by Jean M. Auel
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 snowflakes 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 of coughing until well past midwinter, and Ayla babied herself. She pampered the h
orse 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.
Then she heard the distinctive grunting voice of another cave lion not far away. Baby stopped his contented growl and stiffened into a posture she had not seen in him before. Over his shoulder a lioness approached cautiously. She stopped at a sound from Baby.
“You’ve found a mate! I knew you would—I knew you’d have your own pride someday.” Ayla looked for more lionesses. “Only one, so far, probably a nomad, too. You’ll have to fight for a territory, but it’s a beginning. You’re going to have a wonderful big pride someday, Baby.”
The cave lion relaxed a bit and came toward her again, butting her with his head. She scratched his forehead and gave him a last quick hug. Whinney was very nervous, she noticed. Baby’s scent might have been familiar, but not that of the strange lioness. Ayla mounted and, when Baby approached them again, she signaled “Stop.” He stayed for a moment and then, with a hnga, hnga, turned away. Followed by his mate, Baby left.
He’s gone now, living with his own kind, she thought on the way back. He might come for a visit, but he’ll never come back to me like Whinney did. The woman reached down and patted the mare affectionately. I’m so glad you’re back, she thought.
Seeing Baby with his lioness reminded the young woman of her own uncertain future. Baby has a mate now. You had one, too, Whinney. I wonder, will I ever have one?
17
Jondalar stepped out from under the sandstone overhang and looked down the snow-covered terrace that ended abruptly with a sheer drop. The high side walls framed the white rounded contours of the eroded hills on the other side of the river. Darvo, who had been waiting for him, waved. He was standing beside a stump next to the wall some distance down the length of the field, in the place Jondalar had chosen to work his flint. It was out in the open where the light was good, and out of the way so there would be less chance of someone stepping on a sharp chip. He started toward the boy.
“Jondalar, wait a moment.”
“Thonolan,” he said, smiling, and waited for his brother to catch up. They strolled together across the packed snow. “I promised Darvo I’d show him some special techniques this morning. How’s Shamio?”
“She’s fine; getting over her cold. She had us worried—her coughing was even keeping Jetamio awake. We’re talking about making more room before next winter.”
Jondalar gave Thonolan an appraising look, wondering if the responsibilities of a mate and extended family were weighing heavily on his carefree younger brother. But Thonolan had a settled, contented look about him. Suddenly, he flashed a self-satisfied grin.
“Big Brother, I have something to tell you. Had you noticed that Jetamio was putting a bit of flesh on her bones? I thought she was just getting a healthy settled look. I was wrong. She’s been blessed again.”
“That’s wonderful! I know how much she wants a baby.”
“She’s known for a long time, but she didn’t want to tell me. Afraid I’d worry. She seems to be holding it this time, Jondalar. Shamud says not to count on anything, but if everything continues to go well, she’ll give birth in spring. She says she’s sure it is a child of my spirit.”
“She must be right. Just think, my foot-loose little brother—a man of his own hearth, with his mate expecting a child.”
Thonolan’s grin broadened. His happiness was so transparent that Jondalar had to smile, too. He looks so pleased with himself, you’d think he was having a baby, Jondalar thought.
“There, to the left,” Dolando said softly, pointing to a rocky prominence jutting out from the flank of the rugged crest rising up before them and filling the entire view.
Jondalar looked, but he was too overwhelmed to focus his vision on anything less than the full expanse. They were at timberline. Behind was the forest through which they had ascended. It had begun with oak at the lower elevations; then beech predominated. Farther up were the conifers that were more familiar to him, mountain pine, fir, and spruce. He had seen, from a distance, the hardened crust of the earth upthrust in far grander peaks, but, as they left the trees behind, his breath caught at the unexpected grandeur. As many times as he had seen the view, it still affected him the same way.
The closeness of the mounting height stunned him; the sense of immediacy, as though he could reach out and touch it. In silent awe it spoke of elemental upheavals, of gravid earth straining to birth naked rock. Unclothed by forest, the primordial bone of the Great Mother lay exposed in the tilted landscape. Beyond it the sky was unearthly blue—flat and deep—a featureless backdrop to the blinding reflections of sunlight fracturing off crystals of glacial ice that clung to spines and cracks above windswept alpine meadows.
“I see it!” Thonolan cried. “A little more to the right, Jondalar. See? On that outcrop.”
The tall man shifted his gaze and saw the small, graceful chamois poised on the precipice. Its thick black winter coat still clung in patches on the flanks, but the beige-gray summer pelt blended into the rock. Two small horns rose straight up from the forehead of the goatlike antelope, curving back only at the tips.
“I see him now,” Jondalar said.
“That may not be a ‘him.’ Females have horns, too,” Dolando corrected.
“They do resemble ibex, don’t they, Thonolan? They’re smaller—horns, too. But from a distance …”
“How do the Zelandonii hunt ibex, Jondalar?” a young woman asked, her eyes glistening with curiosity, excitement, and love.
She was only a few years older than Darvo and had developed an adolescent infatuation with the tall blond man. She had been born Shamudoi, but had grown up on the river when her mother mated a second time to a Ramudoi, and had moved back up when the relationship came to a stormy end. She hadn’t grown accustomed to the mountain crags as most Shamudoi youngsters did and hadn’t shown an inclination to hunt chamois until recently, after she discovered Jondalar’s strong feeling of approval for women who hunted. To her surprise, she found it exciting.
“I don’t know much about it, Rakario,” Jondalar replied, smiling gently. He had seen the signs in young women before, and though he couldn’t help but respond to her attention, he didn’t want to encourage her. “There were ibex in the mountains south of us, and more in the eastern ranges, but we didn’t hunt the mountains. They were too far. Occasionally a group w
ould get together at the Summer Meeting and arrange a hunting party. But I just went along for the fun, and I followed the directions of the hunters who knew how. I’m still learning, Rakario. Dolando is the expert hunter of mountain animals.”
The chamois leaped from the precipice to a pinnacle, then calmly surveyed the view from its new vantage.
“How do you hunt an animal that can jump like that?” Rakario breathed with hushed wonder at the effortless grace of the sure-footed creature. “How can they hold on to such a small place?”
“When we get one, Rakario, take a look at the hooves,” Dolando said. “Only the outer edge is hard. The inner part is flexible, like the palm of your hand. That’s why they don’t slide or lose their footing. The soft part grips, the outer edge holds. To hunt them, it’s most important to remember that they always look down. They always watch where they’re going, and they know what is below them. Their eyes are far back on the sides of their head, so they can see around to the side, but they can’t see up behind them. That’s your advantage. If you move up around them, you can get them from behind. You can get close enough to touch them, if you’re careful and don’t lose patience.”
“What if they move before you get there?” she asked.
“Look up there. See the tinge of green on the pastures? That spring grass is a real treat after winter forage. The one up there is a lookout. The rest of them—males, females, and kids—are down among rocks and bushes staying out of sight. If the grazing is good, they won’t move much, as long as they feel safe.”
“Why are we standing around here talking? Let’s go,” Darvo said.
He was annoyed at Rakario for hanging around Jondalar all the time and impatient to begin the hunt. He’d accompanied the hunters before—Jondalar always took him along when he started hunting with the Shamudoi—though only to track, watch, and learn. This time he had been given permission to try for the kill. If he succeeded, it would be a first kill for him, and he would be the recipient of special attention. But no extraordinary pressures were imposed on him. He did not have to make the kill this time; there would be other times to try. Hunting such agile prey, in an environment to which they were uniquely adapted, was difficult at best. Whoever got close enough to try made the attempt, and that required stealth and care. No one could follow the chamois from crag to outcrop, across deep chasms, once they were frightened and started to run.