Earth's Children [02] The Valley of Horses

by Jean M. Auel

  He liked the way she spoke, though. Her voice was low-pitched and pleasing, and her strange accent made her sound exotic. He decided not to bother yet about correcting the way she put the words together. Proper speech could come later. Her real struggle became more apparent once they progressed beyond words that named specific things and actions. Even the simplest abstract concepts were a problem—she wanted a separate word for every shade of color and found it hard to understand that the deep green of pine and the pale green of willow were both described by the general word green. When she did grasp an abstraction, it seemed to come as a revelation, or a memory long forgotten.

  He commented favorably on her phenomenal memory once, but she found it difficult to understand—or believe—him.

  “No, Don-da-lah. Ayla not good remember. Ayla try, little girl Ayla want good … memory. Not good. Try, try, all time try.”

  Jondalar shook his head, wishing his memory were as good as hers, or his desire to learn as strong and relentless. He could see improvement every day, though she was never satisfied. But as their ability to communicate expanded, the mystery of her deepened. The more he learned about her, the more questions he was burning to have answered. She was incredibly skilled and knowledgeable in some ways, and totally naïve and ignorant in others—and he was never sure which would be which. Some of her abilities—such as making fire—were far more advanced than any he had seen anywhere, and some were primitive beyond belief.

  Of one thing he had no doubt, though: whether or not any of her people were nearby, she was entirely capable of taking care of herself. And of him, as well, he thought, as she moved his covers back to look at his injured leg.

  Ayla had an antiseptic solution ready, but she was nervous as she prepared to take out the knots that held his flesh together. She didn’t think the wound would fall apart—it seemed to be healing well—but she had not used the technique before and she wasn’t sure. She had been considering removing the knots for several days, but it had taken Jondalar’s complaint to make the decision.

  The young woman bent over the leg, looking closely at the knots. Carefully, she pulled up one of the knotted pieces of deer sinew. Skin had grown attached to it and pulled up with it. She wondered if she should have waited so long, but it was too late to worry now. She held the knot with her fingers, and, with her sharpest knife, one that had not been used, she cut one side as close to the knot as possible. A few experimental tugs proved it was not going to pull out easily. Finally, she took the knot in her teeth and, with a quick jerk, pulled it out.

  Jondalar winced. She was sorry to cause him discomfort, but no gap had opened. A little trickle of blood showed where the skin had torn slightly, but the muscles and flesh had healed together. Discomfort was a small price to pay. She took out the remaining stitches as quickly as she could, to get it over with, while Jondalar gritted his teeth and clenched his fists to keep from yelping every time she pulled one out. They both leaned closer to see the result.

  Ayla decided that, if there was no deterioration, she would let him put weight on it and allow him to go outside the cave. She picked up the knife, and the bowl with the solution, and started to get up. Jondalar stopped her. “Let me see the knife?” he asked, pointing to it. She gave it to him and looked on while he examined it.

  “This is made on a flake! It’s not even a blade. It’s been worked with some skill, but the technique is so primitive. It doesn’t even have a handle—just retouched on the back so it won’t cut you. Where did you get this, Ayla? Who made it?”

  “Ayla make.”

  She knew he was commenting on the quality and workmanship, and she wanted to explain that she was not as skilled as Droog, but that she had learned from the Clan’s best toolmaker. Jondalar studied the knife in depth, and it seemed with some surprise. She wanted to discuss the merits of the tool, the quality of the flint, but she could not. She did not have the vocabulary of the proper terms, or an understanding of how to express the concepts. It was frustrating.

  She yearned to talk to him, about everything. It had been so long since she had anyone to communicate with, but she didn’t know how much she missed it until Jondalar had arrived. She felt as though a feast had been set down before her, and she was starving and wanted to devour it, but she could only taste.

  Jondalar gave the knife back to her, shaking his head in wonder. It was sharp, certainly adequate, but it heightened his curiosity. She was as well trained as any zelandoni, and used advanced techniques—like the stitches—but such a primitive knife. If only he could ask her and make her understand; if only she could tell him. And why couldn’t she talk? She was learning rapidly now. Why hadn’t she learned before? Ayla’s learning to speak had become a driving ambition for both of them.

  Jondalar woke early. The cave was still dark, but the entrance and the hole above it showed the deep blue of predawn. It grew perceptibly lighter as he watched, bringing out the shape of every bump and hollow of the rock walls. He could see them as clearly when he closed his eyes; they were etched on his brain. He had to get outside and look at something else. He felt a growing excitement, sure this would be the day. He could hardly wait and was going to shake the woman sleeping beside him. He paused before he touched her, then changed his mind.

  She slept on her side, curled up with her furs piled around her. He was in her usual sleeping place, he knew. Her furs were on a mat drawn up beside him, not in a shallow trench covered with a hay-stuffed pad. She slept in her wrap, ready to jump up at a moment’s notice. She rolled over on her back, and he studied her carefully, trying to see if there were any distinguishing characteristics that would give some hint of her origins.

  Her bone structure, the shape of her face and her cheekbones had a foreign quality compared with Zelandonii women, but there was nothing out of the ordinary about her, except that she was extraordinarily pretty. It was more than mere prettiness, he decided, now that he was taking a good look at her. There was a quality to her features that would be recognized as beauty by anyone’s standards.

  The style of her hair, bound into a regular pattern of braids, left long at the sides and back and tucked under themselves in front, was not familiar, but he had seen hair arranged in ways much more unusual. Some long strands had worked their way loose and were pushed back behind her ears or hanging in disarray, and she had a smudge of charcoal on one cheek. It occurred to him that she had not left his side for more than a moment since he regained consciousness, and probably not before. No one could fault her care.…

  His train of thought was interrupted when Ayla opened her eyes and squealed with surprise.

  She wasn’t used to opening her eyes to a face, especially one with brilliant blue eyes and a scraggly blond beard. She sat up so quickly that she was dizzy for a moment, but she soon regained her composure and got up to stir the fire. It was out; she had forgotten to bank it again. She gathered the materials to start a new one.

  “Would you show me how to start a fire, Ayla?” Jondalar asked when she picked up the stones. This time she understood.

  “Not hard,” she said, and brought the fire-making stones and burning materials closer to the bed. “Ayla show.” She demonstrated hitting the stones together, then piled shaggy bark fiber and fireweed fuzz together and gave him the flint and iron pyrite.

  He recognized the flint immediately—and he thought he had seen stones like the other one, but he would never have attempted to use them together for anything, particularly not for making fire. He struck them together the way she had. It was only a glancing blow, but he thought he saw a tiny spark. He struck again, still not quite believing he could draw fire from stones, in spite of seeing Ayla do it. A large flash jumped from the cold stones. He was stunned and then excited. After a few more tries and a little assistance from Ayla, he had a small fire going beside the bed. He looked at the two stones again.

  “Who taught you to make fire this way?”

  She knew what he was asking, but she didn’t know how to tel
l him. “Ayla do,” she said.

  “Yes, I know you do, but who showed you?”

  “Ayla … show.” How could she tell him about that day when her fire went out, and her hand-axe broke, and she had discovered the firestone? She put her head in her hands for a moment, trying to find a way to explain, then looked at him and shook her head. “Ayla no talk good.”

  He could see her sense of defeat. “You will, Ayla. You can tell me then. It won’t be long—you’re an amazing woman.” He smiled then. “Today I go outside, right?”

  “Ayla see …” She pulled back his covers and checked the leg. The places where the knots had been had small scabs, and the leg was well on the way toward healing. It was time to get him up on the leg and try to assess the impairment. “Yes, Don-da-lah go out.”

  The biggest grin she’d ever seen cracked his face. He felt like a boy setting out for the Summer Meeting after a long winter. “Well, let’s go, woman!” He pulled back the furs, eager to be up and out.

  His boyish enthusiasm was infectious. She smiled back, but added a note of restraint. “Don-da-lah eat food.”

  It didn’t take long to prepare a morning meal of food cooked the evening before, plus a morning tea. She brought grain to Whinney, and spent a few moments currying her with a teasel and scratching the little colt with it as well. Jondalar watched her. He’d watched her before, but this was the first time he noticed that she made a sound remarkably like that of a horse’s nicker, and some clipped, guttural syllables. Her hand motions and signs meant nothing to him—he didn’t see them, didn’t know they were an integral part of the language she spoke to the horse—but he knew that in some incomprehensible way, she was talking to the mare. He had an equally strong impression that the animal understood her.

  As she fondled the mare and her foal, he wondered what magic she had used to captivate the animals. He was feeling a bit captivated himself, but he was surprised and delighted when she led the horse and her colt to him. He had never patted a living horse before, nor gotten so close to a fuzzy new foal, and he was slightly overwhelmed by their total lack of fear. The colt seemed particularly drawn to him after his first cautious pats led to strokes and scratches that unerringly found the right places.

  He remembered he had not given her the name for the animal, and he pointed to the mare. “Horse,” he said.

  But Whinney had a name, a name made with sounds, just like hers, and his. Ayla shook her head. “No,” she said, “Whinney.”

  To him, the sound she made was not a name—it was a perfect imitation of a horse’s whinny. He was astonished. She couldn’t speak any human languages, but she could talk like a horse? Talk to a horse? He was awed; that was powerful magic.

  She mistook his dazed look for lack of understanding. She touched her chest and said her name, trying to explain. Then she pointed at him and said his name. Next she pointed to the horse and made the soft neigh again.

  “Is that the mare’s name? Ayla, I can’t make a noise like that. I don’t know how to talk to horses.”

  After a second, and more patient, explanation, he made an attempt, but it was more like a word that sounded like it. That seemed to satisfy her, and she led the two horses back to the mare’s place in the cave. “He’s teaching me words, Whinney. I’m going to learn all his words, but I had to tell him your name. We’ll have to think of a name for your little one.… I wonder, do you think he’d like to name your baby?”

  Jondalar had heard of certain zelandonii who were said to have the ability to lure animals to hunters. Some hunters could even make a good imitation of the sounds of certain animals, which helped them get closer. But he’d never heard of anyone who could talk with an animal, or who had convinced one to live with her. Because of her, a wild mare had foaled right before his eyes, and had even let him touch her baby. It suddenly struck him, with wonder and a little fear, what the woman had done. Who was she? And what kind of magic did she possess? But as she walked toward him with a happy smile on her face, she seemed no more than an ordinary woman. Just an ordinary woman, who could talk to horses but not to people.

  “Don-da-lah go out?”

  He had almost forgotten. His face lit up with eagerness, and, before she could reach him, he tried to get up. His enthusiasm paled. He was weak, and it was painful to move. Dizziness and nausea threatened, then passed. Ayla watched his expression change from an eager smile to a grimace of pain and then a sudden blanching.

  “I may need a little help,” he said. His smile was strained, but earnest.

  “Ayla help,” she said, offering her shoulder for support and her hand for assistance. At first he didn’t want to put too much weight on her, but as he saw that she was bearing up under it, had the strength, and knew how to pull him up, he took her help.

  When he finally stood on his good leg, braced against a post of the drying rack, and Ayla looked up at him, her jaw dropped and her eyes opened wide. The top of her head barely reached his chin. She knew his body was longer than men of the Clan, but she hadn’t projected that length into height, hadn’t perceived how he would appear standing up. She had never seen anyone so tall.

  Not since she was a child could she remember looking up to anyone. Even before she had reached womanhood, she was taller than everyone in the Clan, including the men. She had always been big and ugly; too tall, too pale, too fiat faced. No man would have her, not even after her powerful totem was defeated and they would all have liked to think their totem had overcome her Cave Lion and made her pregnant; not even when they knew that if she wasn’t mated before she gave birth, her child would be unlucky. And Durc was unlucky. They weren’t going to let him live. They said he was deformed, but then Brun accepted him anyway. Her son had overcome his bad luck. He would overcome the bad luck of losing his mother, too. And he was going to be tall—she had known that before she left—but not as tall as Jondalar.

  This man made her feel positively little. Her first impression of him had been that he was young, and young implied small. He had looked younger, too. She looked up at him from her new perspective and noticed his beard had been growing in. She didn’t know why he hadn’t had one when she had first seen him, but seeing the coarse golden hair now sprouting from his chin made her realize that he was not a boy. He was a man—a tall, powerful, fully mature man.

  Her look of amazement made him smile, though he didn’t know the cause. She was taller than he had guessed, too. The way she moved and held herself gave the effect of someone of much shorter stature. Actually, she was quite tall, and he liked tall women. They were the ones that usually caught his eye, though this one would catch anyone’s eye, he thought. “We got this far, let’s go out,” he said.

  Ayla was feeling conscious of his closeness, and his nakedness. “Don-da-lah need … garment,” she said, using his word for her wrap, although she meant one for a man. “Need cover …” She pointed to his genitals; he had not told her that word, either. Then for some unexplainable reason, she blushed.

  It was not modesty. She had seen many men unclothed, and women, too—it was not a matter for concern. She thought he would need protection, not from the elements, but from malicious spirits. Though women were not included in their rituals, she knew that men of the Clan did not like to leave their genitals exposed if they were going out. She didn’t know why that thought made her feel flustered, or why her face felt hot, or why it seemed to bring on those pulling, tightening, pulsing sensations.

  Jondalar looked down at himself. He had superstitions about his genitals, too, but they did not involve covering them for protection from evil spirits. If malicious enemies had induced a zelandoni to call down harm, or if a woman had just cause and cast a curse on him, it would take a great deal more than an article of clothing to protect him.

  But he had learned that while a stranger might make a social blunder and be forgiven, it was wise when traveling to pay attention to subtle hints so that he would offend as seldom as possible. He had seen where she pointed—and her blush.
He took it to mean she thought he should not go out with his genitals exposed. And in any case, sitting with bare skin on bare rock could get uncomfortable, and he wouldn’t be able to move much.

  Then he thought about himself standing there on one leg, hanging on to a post, so eager to get out of the cave that he hadn’t even noticed he was completely naked. The humor in the situation suddenly struck him, and he burst out with a hearty laugh.

  Jondalar had no way of knowing the effect of his laughter on Ayla. To him, it was as natural as breathing. Ayla had grown up with people who did not laugh, and who viewed her laughter with such suspicion that she had learned to curtail it so she would fit in more easily. It was part of the price she paid for survival. Only after her son was born did she discover the joy of laughter again. It was one of the qualities he had acquired from her half of his heritage. She knew encouraging him would be disapproved, but when they were alone, she couldn’t resist playful tickling when he responded with giggles of delight.

  To her, laughter was charged with more meaning than just a simple spontaneous response. It represented the unique bond she had with her son, the part of herself she could see in him, and was an expression of her own identity. The laughter inspired by the cave lion cub which she loved had strengthened that expression, and she would not give it up. It would not only have meant giving up memory sensations of her son, but giving up her own developing sense of self.

  But she hadn’t considered that someone else might laugh. Except for her own and Durc’s, she could not recall hearing laughter before. The special quality of Jondalar’s laugh—the hearty, jubilant freedom of it—invited response. There was unrestrained delight in his voice as he laughed at himself, and, from the moment she heard it, she loved it. Unlike the Clan adult-male reproof, Jondalar’s laughter bestowed approval by its very sound. It was not only all right to laugh, it was invited. It was impossible to resist.