned ptarmigan.
“Iza taught me. Where else would I have learned? This was Creb’s favorite dish.” Ayla didn’t know why, but his question irritated her a little. Why shouldn’t she know how to cook? “A medicine woman knows herbs, Jondalar, those that flavor as well as those that heal.”
He detected the tone of annoyance in her voice and wondered what had brought it on. He had only meant to compliment her. The meal was good. Excellent, in fact. When he thought about it, everything she prepared was delicious. Many of the foods were unusual to his taste, but new experiences were one reason for traveling, and though unfamiliar, the quality was evident.
And she did it all. Like the hot tea in the morning, she makes it so easy to forget how much she does. She hunted, foraged, cooked this meal. She provided everything. All you’ve done is eat it, Jondalar. You haven’t contributed a thing. You’ve taken it all and given nothing back … less than nothing.
And now you give her compliments, words. Can you blame her for being annoyed? She’ll be glad to see you go, you just make more work for her.
You could do some hunting, repay some of the meat you’ve eaten, at least. That seems so little, after everything she’s done for you. Can’t you think of something more … lasting? She hunts well enough herself. How worthwhile is a little hunting?
How she does it, though, with that clumsy spear? I wonder … would she think I was insulting her Clan if I offered …
“Ayla … I, um … I want to say something, but I don’t want to offend you.”
“Why do you worry now about offending me? If you have something to say, say it.” The prickles of her irritation were still showing, and his chagrin almost stopped him.
“You’re right. It is a little late. But, I was wondering … ahhh … how do you hunt with that spear?”
She was puzzled by his question. “I dig a hole, and run, no, stampede, a herd toward it. But last winter …”
“A pit trap! Of course, so you can get close enough to use that spear. Ayla, you’ve done so much for me, I want to do something for you before I leave, something worthwhile. But I don’t want you to feel offended by my suggestion. If you don’t like it, just forget I said anything, all right?”
She nodded, a little apprehensive, but curious.
“You are … you are a good hunter, especially considering your weapon, but I think I can show you a way to make it easier, a better hunting weapon, if you’ll let me.”
Her annoyance evaporated. “You want to show me a better hunting weapon?”
“And an easier way to hunt—unless you’d rather not. It will take some practice …”
She shook her head with disbelief. “Clan women do not hunt, and no man wanted me to hunt—not even with a sling. Brun and Creb only allowed it to appease my totem. The Cave Lion is a powerful male totem, and he made them know it was his choice that I should hunt. They dared not defy him.” Suddenly she recalled a vivid scene. “They made a special ceremony.” She reached for the small scar in the hollow of her throat. “Creb drew my blood as sacrifice to the Ancient Ones so I could become the Woman Who Hunts.
“When I found this valley, the only weapon I knew was my sling. But a sling is not enough, so I made spears like the ones the men used, and I learned to hunt with them, the best I could. I never thought any man would want to show me a better way.” She stopped and looked down at her lap, suddenly overcome. “I would be most grateful, Jondalar. I cannot tell you how much.”
The wrinkles of tension on the man’s forehead smoothed out. He thought he glimpsed a tear glistening. Could it mean that much to her? And he was worried that she might take it wrong. Would he ever understand her? The more he learned about her, the less he seemed to know. She taught herself?
“I will need to make some special tools. And some bone, the deer legbones I found will work fine, but I’ll need to soak them. Do you have a container I can use to soak bones?”
“How big does it need to be? I have many containers,” she said, getting up.
“It can wait until you finish eating, Ayla.”
She didn’t feel like eating now; she was too excited. But he wasn’t through. She sat back down and picked at her food until he noticed she wasn’t eating.
“Do you want to go look at containers now?” he asked.
She leaped up and headed for the storage area, then went back for the stone lamp. It was dark in the back of the cave. She gave the lamp to Jondalar while she uncovered baskets, bowls, and birchbark containers that were stacked and nested within each other. He held the lamp high to shed more light and looked around. There was so much, far more than she could use.
“Did you make all this?”
“Yes,” she replied, sorting through the stacks.
“It must have taken days … moons … seasons. How long did it take?”
Ayla tried to think of a way to tell him. “Seasons, many seasons. Most were made during the cold seasons. I had nothing else to do. Are any of these the right size?”
He looked over the containers she had spread out and picked up several, more to examine the workmanship than to select one. It was hard to believe. No matter how skilled she was, or how fast she worked, the finely woven baskets and smoothly finished bowls had taken time to make. How long had she been here? Alone.
“This one will be fine,” he said, selecting a large trough-shaped wooden bowl with high sides. Ayla piled everything back neatly while he held the lamp. She could not have been much more than a girl when she arrived, he thought. She’s not very old—or is she? It was hard to judge. She had an ageless quality, a certain ingenuousness, that was at odds with her full, ripe woman’s body. She had given birth; she was every bit a woman. I wonder how old she is?
They walked down the path. Jondalar filled the bowl with water and inspected the legbones he had found in her midden. “This one has a crack I didn’t notice before,” he mentioned, showing her the bone before he discarded it. He placed the rest in the water. As they went back up to the cave, he tried to estimate Ayla’s age. She can’t be too young—she’s too skilled a healer. Yet can she be as old as I am?
“Ayla, how long have you been here?” he asked as they started into the cave, unable to contain his curiosity.
She halted, not sure how to respond, or if she could make him understand. Her counting sticks came to mind, but although Creb had shown her how to make the marks, she wasn’t supposed to know. Jondalar might disapprove. But he’s leaving, she thought.
She got out a bundle of the sticks she had marked every day, untied it and laid them out.
“What are these?” he asked.
“You want to know how long I’ve been here. I don’t know how to tell you, but since I found this valley I have cut a mark on a stick every night. I have been here as many nights as there are marks on my sticks.”
“Do you know how many marks there are?”
She remembered the frustration she had felt when she had tried to make some meaning of her marked sticks before. “As many as there are,” she said.
Jondalar picked up one of the sticks, intrigued. She did not know the counting words, but she had some sense of them. Not even everyone in his Cave could comprehend them. The powerful magic of their meaning was not given to everyone to know. Zelandoni had explained some to him. He didn’t know all the magic they contained, but he knew more than most who were not of the calling. Where had Ayla learned to mark the sticks? How could someone raised by flatheads have any understanding of counting words?
“How did you learn to do this?”
“Creb showed me. Long ago. When I was a little girl.”
“Creb—the man whose hearth you lived at? He knew what they meant? He wasn’t just making marks?”
“Creb was … Mog-ur … holy man. The clan looked to him to know the proper time for certain ceremonies, like naming days or Clan Gatherings. This was how he knew. I don’t think he believed I would understand—it is difficult even for mog-urs. He did it so I wouldn’t ask so many questions. Afterward, he told me not to mention it again. He caught me once, when I was older, marking the days of the moon’s cycle and was very angry.”
“This … Mog-ur.” Jondalar had difficulty with the pronunciation. “He was someone holy, sacred, like a zelandoni?”
“I don’t know. You say zelandoni when you mean healer. Mog-ur was not a healer. Iza knew the plants and herbs—she was medicine woman. Mog-ur knew spirits. He helped her by talking to them”
“A zelandoni can be a healer, or can have other Gifts. A zelandoni is someone who has answered the call to Serve the Mother. Some have no special Gifts, just a desire to Serve. They can talk to the Mother.”
“Creb had other gifts. He was most high, most powerful. He could … he did … I don’t know how to explain.”
Jondalar nodded. It was not always easy to explain a zelandoni’s Gifts either, but they were also the keepers of special knowledge. He looked back at the sticks. “What does this mean?” he asked, pointing to the extra marks.
Ayla blushed. “It’s … it is my … my womanhood,” she answered, groping for a way to explain.
Women of the Clan were supposed to avoid men during their menses, and men totally ignored them. Women suffered the partial ostracism—the woman’s curse—because men feared the mysterious life force that enabled a woman to bring forth life. It imbued the spirit of her totem with extraordinary strength which fought off the impregnating essences of the spirits of men’s totems. When a woman bled, it meant her totem had won and had wounded the essence of the male totem—had cast it out. No man wanted his totem spirit to be drawn into the battle at that time.
But Ayla had been faced with a dilemma shortly after she brought the man to the cave. She could not keep herself in strict isolation when her bleeding started, not when he was barely clinging to life and needed close attention. She had to ignore the stricture. Later, she tried to make her contact with him during those times as brief as possible, but she couldn’t avoid him when just two of them shared the cave. Nor could she attend only to women’s tasks then, as was the Clan practice. There were no other women to take her place. She had to hunt for the man, and cook for the man, and he wanted her to share meals with him.
But he accepted her statement with no apparent qualms or misgivings. She could detect no sign that he was disturbed at all.
“Most women keep some kind of record. Did Creb or Iza teach you to do that?” he asked.
Ayla bowed her head to hide her discomfiture. “No, I did it so I would know. I didn’t want to be away from the cave unprepared.”
His nod of understanding surprised her. “Women tell a story about the counting words,” he continued. “They say the moon, Lumi, is the lover of the Great Earth Mother. On the days when Doni bleeds, She will not share Pleasures with him. That makes him angry and hurts his pride. He turns away from Her and hides his light. But he cannot stay away for long. He gets lonely, misses Her warm full body, and peeks back to see Her. By then, Doni is upset, and will not look on him. But as he turns around and shines for Her in all his splendor, She cannot resist him. She opens Herself to him once more, and they are both happy.
“That is why many of Her festivals are held when the moon is full. Women say their phases match the Mother’s—they call their time of bleeding the moon time, and they can tell when to expect it by watching Lumi. They say Doni gave them the counting words so they would know even when the moon is hidden by clouds, but they are used in many important ways now.”
Though she was disconcerted to hear a man talk so casually about intimate female matters, Ayla was fascinated by the story. “Sometimes I watch the moon,” she said, “but I mark the stick, too. What are counting words?”
“They are … names for the marks on your sticks, for one thing, for other things too. They are used to say the number of … anything. They can say how many deer a scout has seen, or how many days away they are. If it is a large herd, such as bison in the fall, then a zelandoni must scout the herd, one who knows the special ways to use counting words.”