The Valley of Horses

by Jean M. Auel

  “Sisters and brothers come from the same woman. Cousins are not as close. I was born to Dalanar’s hearth—I am probably of his spirit. People say we look alike. I think Joplaya is of his spirit, too. Her mother is short, but she is tall, like Dalanar. Not quite as tall, but a little taller than you, I think.

  “No one knows for sure whose spirit the Great Mother will choose to mix with a woman’s, so Joplaya and I may be of Dalanar’s spirit, but who knows? That’s why we are cousins.”

  Ayla nodded. “Perhaps Uba would be a cousin, but to me she was a sister.”

  “Sister?”

  “We were not true siblings. Uba was Iza’s daughter, born after I was found. Iza said we were both her daughters.” Ayla’s thoughts turned inward. “Uba was mated, but not to the man she would have chosen. But the other man would have only his sibling to mate, and in the Clan, siblings may not mate.”

  “We don’t mate our brothers or sisters,” Jondalar said. “We don’t usually mate our cousins, either, though it is not absolutely forbidden. It is frowned on. Some kinds of cousins are more acceptable than others.”

  “What kind of cousins are there?”

  “Many kinds, some closer than others. The children of your mother’s sisters are your cousins; the children of the mate of your mother’s brother; the children of …”

  Ayla was shaking her head. “It’s too confusing! How do you know who is a cousin and who isn’t? Almost everyone could be a cousin.… Who is left in your Cave to mate with?”

  “Most people don’t mate with people from their own Cave. Usually it’s someone met at a Summer Meeting. I think mating with cousins is allowed sometimes because you may not know the person you want to mate is a cousin until you name your ties … your relationships. People usually know their closest cousins, though, even if they live at another Cave.”

  “Like Joplaya?”

  Jondalar nodded assent, his month full of raspberries.

  “Jondalar, what if it isn’t spirits that make children? What if it’s a man? Wouldn’t that mean children are just as much from the man as from the woman?”

  “The baby grows inside a woman, Ayla. It comes from her.”

  “Then why do men and women like to couple?”

  “Why did the Mother give us the Gift of Pleasure? You’d have to ask Zelandoni that.”

  “Why do you always say ‘Gift of Pleasure’? Many things make people happy and give them pleasure. Does it give a man such pleasure to put his organ in a woman?”

  “Not only a man, a woman … but you don’t know, do you? You didn’t have First Rites. A man opened you, made you a woman, but it’s not the same. It was shameful! How could those people let it happen?”

  “They didn’t understand, they only saw what he did. What he did was not shameful, only the way he did it. It was not done for Pleasures—Broud did it with hatred. I felt pain and anger, but not shame. And no pleasure, either. I don’t know if Broud started my baby, Jondalar, or made me a woman so I could have one, but my son made me happy. Durc was my pleasure.”

  “The Mother’s Gift of Life is a joy, but there is more to the joining of man and woman. That, too, is a Gift, and should be done with joy for Her honor.”

  There may be more than you know, too, she thought. Yet he seemed so certain. Could he be right? Ayla didn’t quite believe him, but she was wondering.

  After the meal, Jondalar moved over to the broad flat part of the ledge where his implements were laid out. Ayla followed and settled herself nearby. He spread out the blades he had made so he could compare them. Minor differences made some more appropriate for certain tools than others. He picked out one blade, held it up to the sun, then showed it to the woman.

  The blade was more than four inches long and less than an inch wide. The ridge down the middle of its outer face was straight, and tapered evenly from the ridge to edges so thin that light shone through. It curved upward, toward its smooth inner bulbar face. Only when held up to the sun could the lines of fracture raying out from a very flat bulb of percussion be seen. The two long cutting edges were straight and sharp. Jondalar pulled a hair of his beard straight and tested an edge. It cut with no resistance. It was as close to a perfect blade as it was possible to get.

  “I’m going to keep this one for shaving,” he said.

  Ayla didn’t know what he meant, but she had learned from watching Droog to accept whatever comments and explanations were given without asking questions that might interrupt concentration. He put the blade off to one side and picked up another. The two cutting edges on this one tapered together, making it narrower at one end. He reached for a smooth beach rock, about twice the size of his fist, and laid the narrow end against it. Then, with the blunted tip of an antler, he tapped the end into a triangular shape. Pressing the triangle’s edges against the stone anvil, he detached small chips which gave the blade a sharp, narrow point.

  He pulled an end of his leather breechclout taut and poked a small hole in it. “This is an awl,” he said, showing it to Ayla. “It makes a little hole for sinew to be drawn through to sew clothes.”

  Had he seen her examining his clothes, Ayla suddenly wondered. He seemed to know what she had been planning.

  “I’m going to make a borer, too. It’s like this, but bigger and sturdier, to make holes in wood, or bone, or antler.”

  She was relieved; he was just talking about tools.

  “I’ve used an … awl, to make holes for pouches, but none so fine as that.”

  “Would you like it?” He grinned. “I can make another for myself.”

  She took it, then bowed her head, trying to express gratitude the Clan way. Then she remembered. “Thank you,” she said.

  He flashed a big pleased smile. Then he picked up another blade and held it against the stone. With the blunted antler hammer, he squared off the end of the blade, giving it a slight angle. Then, holding the squared-off end so that it would be perpendicular to the blow, he struck one edge sharply. A long piece fell away—the burin spall—leaving the blade with a strong, sharp, chisel tip.

  “Are you familiar with this tool?” he asked. She inspected it, then shook her head and gave it back.

  “It’s a burin,” he said. “Carvers use them, and sculptors—theirs are a little different. I’m going to use this for the weapon I was telling you about.”

  “Burin, burin,” she said, getting used to the word.

  After making a few more tools similar to ones he had made, he shook the lap cover over the edge and pulled the trough-shaped bowl closer. He took a long bone out and wiped it off, then turned the foreleg over in his hands, deciding where to start. Sitting down, he braced the bone against his foot, and, using the burin, he scratched a long line down the length of it. Then he etched a second line which joined the first at a point. A third short scratch connected the base of an elongated triangle.

  He retraced the first line and brushed away a long curl of bone shavings, then continued tracing over the lines with the chisel point, each time cutting deeper into the bone. He retraced until he had cut through to the hollow center, and, going around one last time to make sure no small section was not free, he pressed down on the base. The long tip of the triangle flipped up and he lifted the piece out. He put it aside, then returned to the bone and etched another long line that made a point with one of the recently cut sides.

  Ayla watched closely, not wanting to miss anything. But after the first times, it was repetition, and her thoughts wandered back to their breakfast conversation. Jondalar’s attitude had changed, she realized. It wasn’t any specific comment he had made, rather a shift in the tenor of his comments.

  She remembered his saying, “Marthona would have liked your Iza,” and something about mothers being alike. His mother would have liked a flathead? They were alike? And later, even though he had been angry, he had referred to Broud as a man—a man who had opened the way for her to have a child. And he said he didn’t understand how those “people” could let it happen.
He hadn’t noticed, and that pleased her more. He was thinking of the Clan as people. Not animals, not flatheads, not abominations—people!

  Her attention was drawn back to the man when he changed his activities. He had picked up one of the bone triangles and a sharp-edged, strong flint scraper and begun smoothing the sharp edges of the bone, scraping off long curls. Before long he held up a round section of bone that tapered to a sharp point.

  “Jondalar, are you making a … spear?”

  He grinned. “Bone can be shaped to a sharp point like wood, but it’s stronger and doesn’t splinter, and bone is lightweight.”

  “Isn’t that a very short spear?” she asked.

  He laughed, a big hearty laugh. “It would be, if that was all there was to it. I’m just making points now. Some people make flint points. The Mamutoi do, especially for hunting mammoth. Flint is brittle and it breaks, but with knife-sharp edges a flint spear point will pierce a tough mammoth hide more easily. For most hunting, though, bone makes a better point. The shafts will be wood.”

  “How do you put them together?”

  “Look,” he said, turning the point around to show her the base. “I can split this end with a burin and a knife, then shape the end of the wooden shaft to fit inside the split.” He demonstrated by holding the forefinger of one hand between the thumb and forefinger of the other. “Then, I can add some glue or pitch, and wrap it tight with wet sinew or thong. When it dries and shrinks up, it will hold the two together.”

  “That point is so small. The shaft will be a twig!”

  “It will be more than a twig, but not as heavy as your spear. It can’t be, if you’re going to throw it.”

  “Throw it! Throw a spear?”

  “You throw stones with your sling, don’t you? You can do the same with a spear. You won’t have to dig pitfalls, and you can even make a kill on the run, once you develop the skill. As accurate as you are with that sling, I think you’ll learn fast.”

  “Jondalar! Do you know how often I’ve wished I could hunt deer or bison with a sling? I never thought about throwing a spear.” She frowned. “Can you throw with enough force? I can throw much harder and farther with a sling than I can by hand.”

  “You won’t have quite the force, but you still have the advantage of distance. You’re right, though. It’s too bad you can’t throw a spear with a sling, but …” He paused in mid-sentence. “I wonder …” His brow furrowed at a thought so startling that it demanded immediate attention. “No, I don’t think so.… Where can we find some shafts?”

  “By the stream. Jondalar, is there any reason I can’t help make those spears? I’d learn faster if you’re still here to tell me what I’m doing wrong.”

  “Yes, of course,” he said, but he felt a heaviness as he descended the path. He had forgotten about leaving and was sorry she had reminded him.

  27

  Ayla crouched low and looked through a screen of tall golden grass, bent with the weight of ripened seed heads, concentrating on the contours of the animal. She held a spear, poised for flight, in her right hand, and another ready in her left. A strand of long blond hair, escaped from a tightly plaited braid, whipped across her face. She shifted the long shaft slightly, searching for the balance point, then, squinting, gripped it and took aim. Bounding forward, she hurled the spear.

  “Oh, Jondalar! I’ll never get any accuracy with this spear!” Ayla said, exasperated. She marched toward a tree, padded with a grass-stuffed hide, and retrieved the still-quivering spear from the rump of a bison Jondalar had drawn with a piece of charcoal.

  “You’re too hard on yourself, Ayla,” Jondalar said, beaming with pride. “You are much better than you think you are. You are learning very fast, but then I’ve seldom seen such determination. You practice every spare moment. I think that may be your problem right now. You’re trying too hard. You need to relax.”

  “The way I learned to use a sling was to practice.”

  “You didn’t gain your skill with that weapon overnight, did you?”

  “No. It took several years. But I don’t want to wait years before I can hunt with this spear.”

  “You won’t. You could probably hunt right now and manage to bring something down. You don’t have the thrust and speed you’re used to, Ayla, but you never will. You have to find your new range. If you want to keep practicing, why don’t you switch to your sling for a while.”

  “I don’t need to practice with the sling.”

  “But you need to relax, and I think it would help you loosen up. Give it a try.”

  She did feel her tension dissipate with the familiar feel of the leather strap in her hands, and the rhythm and movement of handling the sling. She enjoyed the warm satisfaction of skilled expertise, though it had been a struggle to learn. She could hit anything she aimed for, particularly practice targets that did not move. The man’s obvious admiration encouraged her to put on a demonstration showing off her ability.

  She picked up a few handfuls of pebbles from the edge of the stream, then walked across to the far side of the field to display her true range. She exhibited her rapid-fire double-stone technique, and then showed how quickly she could follow through with an additional two stones.

  Jondalar joined in, setting up targets that tested her accuracy. He set up four stones in a row on the large boulder; she knocked them off with four rapid casts. He threw two stones into the air one after the other; she hit them in mid-flight. Then he did something that surprised her. He stood in the middle of the field, balanced a rock on each shoulder, and looked at her with a grin on his face. He knew that she hurled a stone from her sling with such force that it could, at the least, be painful—fatal if it happened to hit a vulnerable spot. This test showed his trust in her, but more, it tested her confidence in her skill.

  He heard the whistling of wind and the dull clink of stone hitting stone as first one, and then, an instant later, the other stone was knocked away. He didn’t get away with nothing to show for his dangerous trick. A tiny chip flew off one stone and embedded itself in his neck. He didn’t flinch, but a small trickle of blood, which smeared when he picked the stone sliver out, gave him away.

  “Jondalar! You’re hurt!” Ayla exclaimed when she saw him.

  “Just a chip, it’s nothing. But you are good with that sling, woman. I’ve never seen anyone handle a weapon like that.”

  Ayla had never seen anyone look at her the way he did. His eyes sparkled with respect and admiration; his voice was husky with warm praise. She blushed, filled with such a flood of emotion that it brought tears for lack of any other outlet.

  “If you could throw a spear like that …” He stopped and closed his eyes, straining to see something with his mind’s eye. “Ayla, can I use your sling?”

  “Do you want to learn to use a sling?” she asked, giving it to him.

  “Not exactly.”

  He picked up a spear, one of several on the ground, and tried to fit the butt end into the pocket of the sling, worn to the shape of the round stones it usually held. But he was not familiar enough with the techniques of handling a sling, and, after a few clumsy attempts, he gave it back, along with the spear.

  “Do you think you could throw this spear with your sling?”

  She saw what he was trying, and she managed an unwieldy arrangement—the butt of the spear stretching out the sling, while she held the ends of it and the shaft of the spear at the same time. She could not reach a good balance—had little force and less control over the long missile when it left her hand—but she did succeed in casting it,

  “It would need to be longer, or the spear shorter,” he said, trying to visualize something he had never seen. “And the sling is too flexible. The spear needs more support. Something to rest on … maybe wood or bone … with a backstop so it won’t slide off. Ayla! I’m not sure, but I think it might work. I think I could make a … spear thrower!”

  Ayla watched Jondalar constructing and experimenting, fascinated as much by t
he concept of making something from an idea as by the process of making it. The culture in which she was raised was not given to such innovation, and she didn’t realize that she had invented hunting methods and a travois from a similar wellspring of creativity.

  He used materials to suit his needs and adapted tools to new requirements. He asked her advice, drawing from her years of experience with her hurling weapon, but it soon became apparent that the contrivance he was making, though its impetus had come from her sling, was a new and unique device.

  Once he had the basic principles worked out, he devoted time to modifications to improve the performance of the spear, and she was no more experienced with the finer points of hurling a spear than he was with the operation of a sling. Jondalar warned her, with a gleam of delight, that once he had good working models, they would both need to practice.

  Ayla decided to let him use the tools he knew best to finish the two working models. She wanted to experiment with another of his tools. She had not progressed very far in making the clothes for him. They were together so much that the only time she could find was early morning or the middle of the night when he was sleeping.

  While he was finishing and refining, she brought his old clothing and her new materials out to the ledge. In the day-fight, she could see how the original pieces were stitched together. She found the process so interesting, and the garments so intriguing, that she thought she would make an adaptation of them to fit herself. She didn’t try to match the elaborate beading and quillwork of the shirt, but she studied it carefully, thinking it might be a good challenge to attempt during the next long quiet winter.

  From her vantage, she could watch Jondalar on the beach and in the field, and put her project away before he returned to the cave. But on the day he ran up the path, proudly displaying two finished spear throwers, Ayla barely had time to crumple the garment she was working on into an inconspicuous pile of leather. He was too full of his accomplishment to see anything else.