by Jean M. Auel
It was unexpected, but the arms around his neck were familiar and her weight was negligible. For a while, neither moved. As they hunted together, Ayla had adapted her signal from casting a stone with a sling to an arm motion and her word for “Go.” The moment she thought of it, without hesitation, she made the signal and shouted the word.
Feeling his muscles bunch beneath her, she grasped his mane as he sprang ahead. With the sinewy grace of his kind, he sped down the valley with the woman on his back. She squinted at the wind in her face. Tendrils of hair that had escaped her braids streamed behind her. She had no control. She did not direct Baby as she had Whinney—she went where he took her, and went gladly, feeling an exhilaration beyond anything she had ever known.
The quick burst of speed was short-lived, as was his way even in the attack. He slowed down, made a wide circle, and loped back to the cave. With the woman still on his back, he climbed the steep path and stopped at her place in the cave. She slid off and hugged him, knowing no other way to express the deep unnamable emotions she felt. When she let go, he flicked his tail, then headed for the back of the cave. He found his favorite spot, stretched out, and very quickly went to sleep.
She watched him, smiling. You’ve given me my ride and now you’re through for the day, is that it? Baby, after that, you can sleep as long as you want.
Toward the end of summer, Baby’s hunting absences became longer. The first time he was gone for more than a day, Ayla was beside herself with worry, and so anxious that she didn’t sleep the second night. She was as tired and bedraggled as he looked when he finally appeared the next morning. He brought no kill with him, and when she gave him dried meat from her stored supply, he tore into it, though usually he toyed with the brittle strips. As tired as she was, she went out with her sling and brought back two hares. He awoke from his exhausted sleep, ran to the cave entrance to greet her, and took one hare to the rear of the cave. She carried the other to the back, then went to her own sleeping place.
The time he was gone three days, she didn’t worry as much—but as the empty days passed, her heart grew heavier. He returned with gashes and scratches, and she knew he had skirmished with other lions. She suspected he was mature enough to be aware of females. Unlike horses, lionesses had no special season; they could come into heat any time of the year.
The young cave lion’s longer absences became still more frequent as fall progressed, and when he did return it was usually to sleep. Ayla was sure he was sleeping elsewhere as well, but didn’t feel as secure there as he did in her cave. She never knew when to expect him, or from which direction. He would just appear, either padding up the narrow path from the beach or, more dramatically, in a sudden leap down from the steppes above her cave to the ledge in front.
She was always happy to see him, and his greetings were always affectionate—sometimes a little too affectionate. After he leaped up to put heavy forepaws on her shoulders and knocked her down, she was quick to signal “stop” if he seemed a little too enthusiastically delighted to see her.
Usually, he’d stay a few days; sometimes they would hunt together, and he still brought a kill back to the cave now and then. Then he’d get restless again. She was sure Baby was hunting for himself and defending his kills against the hyenas, or wolves, or carrion birds that would try to steal them. She learned that once he started pacing, she could expect him to leave shortly afterward. The cave felt so empty when the lion was gone that she began to dread the coming of winter. She was afraid it was going to be a lonely one.
The fall was unusual—warm and dry. Leaves turned yellow, then brown, skipping over the bright hues that a kiss of frost could bring. They clung to the trees in drab withered clusters that rattled in the wind long beyond the time they would usually have littered the ground. The peculiar weather was unsettling—autumn should be wet and cool, full of blustery winds and sudden showers. Ayla couldn’t avoid a sense of dread, as though summer would hold off the seasonal change until overcome by the sudden onslaught of winter.
Every morning she went outside, expecting some drastic change, and was almost disappointed to see a warm sun rising in a remarkably clear sky. Evenings she spent outside on the ledge, watching the sun drop below the edge of the earth with only a haze of dust glowing dull red instead of a glorious display of color on water-laden clouds. When the stars winked on, they filled the darkness so that the sky looked shattered and cracked with their profusion.
She had been staying close to the valley for days, and when yet another day dawned warm and clear, it seemed foolish to have wasted the beautiful weather when she could have been out enjoying it. Winter would come soon enough to keep her confined to a lonely cave.
Too bad Baby’s not here, she thought. It would be a good day to go hunting. Maybe I can go hunting myself. She hefted a spear. No. Without Baby or Whinney, I’ll have to find a new way to hunt. I’ll just take my sling. I wonder if I should take a fur? It’s so warm, I’d just sweat in it. I could carry it, maybe take the gathering basket. But I don’t need anything—I’ve got more than enough. All I want is a nice long walk. I don’t need to carry a basket for that, and I won’t need a fur either. A brisk walk will keep me warm enough.
Ayla started down the steep trail feeling strangely unencumbered. She had no burdens to carry, no animals to be concerned for, a well-stocked cave. She had nothing to worry about but herself, but she wished she had. The utter lack of responsibility gave her mixed feelings: an unaccustomed sense of freedom and an unaccountable frustration.
She reached the meadow and climbed the easy grade to the eastern steppes, then set herself a fast pace. She had no particular destination in mind and walked wherever her whim took her. The dryness of the season was accentuated on the steppes. The grass was so withered and parched that, when she held a brittle blade in her hand and crumpled it, it shattered to dust. The wind scattered it from her open palm.
The ground beneath her feet was cemented into rock hardness and cracked in a checkered pattern. She had to watch her footing to avoid stumbling on clods or twisting an ankle in a hole or furrow. She had never seen it so arid. The atmosphere seemed to suck the moisture from her breath. She had taken only a small waterbag with her, expecting to fill it at known streams and watering places, but several of them were dry. Her bag was more than half empty before the morning was half gone.
When she came to a stream that she was sure would have water and found only mud, she decided to turn back. Hoping to fill her bag, she walked along the streambed for a ways and came to a muddy puddle, all that remained of a deep watering hole. When she bent down to taste, to see if it was drinkable, she noticed fresh hoofprints. A herd of horses had obviously been there not long before. Something about one of the prints made her look closer. She was an experienced tracker, and though she hadn’t thought of it, she had seen Whinney’s hoofprints too many times not to know the minor variations in outline and pressure that made her prints unique. When she looked, she was certain Whinney had been there, and not long before; she must be close by. Ayla’s heart beat faster.
It wasn’t hard to find the trail. The broken edge of a crack where a hoof had slipped in as the horses left the mud, loose dust newly settled, bent grass—all pointed the way the horses had gone. Ayla followed with breathless excitement; even the still air seemed to be holding its breath with anticipation. It had been so long—would Whinney remember her? Just to know she was alive would be enough.
The herd was farther away than she thought they would be. Something had given chase, sending them galloping across the plains. She heard snarls and commotion before she came upon the feeding wolf pack, and she should have backed off. But she had to go closer to make sure the fallen animal was not Whinney. The sight of a deep brown coat relieved her, but it was the same uncommon color as the stallion, and she felt sure the horse was from the same herd.
As she continued to track, she thought about horses in the wild and how vulnerable they were to attack. Whinney was young and str
ong, but anything could happen. She wanted to bring the young mare back with her.
It was almost noon before she finally sighted the horses. They were still nervous from the chase, and Ayla was upwind. As soon as they caught her scent, they moved. The young woman had to circle wide to come upon them downwind. As soon as she was close enough to see individual horses, she identified Whinney, and her heart pounded. She swallowed hard a few times trying to hold back tears that insisted on coming.
She looks healthy, Ayla thought. Fat. No, she’s not fat. I think she’s pregnant! Oh, Whinney, how wonderful. Ayla was so pleased that she could hardly contain it. Then she couldn’t stand it; she had to see if the horse would remember her. She whistled.
Whinney’s head came up instantly and looked in Ayla’s direction. The woman whistled again, and the horse started toward her. Ayla couldn’t wait; she ran to meet the hay-colored horse. Suddenly a beige mare galloped between them and, nipping at Whinney’s hocks, herded her away. Then rounding up the rest of the herd, the lead mare drove them all away from the unfamiliar and possibly dangerous woman.
Ayla was heartbroken. She couldn’t keep chasing after the herd. She was already much farther away from the valley than she had planned to come, and they could move so much faster than she. As it was, if she was going to make it back before dark, she’d have to hurry. She whistled one more time, loud and long, but she knew it was too late. She turned away, disheartened, and, pulling her leather wrap higher up around her shoulders, she bent her head into the cold wind.
She was so dejected that she wasn’t paying attention to anything except her sorrow and disappointment. A snarl of warning brought her up short. She had stumbled into the wolf pack, muzzle deep in blood, gorging on the deep brown horse.
I’d better watch where I’m going, she thought, backing off. It’s my fault. If I hadn’t been so impatient, maybe that mare wouldn’t have driven the herd away from me. She glanced again at the fallen animal as she circled around. That is a dark color for a horse. It looks as brown as the stallion of Whinney’s herd. She took a closer look. A quality to the head, the coloring, the conformation, sent a shiver through her. It was the bay stallion! How could a stallion in his prime fall prey to wolves?
The left foreleg bent at an abnormal angle gave her the answer. Even a magnificent young stud can break a leg when racing over treacherous ground. A deep crack in the dry earth had given the wolves their taste of prime stallion. Ayla shook her head. It’s too bad, she thought. He would have had many good years in him yet. As she turned away from the wolves, she finally noticed her own danger.
The sky that had been so clear in the morning was now a curdled mass of ominous clouds. The high pressure that had been holding off winter had yielded, and the cold front that had been waiting rushed in. Wind was flattening the dry grass and whipping bits of it around in the air. Temperature was falling fast. She could smell snow on its way, and she was a long distance from the cave. She looked around, took her bearings, and started off at a run. It was going to be a race to see if she could get back before the storm struck.
She didn’t have a chance. She was more than half a day’s brisk walk from the valley, and winter had been held back too long. By the time she reached the dry stream, big, wet snowfiakes were falling. They became penetrating needles of ice as the wind picked up again, then turned to the drier siftings of a full-blown blizzard. Drifts were building on the solid base of wet snow. Swirling winds, still fighting crosscurrents of shifting air streams, buffeted her first from one direction and then another.
She knew her only hope was to keep going, but she wasn’t sure if she was still going the right way. The shape of landmarks was obscured. She stopped, trying to get a sense of her location, and trying to control her rising panic. How stupid she had been to leave without her fur. She could have taken her tent in her carrying basket; then, at least, she’d have shelter. Her ears were freezing, her feet were numb, her teeth were chattering. She was cold. She could hear the wind whistling.
She listened again. That wasn’t wind, was it? There it was again. She cupped her hands around her mouth and whistled as loud as she could, and listened.
The high-pitched screaming whinny of a horse sounded closer. She whistled once more, and when the shape of the yellow horse loomed like a wraith out of the storm, Ayla ran to her with tears freezing her face.
“Whinney, Whinney, oh, Whinney.” She cried the horse’s name over and over again, wrapping her arms around the sturdy neck and burying her face in the shaggy winter coat. Then she climbed up on the horse’s back and bent low over her neck for as much warmth as she could get.
The horse followed her own instincts and headed for the cave. It was the place she had been going. The unexpected death of the stallion had disrupted the herd. The lead mare was holding them together, knowing another stallion would eventually be found. She might have kept the yellow horse as well—if it hadn’t been for the familiar whistle, and memories of the woman and security. For the mare not raised in a herd, the lead horse had less influence. When the storm broke, Whinney remembered a cave that was shelter from fierce winds and blinding snows and the affection of a woman.
Ayla was shivering so hard by the time they finally reached the cave that she could hardly start a fire. When she did, she didn’t huddle near it. Instead, she grabbed up her sleeping furs, brought them to Whinney’s side of the cave, and curled up next to the warm horse.
But she could hardly appreciate the return of her beloved friend for the next few days. She woke up with a fever and a deep hacking cough. She lived on hot medicinal teas, when she could remember to get up and make them. Whinney had saved her life, but the horse could do nothing to help her overcome pneumonia.
She was weak and delirious most of the time, but the moment of confrontation when Baby returned to the cave brought her out of it. He had leaped down from the steppes above, but was stopped as he entered by Whinney’s ringing challenge. The scream of fright and defense pierced Ayla’s stupor. She saw the horse with her ears laid back in anger and then pitching forward in fear, prancing nervously, and the cave lion poised to spring with bared teeth and a low growl in his throat. She leaped out of bed and ran between predator and prey.
“Stop it, Baby! It frightens Whinney. You should be glad she’s back.” Ayla turned then to the horse. “Whinney! It’s only Baby. You don’t have to be afraid of him. Both of you stop it now,” she scolded. She believed there was no danger; both animals had been raised together in the cave, and both belonged.
The scents in the cave were familiar to both animals, particularly the woman’s. Baby rushed to greet Ayla, rubbing against her, and Whinney came forward to nuzzle her share of attention. Then the horse nickered, not in fear or anger, but with a sound she had used for the baby lion in her care, and the cave lion recognized his nursemaid.
“I told you it was only Baby,” she said to the horse, then was overcome with coughing.
Stirring up the fire, Ayla reached for the waterbag and discovered it was empty. Wrapping her sleeping fur around her, she went outside and scooped up a bowl of snow. She tried to control the deep spasms from her chest that tore at her throat while she waited for water to boil. Finally, with a decoction of elecampane roots and wild cherry bark to help, the cough quieted and she returned to her bed. Baby had made himself comfortable in the far corner, and Whinney relaxed in her place by the wall.
Eventually, Ayla’s natural vitality and hardiness overcame the illness, but she was a long time recovering. She was beside herself with joy to have her animal family back together again, though it was not quite the same. Both animals had changed. Whinney was heavy with foal and had lived with a wild herd who understood the dangers of predators. She was more reserved around the lion with whom she had played in the past, and Baby was not a funny little cub anymore. He left the cave again soon after the blizzard blew itself out, and, as the winter deepened, he returned less and less.
Overexertion often brought on fits o
f coughing until well past midwinter, and Ayla babied herself. She pampered the horse too, feeding her grain she had picked and winnowed for herself and only taking short rides. But when a day dawned cold and clear, and she woke up full of energy, she decided a little exercise might be good for both of them.
She strapped the pack baskets onto the horse, and took along spears and travois poles, emergency food, extra water-bags and clothing, carrying basket, tent—everything she could think of for every possible emergency. She did not want to get caught short again. The one time she had been careless was almost fatal. Before she mounted, she laid a soft leather hide over Whinney’s back, an innovation since the horse’s return. It had been so long since she had ridden that her thighs became chapped and sore, and the leather blanket made a difference.
Enjoying the feeling of being out, and a sense of well-being at the absence of the terrible cough, Ayla let the horse walk at her own pace once they reached the steppes. She was riding comfortably, daydreaming about the end of winter, when she felt Whinney’s muscles tense. It snapped her to attention. Something was moving toward them, something that moved with the stealth of a predator. Whinney was more vulnerable now—she was nearing the time when she would give birth. Ayla reached for her spear, though she had never tried to kill a cave lion before.
As the animal neared, she saw a rufous mane and a familiar scar on the lion’s nose. She slipped off the horse and ran toward the huge predator.
“Baby! Where have you been? Don’t you know I worry if you stay away so long?”
He seemed just as excited to see her and greeted her with an affectionate rub that almost knocked her over. She wrapped her arms around his neck, and scratched behind his ears and under his chin the way he loved it, while he purred a low growl of contentment.
