Earth's Children [02] The Valley of Horses

by Jean M. Auel

  “There was no one named Lutie in the Lion Camp when I was there.” Ayla decided to be direct. “Tulie is the headwoman, and her brother Talut is the headman.”

  The woman nodded imperceptibly as Ayla went on.

  “I know that a person is usually dedicated to the Mammoth Hearth, not adopted. Talut and Nezzie were the ones who asked me, Talut even enlarged the earthlodge to make a special winter shelter for the horses, but the old Mamut surprised everyone. During the ceremony, he adopted me. He said that I belonged to the Mammoth Hearth, that I was born to it.”

  “If you brought those horses with you to Lion Camp, I can understand why old Mamut might say that,” the man said.

  The woman looked at him with annoyance and said a few words under her breath. Then the three people spoke together again. The man had decided the strangers were probably people and not spirits playing a trick—or if they were, not harmful ones—but he did not believe they were exactly who they claimed to be. The tall man’s explanation for the strange behavior of the animals was too simple, but he was interested. The horses and wolf intrigued him. The woman felt they spoke too easily, volunteered too much, were too forthcoming, and she was sure there was more to it than either of them said. She didn’t trust them and she wanted nothing to do with them.

  The mamut’s acceptance of them as human came only after apprehending another thought that would, to one who understood such things, account for the extraordinary behavior of the animals much more plausibly. She was sure the blond woman was a powerful Caller, and the old Mamut must have known she was born with an uncanny control over animals. Perhaps the man was, too. Later, when their Camp arrived at the Summer Meeting, it would be interesting to talk to the Lion Camp, and the mamuti would be sure to have some thoughts about these two. It was easier to believe in magic than the preposterous notion that animals could be domesticated.

  During their consultation, there was a disagreement. The woman was uncomfortable, the strangers disturbed her. If she had thought about it, she might have admitted she was afraid. She didn’t like being around such an overt demonstration of occult power, but she was overruled. The man spoke.

  “This place where the rivers join is a good place to camp. We have had good hunting, and a herd of giant deer are coming this way. They should be here in a few days. We will not mind if you choose to camp nearby and join us in the hunt.”

  “We appreciate your offer,” Jondalar said. “We may camp nearby for the night, but we must be on our way in the morning.”

  It was a guarded offer, not quite the welcoming that he had often received from strangers when he and his brother had traveled together on foot. The formal greeting, given in the name of the Mother, offered more than hospitality. It was considered an invitation to join them, to stay with them and live among them for a time. The man’s more limited invitation showed their uncertainty, but at least they weren’t being threatened with spears any more.

  “Then, in the name of Mut, at least share an evening meal with us, and eat with us in the morning, too.” That much welcome the headman could offer, and Jondalar sensed he would have liked to offer more.

  “In the name of the Great Earth Mother, we would be happy to eat with you tonight, after we have set up our camp,” Jondalar agreed, “but we must leave early.”

  “Where are you going in such a hurry?”

  The directness that was typical of the Mamutoi still caught Jondalar by surprise, even after all the time he’d lived with them, especially when it came from a stranger. The headman’s question would have been thought somewhat impolite among Jondalar’s people; not a major indiscretion, just a sign of immaturity, or lack of appreciation for the more subtle and indirect speech of knowing adults.

  But, Jondalar had learned, candor and directness were considered proper among the Mamutoi, and lack of openness was suspect, though their ways were not as completely open as they seemed. Subtleties existed. It was a matter of how one expressed directness, how it was received, and what was not said. But the forthright curiosity of the headman of this Camp was, among the Mamutoi, entirely appropriate.

  “I am going home,” Jondalar said, “and I’m bringing this woman back with me.”

  “Why should a day or two make any difference?”

  “My home is far to the west. I’ve been gone …”Jondalar stopped to consider, “four years, and it will take another year to get back, if we are lucky. There are some dangerous crossings—rivers and ice—along the way, and I don’t want to reach them at the wrong season.”

  “West? It looks like you’re traveling south.”

  “Yes. We are heading for Beran Sea and the Great Mother River. We will follow her upstream.”

  “My cousin went west on a trading mission, some years back. He said some people there live near a river they also call the Great Mother,” the man said. “He thought it was the same one. They traveled west from here. Depends how far upstream you want to go, but there is a passage south of the Great Ice, but north of the mountains to the west. You might make your Journey much shorter by going that way.”

  “Talut told me of the northern route, but no one seems to be sure that it is the same river. If it’s not, it could take longer trying to find the right one. I came the southern way, and I know that route. Besides, I have kin among the River People. My brother was mated to a Sharamudoi woman, and I lived with them. I’d like to see them once more. It’s not likely that I will ever see them again.”

  “We trade with the River People … seems to me I did hear about some strangers, a year or two ago, living with that group that a Mamutoi woman joined. It was two brothers, now that I think about it. The Sharamudoi have different mating customs, but as I recall, she and her mate were going to be joining with another couple—some kind of an adoption, I suppose. They sent word inviting any Mamutoi relations who wanted to come. Several went, and one or two have gone back since.”

  “That was my brother, Thonolan,” Jondalar said, pleased that the account tended to verify his story, although he still could not say his brother’s name without feeling pain. “It was his Matrimonial. He joined with Jetamio, and they became cross-mates with Markeno and Tholie. Tholie was the one who first taught me to speak Mamutoi.”

  “Tholie is a distant cousin of mine, and you are the brother of one of her mates?” The man turned to his sister. “Thurie, this man is kin. I think we must welcome them.” Without waiting for an answer, he said, “I am Rutan, headman of Falcon Camp. In the name of Mut, the Great Mother, you are welcome.”

  The woman had no choice. She would not embarrass her brother by refusing to extend a welcome along with him, though she thought of a few choice things to say to him privately. “I am Thurie, headwoman of Falcon Camp. In the name of the Mother, you are welcome here. In summer, we are Feather Grass Camp.”

  It was not the warmest welcome he had ever received. Jondalar detected a definite reservation and restriction. She was welcoming him “here,” to this place specifically, but this was a temporary location. He knew Feather Grass Camp referred to any summer hunting camp site. The Mamutoi were sedentary in the winter, and this group, like the rest, lived in a permanent encampment or community of one or two large or several smaller semisubterranean earthlodges, which they called Falcon Camp. She had not welcomed him there.

  “I am Jondalar of the Zelandonii, I greet you in the name of the Great Earth Mother, whom we call Doni.”

  “We do have extra sleeping places in the mamut’s tent,” Thurie continued, “but I don’t know about the … animals.”

  “If you would not mind,” Jondalar said, if only for the sake of courtesy, “it would be easier for us to set up our own camp nearby, rather than stay within your Camp. We appreciate your hospitality, but the horses need to graze, and they know our tent and will return to it. They might be uneasy coming into your Camp.”

  “Of course,” Thurie said, relieved. They would make her uneasy, too.

  Ayla realized she needed to exchange welcom
es, too. Wolf seemed less defensive, and Ayla tentatively relaxed her hold on him. I can’t sit here holding Wolf all the time, she thought. When she stood up, he started to jump up on her, but she motioned him down.

  Without extending his hands or offering to come any closer, Rutan welcomed her to his Camp. She returned the greeting, in kind. “I am Ayla of the Mamutoi,” she said, then added, “of the Mammoth Hearth. I greet you in the name of Mut.”

  Thurie added her welcome, hedging to restrict it to only this place, as she had done with Jondalar. Ayla responded formally. She wished more friendliness had been shown, but she supposed she couldn’t blame them. The concept of animals traveling willingly with people could be frightening. Not everyone would be as accepting as Talut had been of the strange innovation, Ayla realized, and with a pang, she felt the loss of the people she loved from Lion Camp.

  Ayla turned to Jondalar. “Wolf is not feeling so protective now. I think he will mind me, but I should have something to restrain him while he’s around this Camp, and for later, to hold him back in case we meet other people,” she said in Zelandonii, not feeling able to speak freely around this Camp of Mamutoi, though wishing she could. “Maybe something like that rope guider you made for Racer, Jondalar. There’s a lot of spare rope and thongs in the bottom of one of my pack baskets. I am going to have to teach him not to go after strangers like that; he has to learn to stay where I want him to.”

  Wolf must have understood that raising their spears was a threatening gesture. She could hardly blame him for springing to the defense of the people and horses that made up his strange pack. From his point of view, it was perfectly understandable, but that didn’t mean it was acceptable. He could not approach all the people they might meet on their Journey as though they were strange wolves. She would have to teach him to modify his behavior, to meet unknown people with more restraint. Even as the thought came to her, she wondered if there were other people who understood that a wolf would respond to the wishes of a woman, or that a horse would let a human ride on his back.

  “You stay there with him. I’ll get the rope,” Jondalar said. Still holding on to Racer’s lead, though the young stallion had calmed down, he looked for the rope in Whinney’s pack baskets. The hostility of the Camp had abated somewhat, the people seemed hardly more guarded than they would be toward any strangers. From the way they were watching, their fear seemed to have been replaced by curiosity.

  Whinney had settled down, too. Jondalar scratched and patted her and spoke affectionately while he rummaged through the pack baskets. He was more than fond of the sturdy mare, and though he loved Racer’s high spirits, he admired Whinney’s serene patience. She had a calming effect on the young stallion. He tied Racer’s lead rope to the thong that held the pack baskets on his dam. Jondalar often wished he could control Racer the way Ayla controlled Whinney, with no halter or lead rope. But as he rode the animal, he was discovering the amazing sensitivity of a horse’s skin, developing a good seat, and beginning to guide Racer with pressure and posture.

  Ayla moved to the other side of the mare with Wolf. When Jondalar gave her the rope, he spoke to her quietly. “We don’t have to stay here, Ayla. It’s still early. We can find another place, on this river or another.”

  “I think it’s a good idea for Wolf to get used to people, especially strangers, and even if they’re not too friendly, I wouldn’t mind visiting. They are Mamutoi, Jondalar, my people. These may be the last Mamutoi I will ever see. I wonder if they are going to the Summer Meeting? Maybe we can send a message to Lion Camp with them.”

  Ayla and Jondalar set up their own camp a short distance away from Feather Grass Camp, upstream along the large tributary. They unpacked the horses and let them free to graze. Ayla felt a moment of concern watching them disappear into the dusty blowing haze, as they wandered away from their camp.

  The woman and man had been traveling along the right bank of a large river, but some distance from it. Though flowing generally south, the river meandered across the landscape, twisting and turning as it gouged a deep trench out of the flat plains. By keeping to the steppes above the river valley, the travelers could take a more direct route, but one that was exposed to the unremitting wind and the harsher effects of sun and rain on open terrain.

  “Is this the river Talut talked about?” Ayla asked, unrolling her sleeping furs.

  The man reached into one of a pair of pack baskets for a rather large, flat piece of mammoth tusk with markings incised on it. He looked up toward the section of the dingy sky that glowed with an unbearably bright but diffused light, then at the obscured landscape. It was late afternoon, that much he could tell, but not much more.

  “There’s no way to know, Ayla,” Jondalar said, putting the map back. “I can’t see any landmarks, and I’m used to judging the distance traveled by my own legs. Racer moves at a different pace.”

  “Will it really take a whole year to reach your home?” the woman asked.

  “It’s hard to say for sure. Depends on what we find along the way, how many problems we have, how often we stop. If we make it back to the Zelandonii by this time next year, we can count ourselves lucky. We haven’t even reached Beran Sea, where the Great Mother River ends, and we will have to follow her all the way to the glacier at her source, and then beyond,” Jondalar said. His eyes, an intense and unusually vivid shade of blue, looked worried, and his forehead wrinkled in a familiar furrow of concern.

  “We’ll have some large rivers to cross, but it’s that glacier that worries me most, Ayla. We have to cross over it when the ice is frozen solid, which means we have to reach it before spring, and that’s always unpredictable. A strong south wind blows in that region that can warm the deepest cold to melting in one day. Then the snow and ice on top melt, and break up like rotten wood. Wide cracks open and the snow bridges over them collapse; streams, even rivers of meltwater flow across the ice, sometimes disappearing into deep holes. It’s very dangerous then, and it can happen very suddenly. It’s summer now, and though winter may seem a long way off, we have much farther to travel than you might think.”

  The woman nodded. There was no point in even thinking about how long the Journey would take, or what would happen when they arrived. Better to think of each day as it came, and plan only for the next day or two. Better not to worry about Jondalar’s people, and whether they would accept her as one of them the way the Mamutoi had.

  “I wish it would stop blowing,” she commented.

  “I am tired of eating grit, too,” Jondalar said. “Why don’t we go visit our neighbors, and see if we can get something better to eat.”

  They took Wolf with them when they returned to Feather Grass Camp, but Ayla kept him close. They joined a group that had gathered near a fire over which a large rump was spitted. Conversation was slow to start, but it wasn’t long before curiosity became warm interest and fearful reserve gave way to animated talk. The few people who inhabited those periglacial steppes had little opportunity to meet anyone new, and the excitement of this chance encounter would fuel discussions and fill the stories of Falcon Camp for a long time to come. Ayla became friendly with several of the people, particularly a young woman with a baby daughter just at the age of sitting unassisted and laughing out loud, who charmed them all, but mostly Wolf.

  The young mother was very nervous at first when the animal singled out her child for his solicitous attention, but when his eager licks made her giggle with delight, and he showed gentle restraint, even when she grabbed handfuls of fur and pulled, everyone was surprised.

  The other children were eager to touch him, and before long Wolf was playing with them. Ayla explained that the wolf had grown up with the children of Lion Camp, and probably missed them. He had always been especially gentle with the very young, or the weak, and he seemed to know the difference between the unintentional overzealous squeeze from a toddler and the purposeful pull of a tail or ear by an older child. He allowed the former with patient forebearance, and he repaid t
he latter with a warning growl, or a gentle nip that did not break skin but showed that he could.

  Jondalar mentioned that they had recently left the Summer Meeting, and Rutan told them that necessary repairs to their earthlodge had delayed their departure or they would have been there. He asked Jondalar about his travels and about Racer, with many people listening. They seemed more reluctant to question Ayla, and she didn’t volunteer much, though the mamut would have liked to have taken her aside for private discussions of more esoteric subjects, but she preferred to stay with the Camp. Even the headwoman was more relaxed and friendly by the time they headed back to their own camp, and Ayla asked her to pass on her love and remembrances to Lion Camp when they finally reached the Summer Meeting.

  That night, Ayla lay awake thinking. She was glad she had not let natural hesitation about joining the Camp that had been less than welcoming stop her. Given the opportunity to overcome their fear of the strange or unknown, they had been interested and willing to learn. She had learned, too, that traveling with such unusual companions was likely to inspire strong reactions from anyone they might happen to meet along the way. She had no idea what to expect, but there could be little doubt that this Journey was going to be far more challenging than she had imagined.

  Read on for an excerpt from

  The Shelters of Stone

  Book Five in the Earth’s Children® Series

  by Jean M. Auel

  People were gathering on the limestone ledge, looking down at them warily. No one made a gesture of welcome, and some held spears in positions of readiness if not actual threat. The young woman could almost feel their edgy fear. She watched from the bottom of the path as more people crowded together on the ledge, staring down, many more than she thought there would be. She had seen that reluctance to greet them from other people they had met on their Journey. It’s not just them, she told herself, it’s always that way in the beginning, but she felt uneasy.