The Valley of Horses

by Jean M. Auel

  That was the serendipity. Ayla supplied the recognition and the other necessary elements: she understood the process of making fire, she needed fire, and she wasn’t afraid to try something new. Even then, it took her a while to recognize, and appreciate, what she had observed. First the smoke puzzled her. She had to think about it before she made the connection between the wisp of smoke and the spark, but then the spark puzzled her more. Where had it come from? That was when she looked at the stone in her hand.

  It was the wrong stone! It wasn’t her retoucher, it was one of those shiny stones that were scattered all over the beach. But it was still a stone, and stone didn’t burn. Yet something had made a spark that had made the tinder smoke. The tinder had smoked, hadn’t it?

  She picked up the ball of shaggy bark fiber, ready to believe she had imagined the smoke, but the small black hole left soot on her fingers. She picked up the iron pyrite again, and looked at it closely. How had the spark been drawn from the stone? What had she done? The flint flake, she had strack the flint. Feeling a little silly, she banged the two stones together. Nothing happened.

  What did I expect? she thought. Then she banged them together again, with more force, striking sharply, and watched a spark fly. Suddenly, an idea that had been tenuously forming sprang into her mind full blown. A strange, exciting idea, and a little frightening, too.

  She put the two stones down carefully on the leather lap cover, on top of the mammoth foot bone, then gathered together the materials to build a fire. When she was ready, she picked up the stones, held them close to the tinder, and struck them together. A spark flew and then died on the cold stones. She changed the angle, tried again, but the force was less. She struck harder and watched a spark land squarely in the middle of the tinder. It singed a few strands and died, but the wisp of smoke was encouraging. The next time she struck the stones, the wind gusted, and the smoldering tinder flared before it went out.

  Of course! I have to blow on it. She changed her position so she could blow on the incipient flame, and made another spark with the stones. It was a strong, bright, long-burning spark, and it landed right. She was close enough to feel the heat as she blew the smoldering tinder into flame. She fed it shavings, and slivers, and, almost before she knew it, she had a fire.

  It was ridiculously easy. She couldn’t believe how easy. She had to prove it to herself again. She gathered together more tinder, more shavings, more kindling, and then she had a second fire, and then a third, and a fourth. She felt an excitement that was part fear, part awe, part joy of discovery, and a large dose of sheer wonder, as she stood back and gazed at four separate fires, each made from the firestone.

  Whinney trotted back around the wall, drawn by the smell of smoke. Fire, once so fearful, smelled of safety now.

  “Whinney!” Ayla called, running to the little horse. She had to tell someone, to share her discovery, even if just with a horse. “Look!” she motioned. “Look at those fires! They were made with stones, Whinney. Stones!” The sun broke through the clouds, and suddenly the whole beach seemed to glitter.

  I was wrong when I thought there was nothing special about those stones. I should have known; my totem gave one to me. Look at them. Now that I know, I can see the fire that lives inside. She grew thoughtful then. But why me? Why was I shown? My Cave Lion gave one to me once to tell me Durc would live. What is he telling me now?

  She remembered the strange premonition she’d had after her fire died and, standing in the midst of four fires, she shivered, feeling it again. Then, suddenly, she felt an overwhelming sense of relief, though she didn’t even know she had been worried.

  8

  “Hello! Hello!” Jondalar waved as he called out, running to the river’s edge.

  He felt an overwhelming sense of relief. He had all but given up, but the sound of another human voice filled him with a fresh surge of hope. It didn’t occur to him that they might be unfriendly; nothing could be worse than the utter helplessness he had felt. And they didn’t seem unfriendly.

  The man who had called to him held up a coil of rope, attached at one end to the strange enormous water bird. Jondalar could see that it was not a living creature, but some kind of craft. The man threw the rope at him. Jondalar dropped it and splashed in after it. A couple of other people, hauling on another rope, scrambled out and waded through water swirling up to their thighs. One of them, smiling when he saw Jondalar’s expression—which managed to combine hope, relief, and perplexity over what to do with the wet rope in his hands—took the hawser from him. He hauled the craft in closer, then tied the rope to a tree and went to check on the other line snubbed to a jutting end of a broken branch of a large tree that lay half submerged in the river.

  Another occupant of the watercraft hoisted himself over the side and jumped on the log to test its stability. He said a few words in an unfamiliar language, and a ladderlike gangplank was lifted up and stretched across to the log. He climbed back to help a woman assist a third person down the gangplank and along the log to the shore, though it seemed the assistance was allowed rather than needed.

  The person, obviously greatly respected, had a composed, almost regal bearing, but there was an elusive quality Jondalar couldn’t define, an ambiguity, and he found himself staring. Wind caught at wisps of long white hair tied at the nape of the neck, pulled back from a clean-shaven—or beardless—face lined with years, yet glowing with a soft luminous complexion. There was strength in the line of the jaw, the jut of the chin; was it character?

  Jondalar realized he was standing in cold water when he was beckoned out, but the enigma did not resolve itself on closer inspection, and he felt he was missing something important. Then he stopped and looked into a face with a compassionate, questioning smile and piercing eyes of some indeterminate shade of gray or hazel. With a flush of wonder, Jondalar suddenly realized the implications of the mysterious person waiting patiently in front of him, and looked for some hint of gender.

  Height was no help; a little tall for a woman, a little short for a man. Bulky shapeless clothing hid physical details; even the walk left Jondalar wondering. The more he looked and found no answer, the more relieved he felt. He knew of people like that; born into the body of one sex but with the inclinations of the other. They were neither, or both, and usually joined the ranks of Those Who Served the Mother. With powers derived from both female and male elements centered within them, they were reputed to have extraordinary skill as healers.

  Jondalar was far from home and did not know the customs of these people, yet he had no doubt that the person standing in front of him was a healer. Maybe One Who Served the Mother, maybe not; it didn’t matter. Thonolan needed a healer, and a healer had come.

  But how had they known a healer was needed? How had they known to come at all?

  Jondalar threw another log on the fire and watched a burst of sparks chase smoke into the night sky. He slid his bare backside farther down into his sleeping roll and leaned back on a boulder to stare at the undying sparks flung across the heavens. A shape floated into his field of vision, blocking out a portion of the star-splashed sky. It took a moment for his unfocused eyes to shift from the endless depths to the head of a young woman holding a cup of steaming tea out to him.

  He sat up quickly and exposed a length of bare thigh and grabbed at the sleeping roll, pulling it up with a glance at his trousers and boots hanging near the fire to dry. She grinned, and her radiant smile changed the rather solemn, shy, softly pretty young woman into a flashing-eyed beauty. He had never seen such an amazing transformation, and his smile in response reflected his attraction. But she had ducked her head to suppress a laugh of mischievous humor, not wanting to embarrass the stranger. When she looked back, only a twinkle remained in her eyes.

  “You have a beautiful smile,” he said when she gave him the cup of tea.

  She shook her head and answered with words that he thought meant she didn’t understand him.

  “I know you can’t understand m
e, but I still want to tell you how grateful I am you are here.”

  She watched him closely, and he had the feeling she wanted to communicate as much as he. He kept talking, afraid she would leave if he stopped.

  “It’s wonderful just to talk to you, just to know you are here.” He sipped the tea. “This is good. What kind is it?” he asked, holding up the cup and nodding appreciatively. “I think I can taste chamomile.”

  She nodded back, acknowledging, then sat near the fire, answering his words with others he understood as little as she understood his. But her voice was pleasant and she seemed to know he wanted her company.

  “I wish I could thank you. I don’t know what I would have done if you hadn’t come.” He frowned with worry and tension, and she smiled understandingly. “I wish I could ask how you knew we were here, and how your zelandoni, or whatever you call your healer, knew to come.”

  She answered him, gesturing toward the tent that had been set up nearby, glowing from the firelight within. He shook his head with frustration. It seemed that she almost understood him; he just couldn’t understand her.

  “I don’t suppose it matters,” he said. “But I wish your healer would let me stay with Thonolan. Even without words, it was clear my brother would get no help until I left. I don’t doubt the healer’s ability. I want to stay with him, that’s all.”

  He was looking at her so earnestly that she laid a hand on his arm to reassure him. He tried to smile, but it was pained. The flap of the tent caught his attention as an older woman came out.

  “Jetamio!” she called, adding other words.

  The young woman got up quickly, but Jondalar held her hand to detain her. “Jetamio?” he asked, pointing to her. She nodded. “Jondalar,” he said, tapping his own chest.

  “Jondalar,” she repeated slowly. Then she looked toward the tent, tapped herself, then him, and pointed to it,

  “Thonolan,” he said. “My brother’s name is Thonolan.”

  “Thonolan,” she said, repeating it as she hurried toward the tent. She had a slight limp, Jondalar noticed, though it didn’t seem to hinder her.

  His trousers were still damp, but he pulled them on anyway and made a dash for a wooded copse, not bothering to fasten them or put his boots on. He had been restraining his urge ever since he woke up, but his extra clothing was in his backframe, which had been left behind in the large tent where the healer was treating Thonolan. Jetamio’s grin of the evening before made him think twice about casually sauntering over to the secluded patch of brush wearing nothing but his short inner shirt. Nor did he want to chance breaching some custom or taboo of these people who were helping him—not with two women in the camp.

  He had first tried to get up and walk in his sleeping roll, and he had waited so long before it occurred to him to put on his trousers, wet or not, that he was close to forgetting his embarrassment and ready to make a run for it. As it was, Jetamio’s laughter followed him.

  “Tamio, don’t laugh at him. It’s not nice,” the older woman said, but the force of her admonition was lost as she tried to suppress her own laughter.

  “Oh, Rosh, I don’t mean to make fun of him, I just can’t help it. Did you see him try to walk in his sleeping bag?” She started giggling again, though she struggled to contain it. “Why didn’t he just get up and go?”

  “Maybe the customs of his people are different, Jetamio. They must have traveled a long way. I’ve never seen clothes like theirs before, and his language isn’t even close. Most travelers have a few words that are similar. I don’t think I could pronounce some of his words.”

  “You must be right. He must have some objection to showing his skin. You should have seen him blush last night just because I saw a little of his thigh. I never saw anyone so glad to see us, though.”

  “Can you blame him?”

  “How is the other one?” the young woman said, serious again. “Has the Shamud said anything, Roshario?”

  “I think the swelling is down, and the fever, too. At least he’s sleeping quieter. The Shamud thinks he was gored by a rhino. I don’t know how he lived through it. He wouldn’t have much longer if that tall one hadn’t thought of that way to signal for help. Even so, it was luck we found them. Mudo must have smiled on them. The Mother always has favored handsome young men.”

  “Not enough to keep … Thonolan from getting hurt. The way he was gored … Do you think he’ll walk again?”

  Roshario smiled tenderly at the young woman. “If he has half the determination you did, he’ll walk, Tamio.”

  Jetamio’s cheek reddened. “I think I’ll go and see if the Shamud needs anything,” she said, ducking toward the tent, and trying very hard not to limp at all.

  “Why don’t you bring the tall one his pack,” Roshario called after her, “so he won’t have to wear wet britches.”

  “I don’t know which one is his.”

  “Bring them both, it’ll make more room in there. And ask the Shamud how soon we can move … what’s his name? Thonolan?”

  Jetamio nodded.

  “If we’re going to be here a while, Dolando will have to plan a hunt. We didn’t bring much food. I don’t think the Ramudoi can fish with the river like that, though I think they’d be just as happy if they never had to come to shore. I like solid ground under me.”

  “Oh, Rosh, you’d be saying just the opposite if you had mated a Ramudoi man instead of Dolando.”

  The older woman eyed her sharply. “Has one of those rowers been making advances? I may not be your real mother, Jetamio, but everyone knows you are just like a daughter. If a man doesn’t even have the courtesy to ask, he’s not the kind of man you want. You can’t trust those river men …”

  “Don’t worry, Rosh. I haven’t decided to run off with a river man … yet,” Jetamio said with a mischievous smile.

  “Tamio, there are plenty of good Shamudoi men who will move into our lodging What are you laughing at?”

  Jetamio had both her hands at her mouth, trying to swallow the laughter that kept bubbling forth in snorts and giggles. Roshario turned in the direction the younger woman was looking, and slapped a hand over her mouth to keep from bursting out with laughter herself.

  “I’d better get those packs,” Jetamio finally managed to say. “Our tall friend needs some dry clothes.” She started sputtering again. “He looks like a baby with full pants!” She made a dash for the tent, but Jondalar heard her laughter peal forth as she entered.

  “Hilarity, my dear?” the healer said, cocking an eyebrow with a quizzical look.

  “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to come in here laughing like that. It’s just …”

  “Either I’m in the next world, or you’re a donii who’s come to take me there. No earthly woman could be so beautiful. But I can’t understand a word you’re saying.”

  Jetamio and the Shamud both turned toward the wounded man. He was looking at Jetamio with a weak smile. Her smile left her face as she kneeled beside him.

  “I’ve disturbed him! How could I be so thoughtless?”

  “Don’t stop smiling, my beautiful donii,” Thonolan said, taking her hand.

  “Yes, my dear, you have disturbed him. But don’t let it disturb you. I suspect he will be much more ‘disturbed’ before you are through with him.”

  Jetamio shook her head and gave the Shamud a puzzled look. “I came to ask if there was anything you needed, or if I could help in any way.”

  “You just did.”

  She looked more perplexed. Sometimes she wondered if she ever understood anything the healer said.

  The piercing eyes took on a gentler look, with a touch of irony. “I’ve done all I can. He must do the rest. But anything that gives him more will to live can only help at this stage. You just did that with your lovely smile … my dear.”

  Jetamio blushed and bowed her head, then realized Thonolan was still holding her hand. She looked up and saw his laughing gray eyes. Her smile in response was radiant.

  The he
aler made a throat-clearing sound, and Jetamio broke contact, a little flustered to realize she had been staring at the stranger so long. “There is something you can do. Since he’s awake, and lucid, we might try giving him some nourishment. If there’s any broth, I believe he would drink it, if it came from you.”

  “Oh. Of course. I’ll get some,” she said, hurrying out to cover her embarrassment. She saw Roshario attempting to talk to Jondalar, who was standing awkwardly and trying to look pleasant. She ducked back in to complete the rest of her errands.

  “I need to get their packs, and Roshario wants to know how soon Thonolan can be moved.”

  “What did you say his name was?”

  “Thonolan. That’s what the other one told me.”

  “Tell Roshario a day or two yet. He’s not up to a ride over rough water.”

  “How do you know my name, beautiful donii, and how do I ask yours?” She turned to smile at Thonolan before she hurried out with both packs. He settled back down with a self-satisfied grin, but gave a start when he noticed, for the first time, the white-haired healer. The enigmatic face held a catlike smile; wise, knowing, and a little predatory.

  “Isn’t young love splendid,” the Shamud commented. The meaning of the words was lost on Thonolan, but not the wry sarcasm. It made him look closer.

  The voice of the healer was pitched neither deep nor high, and Thonolan looked for some clue of dress or behavior that would tell him if it was a woman’s low alto or a man’s high tenor. He couldn’t decide, and though he wasn’t exactly sure why, he relaxed a bit, feeling confident he was in the best of hands.