The Valley Of Horses ec-2

by Jean M. Auel

  She set the eggs down near the stream beside the birds, then picked long reeds growing near the water's edge. The loosely woven basket she made took only a few moments; it would be used only to transport the eggs and then be thrown away. She used more reeds to fasten together the feathered feet of the brace of ptarmigan. The dense winter snowshoe feathers were already growing in.

  Winter. Ayla shivered. She didn't want to think about winter, cold and bleak. But winter was never entirely out of mind. Summer was only the time to get ready for winter.

  Jondalar was going to leave! She knew it. It was silly to think he would stay with her in the valley. Why should he? Would she stay if she had people? It was going to be worse after he left… even if he did look at her like that.

  "Why did he have to come?"

  She startled herself with her voice. She wasn't used to hearing herself talk when she was alone. "But I can talk. That much Jondalar did. At least, if I see people, I can talk to them now. And I know people live to the west. Iza was right, there must be many people, many Others."

  She draped the ptarmigan over the mare's back, one dangling on either side, and held the basket of eggs between her legs. I was born to the Others… Find a mate, Iza told me. I thought Jondalar was sent for me by my totem, but would one my totem sent look at me like that?

  "How could he look at me like that?" she cried with a convulsive sob. "O Cave Lion, I don't want to be alone anymore." Ayla slumped down, giving in to tears again. Whinney noticed the lack of direction, but it didn't matter. She knew the way. After a while Ayla sat up. No one is making me stay here. I should have been looking before this. I can talk now…

  "…and I can tell them Whinney is not a horse to hunt," she continued out loud after reminding herself. "I'll get everything ready, and next spring I will leave." She knew she would not put it off again.

  Jondalar won't leave right away. He will need clothes and weapons. Maybe my Cave Lion sent him here to teach me. Then I must learn all I can before he goes. I will watch him, and ask him questions, no matter how he looks at me. Broud hated me all the years I lived with the Clan. I can stand it if Jondalar… if he… hates me. She closed her eyes to squeeze back tears.

  She reached for her amulet, remembering what Creb had told her long ago: When you find a sign your totem has left for you, put it in your amulet. It will bring you luck. Ayla had put them all in her amulet. Cave Lion, I've been alone so long, put luck in my amulet.

  The sun had fallen behind the upstream gorge wall by the time she rode down toward the stream. Darkness always followed quickly. Jondalar saw her coming and ran down to the beach. Ayla had urged Whinney to a gallop, and, as she rounded the jutting wall, she almost collided with him. The horse shied, nearly unseating the woman. Jondalar reached up a steadying hand, but when he felt bare flesh, he jerked his hand away, sure she must despise him.

  He hates me, Ayla thought. He can't stand to touch me! She swallowed a sob and signaled Whinney forward. The horse crossed the rocky beach and clattered up the path with Ayla on her back. She dismounted at the cave entrance and dashed in, wishing she had some other place to go. She wanted to hide. She dropped the egg basket beside the hearth, scooped up an armful of furs, and carried them to the storage area. She dumped them on the ground on the other side of the drying rack, amidst unused baskets, mats, and bowls, then jumped into them and pulled them over her head.

  Ayla heard Whinney's hooves a moment later, and then the colt. She was shaking, fighting back tears, acutely conscious of the movements of the man in the cave. She wished he would leave so at least she could cry.

  She didn't hear his bare feet on the dirt floor as he approached, but she knew he was there and tried to stop her shaking.

  "Ayla?" he said. She didn't answer. "Ayla, I brought you some tea." She held herself stiff. "Ayla, you don't have to stay back here. I'll move. I'll go to the other side of the fireplace."

  He hates me! He can't stand to be near me, she thought, stilling a sob. I wish he'd go away, I wish he'd just go away.

  "I know it doesn't do any good, but I have to say it. I'm sorry, Ayla. I'm more sorry than I can say. You didn't deserve what I did. You don't have to answer me, but I have to talk to you. You have always been honest with me – it's time for me to be straightforward with you for a change.

  "I've been thinking about it since you rode off. I don't know why I did… what I did, but I want to try to explain. After that lion attacked and I woke up here, I didn't know where I was, and I couldn't understand why you wouldn't talk to me. You were a mystery. Why were you here alone? I began to imagine a story about you, that you were a zelandoni testing yourself, a sacred woman answering a call to Serve the Mother. When you didn't respond to my gross attempts to share Pleasures with you, I thought you were forgoing them as part of your testing. I thought the Clan was a strange group of zelandonii you lived with."

  Ayla had stopped shaking and was listening, but not moving.

  "I was only thinking of myself, Ayla." He hunkered down. "I'm not sure if you'll believe this, but I, ahhh… I've been considered a… an attractive man. Most women have… wanted my attention. I had my choice. I thought you were rejecting me. I'm not used to it, and it hurt my pride, but I wouldn't admit it. I think that's why I made up that story about you, so I could give myself a reason why you didn't seem to want me.

  "If I'd been paying attention, I would have known you weren't an experienced woman rejecting me, but more like a young woman before her First Rites – unsure, and a little scared, and wanting to please. If anyone ought to recognize that, I should – I've had… never mind. That doesn't matter."

  Ayla had let the covers fall back, listening so intensely that she could hear her heart pounding in her ears.

  "All I could see was Ayla the woman. And, believe me, you don't look like a girl. I thought you were teasing me when you talked of yourself as big and ugly. You weren't, were you? You really think you are. Maybe to fl… the people who raised you, you were too tall, and different, but Ayla, you need to know, you are not big and ugly. You are beautiful. You are the most beautiful woman I've ever seen."

  She had rolled over and was sitting up. "Beautiful? Me?" she said. Then with a stab of disbelief, she dove back into the furs, afraid of being hurt again. "You're making fun of me."

  He reached over to touch her, then hesitated and pulled his hand back. "I can't blame you for not believing me. Not after… today. Maybe I should face up to that, and try to explain.

  "It's hard to imagine what you have lived through, orphaned and raised by… people so different. To have a child, and have him taken from you. Made to leave the only home you knew to face a strange world, and to live here alone. That's more testing than any holy woman would dream of putting herself through. Not many would have survived. You are not only beautiful, Ayla, you're strong. Inside you're strong. But you may have to be stronger.

  "You need to know how people feel about the ones you call Clan. I thought the same way – people think of them as animals…"

  "They are not animals!"

  "But I didn't know, Ayla. Some people hate your Clan. I don't know why. When I think about it, animals – real animals that are hunted – aren't hated. Maybe, in their hearts, people know that flatheads – they are called that too, Ayla – are human. But they're so different. It's frightening, or maybe threatening. Yet, some men will force flathead women to – I can't say share Pleasures. That is hardly the word. Maybe your way – 'relieve their needs.' I can't understand why, when they talk about them as animals. I don't know if they are animals, if the spirits can mix and children are born…"

  "Are you sure its spirits?" she asked. He seemed so certain, she wondered if he might be right.

  "Whatever it is, you aren't the only one, Ayla, to have a child that is a mixture of human and flathead, though people don't talk…"

  "They're Clan, and they're human," she interrupted.

  "You are going to hear that word a lot, Ayla. It's only fair to tell
you. You should also know that for a man to force a Clan woman is one thing – not approved, but overlooked. For a woman to 'share Pleasures' with a flathead male is… unforgivable to many people."

  "Abomination?"

  Jondalar blanched, but pressed on. "Yes, Ayla. Abomination."

  "I am not abomination!" she flared. "And Durc is not abomination! I did not like what Broud did to me, but it was not abomination. If it had been some other man who did it just to relieve his needs, and not with hatred, I would have accepted it like any Clan woman. There is no shame to being a woman of the Clan. I would have stayed with them, even as Broud's second woman, if I could have. Just to be near my son. I don't care how many people do not approve!"

  He had to admire her, but it was not going to be easy for her. "Ayla, I'm not saying you should feel shame. I am only telling you what to expect. Perhaps you could say you come from some other people."

  "Jondalar, why do you tell me to say words that are not true? I don't know how. In the Clan, no one makes untruths – it would be known. It could be seen. Even if one refrains from mentioning something, it is known. It is allowed sometimes, for… courtesy, but it is known. I can see when you say words that are not true. Your face tells me, and your shoulders, and your hands."

  He flushed. Were his lies so apparent? He was glad he had decided to be scrupulously honest with her. Maybe he could learn something from her. Her honesty, her forthrightness, were part of her inner strength.

  "Ayla, you don't have to learn to lie, but I thought I should tell you these things before I leave."

  Ayla felt a tight knot forming in her stomach, and her throat constricted. He is going to leave. She wanted to dive back into the furs and hide her head again. "I thought you would," she said. "But you have nothing for traveling. What do you need?"

  "If I could have some of your flint, I can make tools, and some spears. And if you will tell me where the clothes are that I was wearing, I'd like to repair them. The haversack should be in good shape, if you brought it from the canyon."

  "What is a haversack?"

  "It's something like a backframe, but worn over one shoulder. There is no word for it in Zelandonii; the Mamutoi use it. Those are Mamutoi clothes I was wearing…"

  Ayla shook her head. "Why is this a different word?"

  "Mamutoi is a different language."

  "A different language? What language did you teach me?"

  Jondalar had a sinking feeling. "I taught you my language – Zelandonii. I didn't think…"

  "Zelandonii – they live west?" Ayla felt uneasy.

  "Well, yes, but far to the west. The Mamutoi live nearby."

  "Jondalar, you taught me a language spoken by people who live far away, but not one spoken by people who live nearby. Why?"

  "I… didn't think about it. I just taught you my language," he said, suddenly feeling terrible. He hadn't done anything right.

  "And you are the only one who can speak it?"

  He nodded. Her stomach churned. She thought he had been sent to teach her to speak, but she could only speak to him. "Jondalar, why didn't you teach me the language everyone knows?"

  "There is no language everyone knows."

  "I mean the one you use when you speak to your spirits, or maybe to your Great Mother."

  "We don't have a language just for speaking to Her."

  "How do you talk to people who don't know your language?"

  "We learn each other's. I know three languages, and a few words in some others."

  Ayla was shaking again. She thought she would be able to leave the valley and speak to the people she would meet. What was she going to do now? She got up, and he stood also. "I wanted to know all your words, Jondalar. I have to know how to speak. You must teach me. You must."

  "Ayla, I can't teach you two more languages now. It takes time. I don't even know them perfectly – it's more than words…"

  "We can start with words. We will have to start from the beginning. What is the word fire in Mamutoi?"

  He told her and started to object again, but she kept on, one word after another in the order in which she had learned them in the Zelandonii language. After she had run through a long list, he stopped her again. "Ayla, what good does it do to say a lot of words. You can't remember them all just like that."

  "I know my memory could be better. Tell me which words are wrong."

  She went back to the word fire and repeated all the words back to him in both languages. By the time she was through, he was staring at her in awe. He recalled that it had not been the words she had trouble with when she was learning Zelandonii, but the structure and concept of the language.

  "How did you do that?"

  "Did I miss any?"

  "No, none at all!"

  She smiled with relief. "When I was young, I was much worse. I had to go over everything so many times. I don't know how Iza and Creb were so patient with me. I know some people thought I was not very intelligent. I am better now, but it has taken practice, and still everyone in the Clan remembers better than I do."

  "Everyone in your Clan can remember better than the demonstration you just gave me?"

  "They don't forget anything, but they are born knowing almost everything they need to know, so they don't have much to learn. They only have to remember. They have… memories – I don't know what else you would call them. When a child is growing up, he only has to be reminded – told once. Adults don't have to be reminded anymore, they know how to remember. I didn't have the Clan memories. That's why Iza had to repeat everything until I could remember without mistake."

  Jondalar was stunned by her mnemonic skill, and he was finding it difficult to grasp the concept of Clan memories.

  "Some people thought I could not be a medicine woman without Iza's memories, but Iza said I would be good even though I couldn't remember as well. She said I had other gifts that she didn't quite understand, a way of knowing what was wrong, and of finding the best way to treat it. She taught me how to test new medicines, so I could find ways to use them without a memory of the plants.

  "They have an ancient language, too. It has no sounds in it, only gestures. Everyone knows the Old Language, they use it for ceremonies and for addressing spirits, and also if they don't understand another person's ordinary language. I learned it, too.

  "Because I had to learn everything, I made myself pay attention and concentrate so I would remember after only one 'reminding,' so people wouldn't get so impatient with me."

  "Do I understand you right? These… Clan people all know their own language, and some kind of ancient language that is commonly understood. Everyone can talk… communicate with everyone else?"

  "Everyone at the Clan Gathering could."

  "Are we talking about the same people? Flatheads?"

  "If that is what you call the Clan. I told you how they look," Ayla said, then looked down. "That's when you said I was abomination."

  She remembered the icy stare that had drained the warmth from his eyes before, the shudder when he pulled away – the contempt. It had happened just when she was telling him about the Clan, when she thought they were understanding each other. He seemed to be having trouble accepting what she said. Suddenly she felt uneasy; she had been talking too comfortably. She walked quickly toward the fire, saw the ptarmigan where Jondalar had put them beside the eggs, and started plucking feathers, to be doing something.

  Jondalar had watched her suspicion grow. He had hurt her too much and he'd never regain her trust, though for a while he had hoped. The contempt he felt now was for himself. He picked up her furs and carried them back to her bed, then took the ones he had been using and moved them to a place on the other side of the fire.

  Ayla put the birds down – she didn't feel like plucking feathers – and hurried to her bed. She didn't want him to see the water that filled her eyes.

  Jondalar tried to arrange the furs around him in a comfortable way. Memories, she had said. Flatheads have some special kind of memories.
And a language of signs that they all know? Was it possible? It was hard to believe, except for one thing: Ayla did not tell untruths.

  Ayla had grown accustomed to quiet and solitude over the past years. The mere presence of another person, while relished, required some adjustment and accommodation, but the emotional upheavals of the day had left her drained and exhausted. She did not want to feel, or think about, or react to, the man who shared her cave. She only wanted to rest.

  Yet sleep would not come. She had felt so confident of her ability to talk. She had put all her effort and concentration into it, and she felt cheated. Why did he teach her the language he grew up with? He was leaving. She would never see him again. She would have to leave the valley in spring and find some people who lived closer, and perhaps some other man.

  But she didn't want some other man. She wanted Jondalar, with his eyes, and his touch. She remembered how she had felt in the beginning. He was the first man of her people she had seen, and he stood for all of them in a generalized way. He wasn't quite an individual. She didn't know when he ceased being an example and became, uniquely, Jondalar. All she knew was that she missed the sound of his breathing and his warmth beside her. The emptiness of the place he had occupied was more than matched by the aching void she felt inside.

  Sleep came no more easily to Jondalar. He couldn't seem to get comfortable. His side, that had been next to her, felt cold, and his guilt stung. He couldn't remember when he'd had a worse day, and he hadn't even taught her the right language. When would she ever use Zelandonii? His people lived a year's travel from this valley, and only that if no stops of any length were made.

  He thought about the Journey he had made with his brother. It all seemed so useless. How long ago had they left? Three years? That meant at least four years before he could get back. Four years of his life gone. For no purpose. His brother dead. Jetamio dead, and the child of Thonolan's spirit. What was left?

  Jondalar had struggled to keep his emotions under control since he was young, but he wiped away wetness with his furs, too. His tears were not only for his brother, they were for himself: for his loss and sorrow, and for the lost chance that might have been wonderful.