The Valley of Horses

by Jean M. Auel

  He didn’t know that panic was a survival trait, in extreme circumstances. When all else fails, and all rational means of finding a solution have been exhausted, panic takes over. And sometimes an irrational act becomes a solution the rational mind would never have thought of.

  He walked back, put a few more sticks of wood on the fire, then went to look for the alder staff, though it seemed pointless to be making a spear now. He just felt so useless, he needed to do something. He found it, then sat outside the tent, and with vicious strokes, began to shave one end.

  The next day was a nightmare for Jondalar. The left side of Thonolan’s body was tender to the lightest touch and deeply bruised. Jondalar had slept little. It had been a difficult night for Thonolan and every time he moaned, Jondalar got up. But all he could offer was willowbark tea, and that didn’t help much. In the morning, he cooked some food and made broth, but neither man ate much. By evening, the wound was hot, and Thonolan was feverish.

  Thonolan woke from a restless sleep to his brother’s troubled blue eyes. The sun had just dipped below the rim of the earth, and though it was still light outside, in the tent it was harder to see. The dimness didn’t keep Jondalar from noticing how glazed Thonolan’s eyes were, and he had been moaning and mumbling in his sleep.

  Jondalar tried to smile encouragingly. “How are you feeling?”

  Thonolan hurt too much to smile, and Jondalar’s worried look was not reassuring. “I don’t feel much like hunting rhinos,” he replied.

  They were silent for a while, neither knowing what to say. Thonolan closed his eyes and sighed deeply. He was tired of fighting the pain. His chest hurt with every breath, and the deep ache in his left groin seemed to have spread to his whole body. If he had thought there was any hope, he would have endured it, but the longer they stayed, the less chance Jondalar would have of crossing the river before a storm. Just because he was going to die was no reason his brother had to die, too. He opened his eyes again.

  “Jondalar, we both know without help there’s no hope for me, but there’s no reason you …”

  “What do you mean, no hope? You’re young, you’re strong. You’ll be all right.”

  “There’s not enough time. We don’t have a chance out here in the open. Jondalar, keep moving, find a place to stay, you …”

  “You’re delirious!”

  “No, I …”

  “You wouldn’t be talking like that if you weren’t. You worry about gaining your strength—let me worry about taking care of us. We’re both going to make it. I’ve got a plan.”

  “What plan?”

  “I’ll tell you about it when I get all the details worked out. Do you want something to eat? You haven’t eaten much.”

  Thonolan knew his brother wouldn’t leave while he was alive. He was tired; he wanted to give up, let it end, and give Jondalar a chance. “I’m not hungry,” he said, then saw the hurt in his brother’s eyes. “I could use a drink of water, though.”

  Jondalar poured out the last of the water and held Thonolan’s head while he drank. He shook the bag. “This is empty. I’ll get some more.”

  He wanted an excuse to get out of the tent. Thonolan was giving up. Jondalar had been bluffing when he said he had a plan. He had given up hope—no wonder his brother thought it was hopeless. I have to find some way to get across that river and find help.

  He walked up a slight rise that gave him a view upriver, over the trees, and stood watching a broken branch snagged by a jutting rock. He felt as trapped and helpless as that bare limb and, on impulse, walked to the water’s edge and freed it from the restraining stone. He watched the current carry it downstream, wondering how far it would go before it was snared by something else. He noticed another willow, and he peeled more inner bark with his knife. Thonolan might have a bad night again, not that the tea did much good.

  Finally he turned away from the Sister and went back to the small creek that added its tiny fraction to the rampaging river. He filled the waterbag and started back. He wasn’t sure what made him look upstream—he couldn’t have heard anything above the sound of the rushing torrent—but when he did, he stared in open-mouthed disbelief.

  Something was approaching from upriver, heading straight for the bank where he stood. A monstrous water bird, with a long curved neck supporting a fierce crested head and large unblinking eyes, was coming toward him. He saw movement on the creature’s back as it drew near, heads of other creatures. One of the smaller creatures waved.

  “Ho-la!” a voice called out. Jondalar had never heard a more welcome sound.

  7

  Ayla wiped the back of her hand across her sweaty forehead and smiled at the little yellow horse who had nudged her, trying to insinuate her muzzle under the woman’s hand. The filly didn’t like to let Ayla out of her sight and followed her everywhere. Ayla didn’t mind, she wanted the company.

  “Little horse, how much grain should I pick for you?” Ayla motioned. The small, hay-colored foal watched her motions closely. It made Ayla think of herself when she was a young girl just learning the sign language of the Clan. “Are you trying to learn to talk? Well, understand, anyway. You’d have trouble talking without hands, but you seem to be trying to understand me.”

  Ayla’s speech incorporated a few sounds; her clan’s ordinary language wasn’t entirely silent, only the ancient formal language was. The filly’s ears perked up when she spoke a word out loud.

  “You’re listening, aren’t you, little filly?” Ayla shook her head. “I keep calling you little filly, little horse. It doesn’t feel right. I think you need a name. Is that what you are listening for, the sound of your name? I wonder what your dam called you? I don’t think I could say it if I knew.”

  The young horse was watching her intently, knowing Ayla was paying attention to her when she moved her hands in that way. She nickered when Ayla stopped.

  “Are you answering me? Whiiinneeey!” Ayal tried to mimic her and made a fair approximation of a horse’s whinny. The young horse responded to the almost familiar sound with a toss of her head and an answering neigh.

  “Is that your name?” Ayla motioned with a smile. The foal tossed her head again, bounded off a ways, then came back. The woman laughed. “All little horses must have the same name, then, or maybe I can’t tell the difference.” Ayla whinnied again and the horse whinnied back, and they played the game for a while. It made her think of the game of sounds she used to play with her son, except Durc could make any sound she could. Creb had told her she made many sounds when they first found her, and she knew she could make some no one else could. It had pleased her when she discovered her son could make them, too.

  Ayla turned back to picking grain from the tall einkorn wheat. Emmer wheat grew in the valley, too, and rye grass similar to the kind that grew near the clan’s cave. She was thinking about naming the horse. I’ve never named anyone before. She smiled to herself. Wouldn’t they think I was strange, naming a horse. Not any stranger than living with one. She watched the young animal racing and frisking playfully. I’m so glad she lives with me, Ayla thought, feeling a lump in her throat. It’s not so lonely with her around. I don’t know what I’d do if I lost her now. I am going to name her.

  The sun was on its way down when Ayla stopped and glanced at the sky. It was a big sky, vast, empty. Not a single cloud measured its depth nor arrested the eye from infinity. Only the distant incandescence in the west, whose wavering circumference was revealed in afterimage, marred the rich, uniformly blue expanse. Judging the amount of daylight left by the space between the radiance and the top of the cliff, she decided to stop.

  The horse, noticing her attention was no longer on her task, whinnied and came to her. “Should we go back to the cave? Let’s get a drink of water first.” She put her arm around the neck of the young horse and walked toward the stream.

  The foliage near the running water at the base of the steep southern wall was a slow-motion kaleidoscope of color, reflecting the rhythm of the
seasons; now deep somber greens of pine and fir dabbed with vivid golds, paler yellows, dry browns, and fiery reds. The sheltered valley was a bright swatch amidst the muted beige of the steppes, and the sun was warmer within its wind-protected walls. For all the fall colors, it had felt like a warm summer day, a misleading illusion.

  “I think I should get more grass. You’re starting to eat your bedding when I put it down fresh.” Walking beside the horse, Ayla continued her monologue, then unconsciously stopped the hand motions, her thoughts alone carrying on the thread. Iza always collected grass in fall for winter bedding. It smelled so good when she changed it, especially when the snow was deep and the wind blowing outside. I used to love falling asleep listening to the wind and smelling summer-fresh hay.

  When she saw the direction they were going, the horse trotted ahead. Ayla smiled indulgently. “You must be as thirsty as I am, little whiiinneey,” she said, making the sound out loud in response to the filly’s call. That does sound like a name for a horse, but naming should be done properly.

  “Whinney! Whiiinneeey!” she called. The animal perked up her head, looked toward the woman, then trotted to her.

  Ayla rubbed her head and scratched her. She was shedding her prickly baby coat and growing in longer winter hair, and she always loved a scratching. “I think you like that name, and it suits you, my little horse baby. I think we should have a naming ceremony. I can’t pick you up in my arms, though, and Creb isn’t here to mark you, I guess I’ll have to be the mog-ur and do it.” She smiled. Imagine, a woman mog-ur.

  Ayla started back toward the river again but veered upstream when she noticed she was near the open place where she had dug the pit trap. She had filled in the hole, but the young horse spooked around it, sniffing and snorting and pawing the ground, bothered by some lingering odor or memory. The herd had not returned since the day they raced down the length of the valley, away from her fire and her noise.

  She led the filly to drink nearer the cave. The cloudy stream, engorged with fall runoff, had receded from its high point, leaving a slurry of rich brown mud at the water’s edge. It squished under Ayla’s feet and left a brownish red stain on her skin, and it reminded her of the red ochre paste Mog-ur used for ceremonial purposes, like namings. She swished her finger around in the mud and made a mark on her leg, then smiled and scooped up a handful.

  I was going to look for red ochre, she thought, but this might do as well. Closing her eyes, Ayla tried to remember what Creb had done when he named her son. She could see his ravaged old face, with a flap of skin covering the place where an eye should have been, his large nose, his overhanging brow ridges and low sloping forehead. His beard had gotten thin and scraggly, and his hairline had receded, but she remembered him the way he had looked that day. Not young, but at the peak of his power. She had loved that magnificent, craggy old face.

  Suddenly all her emotions came flooding back. Her fear that she would lose her son and her utter joy at the sight of a bowl of red ochre paste. She swallowed hard several times, but the lump in her throat would not go down, and she wiped a tear away, not knowing she left a smudge of brown in its place. The little horse leaned against her, nuzzling for affection, almost as though she sensed Ayla’s need. The woman knelt down and hugged the animal, resting her forehead against the sturdy neck of the little filly.

  This is supposed to be your naming ceremony, she thought, gaining control of herself. The mud had squeezed out between her fingers. She scooped up another handful, then reached toward the sky with the other hand, as Creb had always done with his abbreviated one-handed gestures, calling for the spirits to attend. Then she hesitated, not sure if she should invoke the Clan spirits at the naming of a horse—they might not approve. She dipped her fingers into the mud in her hand and made a streak down the foal’s face, from her forehead to the end of her nose, as Creb had drawn a line with the paste of red ochre from the place where Durc’s brow ridges met to the tip of his rather small nose.

  “Whinney,” she said aloud, and finished with the formal language. “This girl’s … this female horse’s name is Whinney.”

  The horse shook her head, trying to rid herself of the wet mud on her face, making Ayla laugh. “It will dry up and wear off soon, Whinney.”

  She washed her hands, adjusted the basketful of grain on her back, and walked slowly to the cave. The naming ceremony had reminded her too much of her solitary existence. Whinney was a warm living creature and eased her loneliness, but by the time Ayla reached the rocky beach, tears had come unbidden, unnoticed.

  She coaxed and guided the young horse up the steep path to her cave, which roused her out of her grief somewhat. “Come on, Whinney, you can do it. I know you’re not an ibex or a saiga antelope, but it only takes getting used to.”

  They reached the top of the wall that was the front extension of her cave and went in. Ayla rekindled the banked fire and started some grain cooking. The young filly was now eating grass and grain and didn’t need specially prepared food, but Ayla made mashes for her because Whinney liked them.

  She took a brace of rabbits, caught earlier in the day, outside to skin them while it was still light, brought them in to cook, and rolled up the skins until she was ready to process them. She had accumulated a large supply of animal skins: rabbits, hares, hamsters, whatever she caught. She wasn’t sure how she was going to use them, but she carefully cured and saved them all. During the winter she might think of a use for them. If it got cold enough, she’d just pile them around her.

  Winter was on her mind as the days grew shorter and the temperature fell. She didn’t know how long or harsh it would be, which worried her. A sudden attack of anxiety sent her checking her stores, though she knew exactly what she had. She looked through baskets and bark containers of dried meat, fruits and vegetables, seeds, nuts, and grains. In the dark corner farthest from the entrance, she examined piles of whole, sound roots and fruits to make sure no signs of rot had appeared.

  Along the rear wall were stacks of wood, dried horse dung from the field, and mounds of dry grass. More baskets of grain, for Whinney, were stashed in the opposite corner.

  Ayla walked back to the hearth to check the grain cooking in a tightly woven basket and turn the rabbits, then past her bed and personal belongings along the wall near it, to examine herbs, roots, and barks suspended from a rack. She had sunk the posts for it in the packed earth of the cave not too far from the fireplace, so the seasonings, tea, and medicines would benefit from the heat as they dried, but would not be too close to the fire.

  She had no clan to tend and didn’t need all the medicines, but she had kept Iza’s pharmacopoeia well stocked after the old woman became too weak, and she was accustomed to gathering the medicines along with food. On the other side of the herb rack was an assortment of various materials: chunks of wood, sticks and branches, grasses and barks, hides, bones, several rocks and stones, even a basket of sand from the beach.

  She didn’t like to dwell too much on the long, lonely, inactive winter ahead. But she knew there would be no ceremonies with feasting and storytelling, no new babies to anticipate, no gossiping, or conversations, or discussions of medical lore with Iza or Uba, no watching the men discuss hunting tactics. She planned instead to spend her time making things—the more difficult and time-consuming, the better—to keep herself as busy as possible.

  She looked over some of the solid chunks of wood. They ranged from small to large so she could make bowls of various sizes. Gouging out the inside and shaping it with a hand-axe used as an adze, and a knife, then rubbing it smooth with a round rock and sand could take days; she planned to make several. Some of the small hides would be made into hand coverings, leggings, footwear linings, others would be dehaired and worked so well that they would be as soft and pliable as baby’s skin, but very absorbent.

  Her collection of beargrass, cattail leaves and stalks, reeds, willow switches, roots of trees, would be made into baskets, tightly woven or of looser weave in intricate
patterns, for cooking, eating, storage containers, winnowing trays, serving trays, mats for sitting upon, serving or drying food. She would make cordage, in thicknesses from string to rope, from fibrous plants, barks and the sinew and long tail of the horse; and lamps out of stone with shallow wells pecked out to be filled with fat and a dried moss wick which burned with no smoke. She had kept the fat of carnivorous animals separate for that use. Not that she wouldn’t eat it if she had to, it was just a matter of taste preference.

  There were flat hipbones and shoulder bones to be shaped into plates and platters, others for ladles or stirrers; fuzz from various plants to be used for tinder or stuffing, along with feathers and hair; several nodules of flint and implements to shape it with. She had passed many a slow winter day making similar objects and implements, necessary for existence, but she also had a supply of materials for objects she was not accustomed to making, though she had watched men make them often enough: hunting weapons.

  She wanted to make spears, clubs shaped to fit the hand, new slings. She thought she might even try a bola, although skill with that weapon took as much practice as the sling. Brun was the expert with the bola; just making the weapon was a skill in itself. Three stones had to be pecked round, into balls, then attached to cords and fastened together with the proper length and balance.

  Would he teach Durc? Ayla wondered.

  Daylight was fading and her fire was nearly out. The grain had absorbed all the water and softened. She took a bowlful for herself, then added water and prepared the rest for Whinney. She poured it into a watertight basket and brought it to the animal’s sleeping place against the wall on the opposite side of the cave mouth.

  For the first few days down on the beach, Ayla had slept with the little horse, but she decided the foal should have her own place up in the cave. While she used dried horse dung for fuel, she found little use for fresh droppings on her sleeping furs, and the foal seemed unhappy about it as well The time would come when the horse would be too big to sleep with, and her bed wasn’t big enough for both of them, though she often lay down and cuddled the baby animal in the place she had made for her.