The Valley of Horses

by Jean M. Auel

  He knew from fishing with the Ramudoi that the water altered the true position of the fish. It wasn’t where it seemed to be—the Mother’s way to hide Her creatures until Her secret was revealed. As the fish neared, he adjusted his aim to compensate for the refraction of the water. He leaned over the side, waited, then hurled the harpoon off the bow.

  And with equal force, the small boat shot in the opposite direction along its skewed course, out toward the middle of the river. But his aim had been true. The point of his harpoon was deeply embedded in the giant sturgeon—with little effect. The fish was far from disabled. It headed for midchannel, for deeper water, moving upstream. The rope uncoiled rapidly, and, with a jerk, the slack ran out.

  The boat was yanked around, nearly pitching Jondalar overboard. As he grabbed for the side, the paddle bounced up, teetered, and fell into the river. He let go to reach for it, leaning far over. The boat tipped. He clutched for the side. At that moment, the sturgeon found the current and plowed upstream, miraculously righting the boat and knocking him back into it. He sat up, rubbing a bruise on his shin, as the small craft was towed upstream faster than he’d ever gone before.

  He grabbed for the side and moved forward, round-eyed with fear and wonder, as he watched the riverbanks speeding past. He reached for the line pulled taut into the water, then jerked, thinking that might dislodge the harpoon. Instead the bow dipped so low that the boat shipped water. The sturgeon dodged, careening the small canoe back and forth. Jondalar held on to the rope, lurching from side to side.

  He didn’t notice when he passed the boat-building clearing, and he didn’t see the people on the beach staring agape as the boat sped upstream in the wake of the huge fish, with Jondalar hanging over the side, both hands on the rope, struggling to pull out the harpoon.

  “Do you see that?” Thonolan asked. “That brother of mine has a runaway fish! I think I’ve seen everything now.” His grin turned to guffaws. “Did you see him hanging on to that rope, trying to make that fish let go?” He slapped his thigh, brimming over with laughter. “He didn’t catch a fish, the fish caught him!”

  “Thonolan, it’s not funny,” Markeno said, having difficulty keeping a straight face. “Your brother is in trouble.”

  “I know. I know. But did you see him? Hauled upriver by a fish? Tell me that’s not funny!”

  Thonolan laughed again, but he helped Markeno and Barono lift a boat into the water. Dolando and Carolio climbed in as well. They pushed off and began paddling upstream as fast as they could. Jondalar was in trouble; he could be in real danger.

  The sturgeon was weakening. The harpooning was draining its life away, the drag of the boat and the man hurrying it along. The headlong ride was slowing. It only gave Jondalar time to think—he still had no control over where he was going. He was far upriver; he didn’t think he’d been as far since that first boat ride with snow and howling winds. It suddenly occurred to him to cut the rope. There was no point in being hauled any farther upstream.

  He let go of the side and reached for his knife. But as he pulled the antler-handled stone blade from the sheath, the sturgeon, in one last mortal struggle, tried to rid itself of the painful point. It thrashed and struggled with such force, the bow dipped under every time the fish dove. Overturned, the wooden canoe would still float, but upright and filled with water it would drop to the bottom. He tried to cut the rope as the boat bobbed and dipped and jerked from side to side. He didn’t see the water-swelled log, cruising toward him low in the water with the speed of the current, until it bumped into the canoe, knocking the knife from Jondalar’s hand.

  He recovered quickly and tried to pull up on the rope to cause a little slack so the canoe wouldn’t dip so dangerously. In a last desperate effort to free itself, the sturgeon lunged toward the river’s edge and finally succeeded in tearing the harpoon out of its flesh. It was too late. The last of its life surged out the gaping rip in its side. The huge marine creature plunged down to the river bottom, then rose to the top and, belly up, hung on the surface of the river with only a twitch giving testimony to the prodigious struggle the primeval fish had waged.

  The river, in its long and sinuous course, made a slight curve at the place where the fish chose to die, creating a whirl of conflict in the current speeding around the bend, and the last lunge of the sturgeon carried it to an eddying backwater near the shore. The boat, trailing a slack rope, bobbed and rocked, bumping into the log and the fish that shared its resting place in the undecided trough between backwater and tide.

  In the lull, Jondalar had time to realize he was lucky he hadn’t cut the rope. With no paddle, he couldn’t control the boat if it started downstream. The shore was near: a narrow rocky beach clipped off as it rounded the bend to a steep bank, with trees crowding so close to the edge that naked roots burst through to claw at the air for support. Maybe he could find something that would serve as a paddle there. He took a deep breath to prepare for the plunge into the cold river, then slipped over the side.

  It was deeper than he expected; he went in over his head. The boat, moved by the disturbance, found its way into the river current; the fish was moved closer to shore. Jondalar started to swim after the boat, grabbing for the rope, but the light canoe, barely skimming the surface, spun around and danced away more quickly than he could follow.

  The icy water was numbing. He turned toward shore. The sturgeon was bumping against the bank. He headed for it, grabbed it by its open mouth, and hauled it along after him. There was no point in losing the fish now. He dragged it partway up the beach, but it was heavy. He hoped it would stay. Don’t need to find a paddle, now, he thought, with no boat, but maybe I can find some wood to make a fire. He was soaking wet and cold.

  He reached for his knife and found an empty sheath. He had forgotten that he had lost it, and he didn’t have another. He used to keep an extra blade in the pouch he carried at his waist, but that was when he wore Zelandonii attire. He’d given up the pouch when he began wearing Ramudoi clothing. Maybe he could find materials for a platform and fire drill to make the fire. But, without a knife you can’t cut wood, Jondalar, he said to himself, or shave tinder or kindling. He shivered. At least I can gather some wood.

  He looked around him, and heard a scurrying in the bushes. The ground was covered with damp rotting wood, leaves, and moss. Not a dry stick anywhere. You can get dry “small wood,” he thought, looking for the dead dry lower branches of conifers that clung to the trees beneath the green growing branches. But he was not in a coniferous forest like the ones near his home. The climate of this region was less severe; it was not influenced as much by the glacial ice in the north. It was cool—it could be quite cold—but damp. It was a temperate-climate forest, not boreal. The trees were the kind the boats were made of: hardwood.

  Around him was a forest of oak and beech, some hornbeam and willow; trees with thick brown crusty trunks and more slender ones with gray smooth skin, but no dry “small wood.” It was spring, and even the twigs were filled with sap and budding. He’d learned something about cutting down one of those hardwood trees. It wasn’t easy, even with a good stone axe. He shivered again. His teeth were chattering. He rubbed his palms together, beat his arms, jogged in place—trying to warm up. He heard more scuffling in the brush and thought he must be disturbing some animal.

  The seriousness of his situation occurred to him. Surely they would miss him and come searching for him. Thonolan would notice he was gone, or would he? Their paths crossed less and less often, particularly as he became more involved with the Ramudoi way of life and his brother was becoming more Shamudoi. He didn’t even know where his brother was that day, perhaps hunting chamois.

  Well, then, Carlono. Wouldn’t he come looking? He watched me going upstream in the boat. Then Jondalar got a chill of a different sort. The boat! It got away. If they find an empty boat, they’ll think you’ve drowned, he thought. Why should they come looking for you if they think you’ve drowned? The tall man moved around again,
jumping, beating his arms, running in place, but he couldn’t stop shivering, and he was getting tired. The cold was affecting his thinking, but he couldn’t keep jumping around.

  Out of breath, he slumped down and huddled into a ball, trying to conserve body heat, but his teeth chattered and his body shook. He heard shuffling again, closer, but he didn’t bother to investigate. Then something moved into his view: two feet—two bare, dirty, human feet.

  He looked up with a start and was almost shocked out of shivering. Standing in front of him, within arm’s reach, was a child, with two large brown eyes gazing at him from under the shadow of overhanging brow ridges. A flathead! Jondalar thought. A young flathead.

  He was agog with wonder, and half expected the young animal to dart back into the bush now that he was seen. The youngster didn’t move. He stood there and, after a few moments of mutual staring, made beckoning motions. Or at least Jondalar had the feeling they were beckoning motions, farfetched as it seemed. The flathead made the motion again, taking a tentative step back.

  What could he want? Does he want me to go with him? When the youngster made the motion again, Jondalar took a step after him, sure the creature would run away. But the child only backed away a step and motioned again. Jondalar began to follow, slowly at first, then at a faster pace, still shivering, but intrigued.

  In a few moments, the youngster moved aside a screen of brush that revealed a glade. A small, nearly smokeless fire burned in the middle of it. A female looked up, startled, then backed away in fright as Jondalar headed for the flickering warmth. He hunkered down in front of it, gratefully. He was aware, peripherally, that the young flathead and the female were waving their hands and making guttural sounds. He had an impression they were communicating, but he was much more concerned with getting warm, and wished he had a fur or a cloak.

  He didn’t pay attention when the woman disappeared behind him, and was caught by surprise when he felt a fur drop over his shoulders. He saw a bare glimpse of dark brown eyes before she bowed her head and scrambled away, but he sensed her fear of him.

  Even wet, the soft chamois-leather clothing he wore maintained some of its heat-keeping quality, and with the fire and the fur, Jondalar finally warmed enough to stop shaking. Only then did he realize where he was. Great Mother! This is a flathead camp. He had been holding his hands out to the warming blaze, but when the implications of the fire struck him, he jerked them back as though they were burned.

  Fire! They use fire? He reached a hesitant hand for the flame again as though he couldn’t believe his eyes and had to use other senses to confirm it. Then he noticed the fur draped over him. He felt an end, rubbing it between his thumb and forefinger. Wolf, he decided, and well cured. It’s soft; the inner side is amazingly soft. I doubt the Sharamudoi could do much better. The fur didn’t seem to be cut to any shape. It was just one whole hide of a large wolf.

  The heat finally penetrated deep enough for him to stand up and turn his back to the fire. He saw the young male watching him. He wasn’t sure how he knew the young one was a male. With the skin wrapped around him and tied with a long thong, it wasn’t obvious. Though wary, his direct look was not fearful like the female’s had been. Jondalar remembered then that the Losadunai had said flathead females wouldn’t fight. They just gave in, no sport at all. Why would anyone want a flathead female?

  As he continued to look at the male flathead, Jondalar decided he wasn’t so young, more adolescent than child. The short stature had been deceiving, but his muscle development showed strength, and, looking closer, he saw the downy fuzz of a beginning beard.

  The young male grunted and the female quickly scurried to a small woodpile and brought a few pieces to the fire. Jondalar had not seen a flathead female this close before. He turned his head toward her. She was older, perhaps the young one’s dam, he thought. She seemed uncomfortable, didn’t want to be looked at. She backed away with her head lowered and, when she reached the edge of the small clearing, she kept moving away from his sight. She didn’t make it obvious, but before he realized it, his head was twisted around nearly backward. He looked away for an instant, and when he looked back, she had hidden herself so effectively that he couldn’t see her at first. If he hadn’t known she was there, he wouldn’t have seen her at all.

  She’s frightened. I’m surprised she didn’t run away instead of bringing wood as he told her.

  Told her! How could he tell her? Flatheads don’t talk—he couldn’t tell her to bring wood. The chill must have made me light-headed. I can’t be thinking clearly.

  For all his denials, Jondalar couldn’t get over the feeling that the young male had indeed told the female to bring wood. Some way, he had communicated. He turned his attention back to the male and received a distinct impression of hostility. He didn’t know what was different, but he knew the young one had not liked his observation of the female. He was convinced he would be in deep trouble if he made one move toward her. It was not wise to pay too much attention to flathead females, he decided, not when there was a male around, of any age.

  The tension slacked off when Jondalar made no overt moves and ceased looking at the female. But standing face to face with the flathead, he felt they were each taking the other’s measure, and more disturbing, that he was standing man to man. Yet, this man looked like none other he knew. In all his travels, the people he had met were recognizably human. They spoke different languages, had different customs, lived in different shelters—but they were human.

  This one was different, but was he an animal? He was much shorter, and stockier, but those bare feet were no different from Jondalar’s. He was slightly bowlegged, but he walked as straight and tall as any man. He had a little more hair than average, especially around the arms and shoulders, Jondalar thought, but he wouldn’t call it a pelt. He knew some men who were as hairy. The flathead was barrel-chested, already brawny, not someone to tangle with, as young as he was. But even the full-grown males he’d seen, for all their tremendous musculature, were still built like men. The face, the head, there was the difference. But how different? His brows are heavy, his forehead doesn’t come up as high, slopes back more, but his head is big. Short neck, no chin, just a jaw that juts out some, and a large high-bridged nose. It’s a human face, not like anyone I know, but it looks human. And they use fire.

  But they don’t talk, and all humans talk. I wonder … were they communicating? Great Doni! He even communicated with me! How did he know I needed fire? And why would a flathead help a man? Jondalar was baffled, but the young flathead had probably saved his life.

  The young male seemed to come to some decision. He abruptly made the same motion with which he had beckoned Jondalar to the fire, then walked out of the glade back the way they had come. He seemed to expect the man to follow, and Jondalar did, glad of the wolfskin around his shoulders when he left the fire in his still-damp clothes. When they neared the river, the flathead ran forward, making sharp loud noises and waving his arms. A small animal scuttled off, but some of the sturgeon had been eaten. It was evident that, as large as it was, unguarded, the fish wouldn’t last long.

  The young male’s anger at the scavenging animal gave Jondalar a sudden insight. Could the fish be a possible reason for the flathead to give him aid? Did he want some fish?

  The flathead reached into a fold of the skin wrapped around him, took out a flake of flint with a sharp edge, and made a pass at the sturgeon as though to cut it. Then he made motions indicating some for him and some for the tall man, then waited. It was so clear. There was no doubt in Jondalar’s mind that the youngster wanted a share of the fish. A flood of questions filled him.

  Where did the flathead get the tool? He wanted a closer look, but he knew it didn’t have the refinement of one of his—it had been made on a thicker flake, not a thin blade—but it was a perfectly serviceable sharp knife. It had been made by someone, crafted with purposeful design. But more than the tool, there were questions that disturbed him. The youngster had not
talked, but he had most certainly communicated. Jondalar wondered if he could have made his wishes known as directly and easily.

  The flathead was waiting expectantly, and Jondalar nodded, not sure if the motion would be understood. But his meaning had been communicated in more than gesture. Without hesitation, the young male set to work on the fish.

  As the Zelandonii watched, a turmoil erupted that shook deeply held convictions. What was an animal? An animal might scurry in to take a bite of that fish. A more intelligent animal might consider a man dangerous and wait until he left, or died. An animal would not perceive that a man suffering from exposure needed warmth; would not have a fire and lead him to it; would not ask for a share of his food. That was human behavior; more, it was humane.

  His structure of beliefs—fed to him with his mother’s milk and bred into his bones—was teetering. Flatheads were animals. Everyone said flatheads were animals. Wasn’t it obvious? They couldn’t talk. Is that all? Is that the difference?

  Jondalar wouldn’t have cared if he had taken the whole fish, but he was curious. How much would the flathead take? It needed to be cut anyway, it was too heavy to move. Four men would have trouble lifting it.

  Suddenly the flathead didn’t matter. His heart raced. Had he heard something?

  “Jondalar! Jondalar!”

  The flathead looked startled, but Jondalar was pushing through trees on the bank to get a clear view of the river.

  “Here! Here I am, Thonolan!” His brother had come looking for him. He saw a boatload of people in the middle of the river and hailed them again. They saw him, waved back, and rowed toward him.