The Valley of Horses

by Jean M. Auel

  The first animal she was sure he killed himself was a hare. It was one of the few times her stone slipped. She knew she had made a bad throw—the stone came to rest only a few feet beyond her—but the motion of throwing had signaled the young cave lion to give chase. She found him disemboweling the animal.

  “How wonderful you are, Baby!” She praised him lavishly with her unique mixture of sounds and hand signs, as all Clan boys were praised when they killed their first small animal. The lion didn’t understand what she said, but he understood he had pleased her. Her smile, her attitude, her posture, all communicated her feeling. Though he was young for it, he had satisfied his own instinctive need to hunt, and he had received approval from the dominant member of his pride. He had done well and he knew it.

  The first cold winds of winter brought falling temperatures, shattery ice to the edge of the stream, and feelings of concern to the young woman. She had laid in a large supply of vegetable foods and meat for herself, and an extra store of dried meat for Baby. But she knew it would not last him all winter. She had grain and hay for Whinney, but for the horse the fodder was a luxury, not a necessity. Horses foraged all winter, though when the snow lay deep they knew hunger until dry winds cleared it away, and not all survived the cold season.

  Predators foraged all winter as well, culling out the weak, leaving more feed for the strong. The populations of predators and prey rose and fell in cycles, but overall maintained a balance in relation to each other. During the years when there were fewer grazers and browsers, more carnivores starved. Winter was the hardest season for all.

  With the coming of winter, Ayla’s worry grew more acute. She could not hunt large animals when the ground was frozen rock hard. Her method required holes to be dug. Most small animals hibernated or lived in nests on food they had stored—making them hard to find, especially without the ability to scent them out. She doubted she could hunt enough of them to keep a growing cave lion fed.

  During the early part of the season, after the weather turned cold enough to keep the meat frigid and, later, freeze it, she tried to kill as many large animals as she could, storing them under caches of piled stones. But she wasn’t as familiar with the herds’ patterns of winter movement, and her efforts were not as successful as she hoped. Though her worries caused an occasional sleepless night, she never regretted picking up the cub and taking him home. Between the horse and the cave lion, the young woman seldom felt the introspective loneliness usually brought on by the long winter. Instead, her laughter often filled the cave.

  Whenever she went out and began uncovering a new cache, Baby was there trying to get at the frozen carcass before she had hardly removed a stone.

  “Baby! Get out of the way!” She smiled at the young lion trying to wriggle his way under the rocks. He dragged the stiff animal up the path and into the cave. As though he knew it had been used before by cave lions, he made the small niche in the back of the cave his own, and brought the cached animals there to thaw. He liked to worry off a frozen hunk first, gnawing at it with relish. Ayla waited until it was thawed before cutting off a piece for herself.

  As the supply of meat in the caches dwindled, she began watching the weather. When a clear, crisp, cold day dawned, she decided it was time to hunt—or at least to try. She did not have a specific plan in mind, though not for want of thinking about it. She hoped an idea would occur to her while she was out, or at least that a better look at the terrain and conditions would open up some new possibilities to consider. She had to do something, and she didn’t want to wait until all the stored meat was gone.

  Baby knew they were going hunting as soon as she pulled out Whinney’s pack baskets, and he ran in and out of the cave excitedly, growling and pacing in anticipation. Whinney, tossing her head and nickering, was just as pleased at the prospect. By the time they reached the cold sunny steppes, Ayla’s tension and worry had begun losing ground to hope and the pleasure of the activity.

  The steppes were white with a thin layer of fresh snow that was hardly disturbed by a light wind. The air had a static crackle of cold so intense, the bright sun might just as well not have been there at all, but for the light it shed. They breathed out streamers of vapor with every exhalation, and the build-up of frost around Whinney’s mouth dispersed in a spray of ice when she snorted. Ayla was grateful for the wolverine hood and the extra furs all her hunting had made available to wear.

  She glanced down at the supple feline moving with silent grace, and with a shock she realized that Baby was nearly as long, from shoulder to shank, as Whinney, and was fast approaching the small horse in height. The adolescent male cave lion was showing the beginnings of a reddish mane, and Ayla wondered why she hadn’t noticed it before. Suddenly more alert, Baby was straining ahead, his tail held stiffly out behind him.

  Ayla wasn’t used to tracking in winter on the steppes, but even from horseback the spoor of wolves was evident in the snow. The pawprints were clear and sharp, not eroded by wind or sun, and evidently fresh. Baby pulled ahead; they were near. She urged Whinney to a gallop and caught up with Baby just in time to see a wolf pack closing around an old male who was trailing behind a small herd of saiga antelope.

  The young lion saw them, too, and, unable to control his excitement, raced into their midst, scattering the herd and disrupting the wolves’ attack. The surprised and disgruntled wolves made Ayla want to laugh, but she didn’t want to encourage Baby. He’s just excitable, she thought, we haven’t hunted in so long.

  Springing in mighty leaps of panic, the saiga bounded across the plains. The wolf pack regrouped and followed at a more deliberate pace that covered ground quickly but wouldn’t tire them before they caught up with the herd again. When Ayla composed herself, she gave Baby a stern look of disapproval. He fell back beside her, but he’d enjoyed himself too much to be contrite.

  As Ayla, Whinney, and Baby followed the wolves, an idea was beginning to take shape in the woman’s mind. She didn’t know if she could kill a saiga antelope with her sling, but she knew she could kill a wolf. She didn’t care for the taste of wolf meat, but if Baby was hungry enough, he’d eat it, and he was the reason for hunting.

  The wolves had picked up their pace. The old male saiga had dropped behind the main herd, too exhausted to keep up. Ayla leaned forward and Whinney increased her speed. The wolves circled the old buck, wary of hooves and horns. Ayla moved in close to try for one of the wolves. Reaching into the pouching fold of her fur for stones, she selected a particular wolf. As Whinney’s pounding hooves closed, she let fly with a stone, and then with a second in quick succession.

  Her aim was true. The wolf dropped and at first she thought the ensuing commotion was the result of her kill. Then she saw the real cause. Baby had taken her sling cast as the signal to chase, but he wasn’t interested in the wolf, not when the far more delectable antelope was in sight. The wolf pack relinquished the field to the galloping horse with a sling-wielding woman on her back, and to the determined charge of the lion.

  But Baby wasn’t quite the hunter he strove to be—not yet. His attack lacked the strength and finesse of a full-grown lion. It took her a moment to comprehend the situation. No, Baby! That’s the wrong animal, she thought. Then she quickly corrected herself. Of course, he had chosen the right animal. Baby was striving for a death grip, clinging to the fleeing buck to whom stark fear had just given a new burst of strength.

  Ayla grabbed a spear from the pack basket behind her. Whinney, responding to her urgency, raced after the old saiga. The antelope’s spurt of speed was short-lived. He was slowing. The speeding horse quickly closed the gap. Ayla poised the spear and, just as they came abreast, she struck, not aware that she was screaming with sheer primal exuberance.

  She wheeled the horse around and trotted back to find the young cave lion standing over the old buck. Then, for the first time, he proclaimed his prowess. Though it still lacked the full-throated thunder of the adult male’s, Baby’s triumphant roar carried the promise of
its potential. Even Whinney shied at the sound.

  Ayla slid off the mare’s back and patted her neck reassuringly. “It’s all right, Whinney. It’s only Baby.”

  Not considering that the lion might object and could inflict serious injury, Ayla pushed him aside and prepared to gut the antelope before taking it back. He gave way to her dominance, and to something else that was uniquely Ayla: her confidence in her love for him.

  She decided to find the wolf and skin it. Wolf fur was warm. Returning, she was surprised to see Baby dragging the antelope, and she realized he intended to haul it all the way to the cave. The male antelope was full grown and Baby was not. It gave her an increased appreciation of his strength—and the power he was still to gain. But if he dragged the antelope all that way, the hide would be damaged. Saiga were widespread, living in mountains as well as the plains, but they were not numerous. She had not hunted one before, and they had a special meaning for her. The saiga antelope had been Iza’s totem. Ayla wanted the hide.

  She signaled “Stop!” Baby hesitated only a moment before releasing “his” kill, and, guarding it, he paced anxiously around the travois all the way back to the cave. He watched with more than usual interest while she removed the hide and the horns. When she gave it to him, he dragged the entire skinned carcass to the niche in the far corner. After he gorged, he still maintained a vigil, and he slept close by.

  Ayla was amused. She understood he was protecting his kill. He seemed to feel there was something special about this beast. Ayla did, too, for other reasons. Surges of excitement still coursed through her. The speed, the chase, the hunt had been thrilling—but more important, she had a new way to hunt. With the help of Whinney, and now Baby, she could hunt anytime, summer and winter. She felt powerful, and grateful, and she would be able to provide for her Baby.

  Then, for no reason she could think of, she checked on Whinney. The horse was lying down, perfectly secure in spite of the proximity of a cave lion. She lifted her head as Ayla approached. The woman stroked the horse, then, feeling a need to be close, she lay beside her. Whinney blew a soft snort of air through her nostrils, content to have the woman near.

  Winter hunting with Whinney and Baby, without the arduous task of digging pits, was a game. Sport. From the earliest days of practicing with her sling, Ayla had loved hunting. Each new technique mastered—tracking, the double-stone throw, the pit and spear—brought an additional feeling of accomplishment. But nothing matched the sheer fun of hunting with the horse and the cave lion. They both seemed to enjoy it as much as she. While Ayla made preparations, Whinney tossed her head and danced on her toes, with her ears pricked forward and tail raised, and Baby padded in and out of the cave, making low growls of anticipation. Weather concerned her until Whinney brought her home through a blinding blizzard.

  The trio usually started out shortly after daybreak. If they sighted prey early, they were often home before noon. Their usual method was to follow a likely candidate until they were in a good position. Then Ayla would signal with her sling and Baby, eager and ready, would spring forward. Whinney, feeling Ayla’s urge, galloped after him. With the young cave lion clinging to the back of a panicked animal—his claws and fangs drawing blood, if not actually fatal—it seldom took long for the galloping horse to close the distance. As they came abreast, Ayla plunged the spear.

  In the beginning, they weren’t always successful. Sometimes the chosen animal was too fast, or Baby would fall off, unable to get a secure hold. For Ayla, learning to wield the heavy spear at full gallop took some practice, too. Many times she missed, or made only a glancing blow, and sometimes Whinney didn’t get close enough. Even when they missed, it was exciting sport, and they could always try again.

  With practice, they all improved. As they began understanding each other’s needs and abilities, the unlikely trio became an efficient hunting team—so efficient that when Baby made his first unassisted kill, it went almost unnoticed as part of the team’s efforts.

  Bearing down at a hard gallop, Ayla saw the deer falter. It was down before she reached them. Whinney slowed down as they passed by. The woman jumped off and was running back before the horse came to a halt. Her spear was raised, ready to finish the job, when she found Baby had done it himself. She proceeded to make the deer ready to take back to the cave.

  Then the full import struck her. Baby, as young as he was, was a hunting lion! In the Clan, that would make him an adult. Just as she had been called the Woman Who Hunts before she was a woman, Baby had reached adulthood before he attained maturity. He should have a manhood ceremony, she thought. But what kind of ceremony would have meaning for him? Then she smiled.

  She unbound the doe from the travois, then put the grass mat and the poles in the pack baskets. It was his kill, and he had a right to it. Baby didn’t understand at first. He paced back and forth from the carcass to her. Then, as Ayla left, he took the deer’s neck in his teeth and, pulling it underneath him, he dragged it all the way back to the beach, up the steep path, and into the cave.

  She didn’t notice any difference, immediately, after Baby’s kill. They still hunted together. But more often than not, Whinney’s chase was only exercise and Ayla’s spear unnecessary. If she wanted some of the meat, she took it first; if she wanted the hide, she skinned it. Though, in the wild, the pride male always took the first and largest portion, Baby was still young. He’d never known hunger, as his growing size attested, and he was accustomed to her dominance.

  But toward spring, Baby began leaving the cave more, exploring by himself. He was seldom gone long, but his excursions became more frequent. Once he came back with blood on his ear. She guessed he’d found other lions. It made her realize she was no longer enough; he was looking for his own kind. She cleaned the ear, and he spent the day following her so closely that he was getting in her way. At night, he crept up to her bed and searched for her two fingers to suck.

  He’ll be leaving soon, she thought, wanting a pride of his own, mates to hunt for him, and cubs to dominate. He needs his own kind. Iza came to mind. You’re young, you need a man of your own, one of your own kind. Find your own people; find your own mate, she had said. It will be spring soon. I should think about leaving, but not yet. Baby was going to be huge, even for a cave lion. He already far exceeded lions his age in size, but he wasn’t grown; he couldn’t survive, yet.

  Spring followed close on the heels of a heavy snow. Flooding kept them all restricted, Whinney more than the others. Ayla could climb to the steppes above, and Baby could leap there with ease, but the slopes was too steep for the horse. The water finally receded, the beach and the bone pile had new contours again, and Whinney could finally go down the path to the meadow once more. But she was irritable.

  Ayla first noticed something out of the ordinary when Baby yelped from an equine kick. The woman was surprised. Whinney had never been impatient with the young lion; perhaps a nip now and then to keep him in line, but certainly not enough to kick him. She thought the unusual behavior was a consequence of her enforced inactivity, but Baby tended to stay away from her place in the cave as he got older, sensitive of Whinney’s territory, and Ayla wondered what had drawn him there. She went to see, then became conscious of a strong odor she’d been vaguely aware of all morning. Whinney was standing with her head down, her hind legs spread apart, and her tail held to the left. Her vaginal opening was swollen and pulsating. She looked up at Ayla and squealed.

  The series of emotions that came over Ayla in quick succession pulled her to opposite extremes. First it was relief. So that’s your problem. Ayla knew about estrus cycles in animals. In some, the time of pairing occurred more frequently, but for grazers, once a year was usual. This was the season when males often fought for the right to couple, and it was the one time when the males and females mingled, even those who normally hunted separately or herded in different groups.

  Pairing season was one of those mysterious aspects of animal behavior that puzzled her, like deer dropping
their antlers and growing new and bigger ones every year. The kinds of things that made Creb complain that she asked too many questions about, when she was younger. He didn’t know why animals paired, either, though he had once volunteered that it was the time for the males to show their dominance over females, or perhaps, like people, the males had to relieve their needs.

  Whinney had had a pairing season the previous spring, but at the time, though she heard a stallion neighing on the steppes above, Whinney couldn’t get up to him. The young mare’s need seemed stronger this time, too. Ayla didn’t remember so much swelling and squealing. Whinney submitted to the young woman’s pats and hugs; then the horse dropped her head and squealed again.

  Suddenly, Ayla’s stomach churned into a knot of anxiety. She leaned against the horse, the way Whinney sometimes did against her when she was upset or frightened. Whinney was going to leave her! It was so unexpected. Ayla hadn’t had time to prepare for it, though she should have. She’d been thinking about Baby’s future, and her own. Instead, Whinney’s pairing season had come. The filly needed a stallion, a mate.

  With great reluctance, Ayla walked out of the cave and signaled Whinney to follow. When they reached the rocky beach below, Ayla mounted. Baby got up to follow them, but Ayla motioned “Stop.” She did not want the cave lion with her now. She was not going hunting, but Baby might not know that. Ayla had to stop the lion once more, with firm determination, before he stayed behind watching them go.

  It was warm, and damply cool at the same time, on the steppes. The sun, about midway to noon, blazed out of a pale blue sky with a veiled halo; the blue seemed faded, bleached by the intensity of the glare. Melting snow steamed to a fine mist that did not limit visibility but softened sharp angles, and fog clinging to cool shadows flattened contours. Perspective was lost and the entire view was foreshortened—lending an immediacy to the landscape, a sense of present tense, here and now, as though no other time and place ever existed. Distant objects seemed only a few paces away, yet took forever to reach.