The Earth's Children Series 6-Book Bundle

by Jean M. Auel

  Ayla was so lost in her grief, she wasn’t aware of the rapid currents swirling around her. She saw Broud order her cursed, and saw Goov tell him it was done, but her grief-filled mind didn’t comprehend. Slowly, the meaning impinged on her consciousness. When it penetrated, with all its ramifications, the impact was devastating.

  Cursed? Death cursed? Why? What did I do that was so bad? How did it happen so fast? The clan was as slow to comprehend as she. They hadn’t fully recovered from the earthquake. Ayla watched them with a curious detachment as, one after the other, eyes became glazed and unseeing. There goes Crug. Who’s going to be next. Uka. Now Droog, but not Aga yet. There she goes, she must have seen me look at her.

  Ayla wasn’t moved into action until Uba’s eyes went blank and she began to keen for the mother of the boy she held in her arms. Durc! My baby, my son! I’m cursed, I’ll never see him again. What will happen to him? There’s only Uba left. She’ll take care of him, but what can she do against Broud? Broud hates him because he’s my son. Ayla looked wildly around, and saw Brun. Brun! Brun can protect Durc. No one else but Brun can protect him.

  Ayla ran to the stoic, strong, sensitive man who, until the day before, had led the clan. She dropped to the ground at his feet and bowed her head. It took a moment before she realized he would never tap her shoulder. When she looked up, he was looking over her head at the fire behind her. If he wanted, his eyes could see her. He can see me, Ayla thought. I know he can. Creb remembered everything I said to him, so did Iza.

  “Brun, I know you think I’m dead, a spirit. Don’t look away! I beg you, don’t look away! It happened too fast! I’ll go, I promise I’ll go, but I’m afraid for Durc. Broud hates him, you know he does. What will happen to him with Broud as leader? Durc is Clan, Brun. You accepted him. I beg you, Brun, protect Durc. Only you can do it. Don’t let Broud hurt him!”

  Brun slowly turned his back on the pleading woman, turning his gaze away as though he was shifting position, not as if he was trying to avoid looking at her. But she saw the barest glimmer of recognition in his eyes, a hint of a nod. It was enough. He would protect Durc, he had promised the spirit of the boy’s mother. It was true it was too fast, she hadn’t had time to ask him before. He would bend his decision not to interfere with Broud that much. He would not let the son of his mate harm Ayla’s son.

  Ayla got up and walked purposefully toward the cave. She hadn’t decided to leave until she told Brun she would, but once she did, it made up her mind. Her grief over Creb’s death was pushed into a corner of her mind, to be brought out later when her survival was not at stake. She would go, perhaps to the world of the spirits, perhaps not, but she would not go unprepared.

  She hadn’t been as aware of the destruction inside the cave the first time she went in. She stared at the unfamiliar place, grateful that the clan had been outside. Taking a deep breath, she hurried to Creb’s hearth, ignoring the treacherous condition of the cave. If she didn’t get what she needed to survive, she’d be dead for sure.

  She moved a rock from her bed, shook out her fur wrap, and began to pile things on it. Her medicine bag, her sling, two pairs of foot coverings, leggings, hand coverings, a fur-lined wrap, a hood. Her cup and bowl, waterbags, tools. She went to the back of the cave and found the supply of concentrated, high-energy traveling cakes of dried meat, fruit, and fat. She searched through the rubble and found birchbark packets of maple sugar, nuts, dried fruit, ground parched grain, strips of dried meat and fish, and a few vegetables. It was not too great a variety so late in the season, but adequate. She dumped dust and rocks out of her collecting basket and began to pack it.

  She picked up Durc’s carrying cloak and held it to her face, feeling the tears well up. She’d have no need for it, she wasn’t taking Durc. She packed it. At least she could take something that had been close to him. She dressed herself warmly. It was still early in the season; it would be cold on the steppes. North, it might still be winter. She hadn’t made any conscious decision about her direction; she knew she was going to the mainland north of the peninsula.

  At the last moment, she decided to take the hide shelter she used when she went with the men on hunting trips, though technically it wasn’t hers. She could take anything that belonged to her; whatever was left behind would be burned. And she felt a share of the food was rightfully hers, too, but the shelter was Creb’s for the use of the people of his hearth. Creb was gone and he never did have a use for it; she didn’t think he would mind.

  She packed it on top of her collecting basket, then hoisted the heavy load on her back and tied the thongs that held it securely in place. Tears threatened again as she stood in the middle of the hearth that had been her home since a few days after Iza found her. She would never see it again. A kaleidoscope of memories tumbled through her mind, stopping for an instant at significant scenes. She thought last of Creb. I wish I knew what caused you such pain, Creb. Maybe someday I’ll understand, but I’m so glad we talked the other night, before you left for the spirit world. I’ll never forget you, or Iza, or the clan. Then Ayla walked out of the cave.

  No one looked at her, but everyone knew when she reappeared. She stopped at the still pool just outside the cave to fill her waterbags, and had another memory. Before dipping in and disturbing the mirrored surface, she leaned over and looked at herself. She studied her features carefully; she didn’t seem so ugly this time, but it wasn’t herself she was interested in. She wanted to see the face of the Others.

  When she stood up, Durc was struggling to get free of Uba’s restraining arms. Something was going on that concerned his mother. He wasn’t sure what, but he didn’t like it. With a jerk, he broke loose and ran to Ayla.

  “You’re going away,” he accused, beginning to understand and indignant that he hadn’t been told. “You’re all dressed and going away.”

  Ayla hesitated only a fraction of an instant, then held out her arms as he flew into them. She picked him up and hugged him tight, fighting back tears. She put him down and hunkered down to his level, looking directly into his large brown eyes.

  “Yes, Durc, I’m going away. I have to go away.”

  “Take me with you, Mama. Take me with you! Don’t leave me!”

  “I can’t take you with me, Durc. You have to stay here with Uba. She will take care of you. Brun will, too.”

  “I don’t want to stay here!” Durc gestured fiercely. “I want to go with you. Don’t go away and leave me!”

  Uba was coming toward them. She had to, she had to take Durc away from the spirit. Ayla hugged her son again.

  “I love you, Durc. Never forget that, I love you.” She picked him up and put him in Uba’s arms. “Take care of my son for me, Uba,” she motioned, looking into her sad eyes that looked back and saw her. “Take care of him … my sister.”

  Broud watched them, getting more furious. The woman was dead, she was a spirit. Why wasn’t she acting like one? And some of his clan weren’t treating her like one.

  “That’s a spirit,” he gestured angrily. “She’s dead. Don’t you know she’s dead?”

  Ayla marched straight to Broud and stood tall before him. He was having trouble not seeing her, too. He tried to ignore her, but she was looking down at him, not sitting at his feet as a woman should.

  “I’m not dead, Broud,” she gestured defiantly. “I won’t die. You can’t make me die. You can make me go away, you can take my son from me, but you can’t make me die!”

  Two emotions vied within Broud, fury and fear. He raised his fist in an overwhelming urge to strike her, then held it there, afraid to touch her. It’s a trick, he told himself, it’s a spirit’s trick. She’s dead, she was cursed.

  “Hit me, Broud! Go ahead, acknowledge this spirit. Hit me and you’ll know I’m not dead.”

  Broud turned to Brun, to look away from the spirit. He lowered his arm, uncomfortable that he could not make it look natural. He hadn’t touched her, but he was afraid just raising his clenched fist had acknowledged he
r, and he tried to pass the bad luck on to Brun.

  “Don’t think I didn’t see you, Brun. You answered her when she was talking to you, before she went into the cave. She’s a spirit, you’ll bring bad luck,” he denounced.

  “Only on myself, Broud, and what more could I have? But when did you see her talk to me? When did you see her go into the cave? Why did you threaten to strike a spirit? You still don’t understand, do you? You acknowledged her, Broud, she has beaten you. You did everything you could to her, you even cursed her. She’s dead, and still she won. She was a woman, and she had more courage than you, Broud, more determination, more self-control. She was more man than you are. Ayla should have been the son of my mate.”

  Ayla was surprised at Brun’s unexpected eulogy. Durc was squirming to get away again, calling out to her. She couldn’t bear it and hurried to leave. As she passed Brun, she bowed her head and made a gesture of gratitude. When she reached the ridge, she turned and looked back one more time. She saw Brun raise his hand as if to scratch his nose, but it looked as if he made a gesture, the same gesture Norg had made when they left the Clan Gathering. It looked as if Brun had said, “Walk with Ursus.”

  The last thing Ayla heard as she disappeared behind the broken ridge was Durc’s plaintive wail—

  “Maama, Maaama, Maamaaa!”

  for RAY

  My worst critic

  —and best friend

  Acknowledgments

  No book published is ever solely the work of the author. Assistance comes from a variety of sources in as many different ways. But some contributions to my work came from people I have never met and probably never will. I am grateful, nonetheless, to the citizens of the city of Portland, and the country of Multnomah, Oregon, whose taxes support the Multnomah County Library, without whose reference materials this book would not have been written. I am also grateful to the archaeologists, anthropologists, and other specialists who wrote the books from which I gathered most of the information for the setting and background of this novel.

  There were many who helped more directly. Among them, I want especially to thank:

  Gin DeCamp, the first to hear my story idea, who was a friend when I needed one, who read a fat manuscript with enthusiasm and a meticulous eye for errors, and who sculpted a symbol for the series. John DeCamp, friend and fellow writer, who knew the agonies and the ecstasies, and had the uncanny knack of calling exactly when I had to talk to someone who did. Karen Auel, who encouraged her mother more than she ever knew because she laughed where she was supposed to laugh and cried where she was supposed to cry, though it was a first draft.

  Cathy Humble, of whom I asked the greatest favor one can ask of a friend—honest criticism—because I valued her sense of words. She did the impossible; her critique was both acutely perceptive and gentle. Deanna Sterett, for getting caught up in the story, and who knew enough about hunting to point out some oversights. Lana Elmer, who listened with unflagging attention to hours of dissertation and still liked the story. Anna Bacus, who offered her unique insights and her sharp eye for spelling.

  Not all my research was done in libraries. My husband and I made many field trips to learn firsthand various aspects of living close to nature. In the line of direct experience, special thanks are due to Frank Heyl, Arctic Survival Expert with the Oregon Museum of Science and Industry, who showed me how to make my bed in a snow cave and then expected me to lie in it! I survived that cold January night on the slopes of Mount Hood and learned much more about survival from Mr. Heyl, who has my vote as the one I’d most like to be around during the next Ice Age.

  I am indebted to Andy Van’t Hul for sharing with me his special knowledge of living in the natural environment. He showed me firemaking without matches, axes made of stone, cord twining and basket weaving, sinew and rawhide, and how to knap my own stone blade that cuts through leather as though it were butter.

  Gratitude beyond measure goes to Jean Naggar, a literary agent so good she turned my wildest fantasy into reality and then bettered it. And to Carole Baron, my shrewd, sharp, and sensitive editor, who believed in the reality, then took my very best effort and made it better.

  Finally, there are two individuals who had no idea they were helping me, yet whose assistance was invaluable. I have since met one of them, but the first time I heard writer and teacher Don James talk about the writing of fiction, he didn’t know he was talking directly to me. He thought he was addressing a whole group. The words he said were exactly those I needed to hear. Don James didn’t know it, but I might never have finished this book if it wasn’t for him.

  The other is a man I know only through his book, Ralph S. Solecki, author of Shanidar (Alfred A. Knopf, New York). The story of his excavation of Shanidar Cave and discovery of several Neanderthal skeletons profoundly moved me. He gave me a perspective of prehistoric cave man I might not otherwise have had and a better understanding of the meaning of humanity. But I must do more than thank Professor Solecki—I must apologize for one instance of literary license I took with his facts for the sake of my fiction. In real life, it was a Neanderthal who put flowers in the grave.

  This edition contains the complete text of the original hardcover edition.

  NOT ONE WORD HAS BEEN OMITTED.

  THE VALLEY OF HORSES

  A Bantam Book / published by arrangement with Crown Publishers

  PUBLISHING HISTORY

  Crown edition published September 1982

  A Featured Alternate Selection of The Literary Guild / January 1983

  Bantam edition / September 1983

  Bantam reissue / November 1991

  Bantam reissue / March 2002

  EARTH’S CHILDREN is a trademark of Jean M. Auel

  All rights reserved.

  Copyright © 1982 by Jean M. Auel

  Library of Congress Catalog Card Number: 82-005123.

  No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.

  For information address: Crown Publishers, Inc.,

  New York, NY.

  eISBN: 978-0-307-76762-2

  Bantam Books are published by Bantam Books, a division of Random House, Inc. Its trademark, consisting of the words “Bantam Books” and the portrayal of a rooster, is Registered in U.S. Patent and Trademark Office and in other countries. Marca Registrada. Bantam Books, 1540 Broadway, New York, New York 10036.

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  Contents

  Master - Table of Contents

  The Valley of Horses

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Map

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Dedication

  Acknowledgments

  “Venus” of Lespugue. Ivory restored). Height 14.7 cm/5¾ in. Found Lespugue (Haute-Garonne), France. Musée de l’Homme, Paris.

  “Venus” of Willendorf. Limestone with traces of red ochre. Height 11 cm/4 in. Found Willendorf, Wachau, Lower Austria. Naturhistorisches Museum, Vienna.

  “Venus” of Vestonice. Fired clay (with bone). Height 11.4 cm/4½ in. Found Dolni Vestonice, Mikulov, Moravia, Czechoslovakia. Moravian Museum, Brno.
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  Female Figurine. Ivory. Height 5.8 cm/2¼ in. Found Gagarino, Ukraine, USSR. Ethnographic Institute, Leningrad.

  Lady of Brassempouy. Ivory (fragment). Height 3.2 cm/1¼ in. Found Grotte du Pape, Brassempouy (Landes), France. Musée des Antiquites Nationales, Saint-Germain-en-laye.

  1

  She was dead. What did it matter if icy needles of freezing rain flayed her skin raw. The young woman squinted into the wind, pulling her wolverine hood closer. Violent gusts whipped her bearskin wrap against her legs.

  Were those trees ahead? She thought she remembered seeing a scraggly row of woody vegetation on the horizon earlier, and wished she had paid more attention, or that her memory was as good as that of the rest of the Clan. She still thought of herself as Clan, though she never had been, and now she was dead.

  She bowed her head and leaned into the wind. The storm had come upon her suddenly, hurtling down from the north, and she was desperate for shelter. But she was a long way from the cave, and unfamiliar with the territory. The moon had gone through a full cycle of phases since she left, but she still had no idea where she was going.

  North, to the mainland beyond the peninsula, that was all she knew. The night Iza died, she had told her to leave, told her Broud would find a way to hurt her when he became leader. Iza had been right. Broud had hurt her, worse than she ever imagined.

  He had no good reason to take Durc away from me, Ayla thought. He’s my son. Broud had no good reason to curse me, either. He’s the one who made the spirits angry. He’s the one who brought on the earthquake. At least she knew what to expect this time. But it happened so fast that even the clan had taken a while to accept it, to close her out of their sight. But they couldn’t stop Durc from seeing her, though she was dead to the rest of the clan.