The Valley of Horses (47 page)

The tension slacked off when Jondalar made no overt moves and ceased looking at the female. But standing face to face with the flathead, he felt they were each taking the other’s measure, and more disturbing, that he was standing man to man. Yet, this man looked like none other he knew. In all his travels, the people he had met were recognizably human. They spoke different languages, had different customs, lived in different shelters—but they were human.

This one was different, but was he an animal? He was much shorter, and stockier, but those bare feet were no different from Jondalar’s. He was slightly bowlegged, but he walked as straight and tall as any man. He had a little more hair than average, especially around the arms and shoulders, Jondalar thought, but he wouldn’t call it a pelt. He knew some men who were as hairy. The flathead was barrel-chested, already brawny, not someone to tangle with, as young as he was. But even the full-grown males he’d seen, for all their tremendous musculature, were still built like men. The face, the head, there was the difference. But how different? His brows are heavy, his forehead doesn’t come up as high, slopes back more, but his head is big. Short neck, no chin, just a jaw that juts out some, and a large high-bridged nose. It’s a human face, not like anyone I know, but it looks human. And they use fire.

But they don’t talk, and all humans talk. I wonder … were they communicating? Great Doni! He even communicated with me! How did he know I needed fire? And why would a flathead help a man? Jondalar was baffled, but the young flathead had probably saved his life.

The young male seemed to come to some decision. He abruptly made the same motion with which he had beckoned Jondalar to the fire, then walked out of the glade back the way they had come. He seemed to expect the man to follow, and Jondalar did, glad of the wolfskin around his shoulders when he left the fire in his still-damp clothes. When they neared the river, the flathead ran forward, making sharp loud noises and waving his arms. A small animal scuttled off, but some of the sturgeon had been eaten. It was evident that, as large as it was, unguarded, the fish wouldn’t last long.

The young male’s anger at the scavenging animal gave Jondalar a sudden insight. Could the fish be a possible reason for the flathead to give him aid? Did he want some fish?

The flathead reached into a fold of the skin wrapped around him, took out a flake of flint with a sharp edge, and made a pass at the sturgeon as though to cut it. Then he made motions indicating some for him and some for the tall man, then waited. It was so clear. There was no doubt in Jondalar’s mind that the youngster wanted a share of the fish. A flood of questions filled him.

Where did the flathead get the tool? He wanted a closer look, but he knew it didn’t have the refinement of one of
his—it had been made on a thicker flake, not a thin blade—but it was a perfectly serviceable sharp knife. It had been made by someone, crafted with purposeful design. But more than the tool, there were questions that disturbed him. The youngster had not talked, but he had most certainly communicated. Jondalar wondered if he could have made his wishes known as directly and easily.

The flathead was waiting expectantly, and Jondalar nodded, not sure if the motion would be understood. But his meaning had been communicated in more than gesture. Without hesitation, the young male set to work on the fish.

As the Zelandonii watched, a turmoil erupted that shook deeply held convictions. What was an animal? An animal might scurry in to take a bite of that fish. A more intelligent animal might consider a man dangerous and wait until he left, or died. An animal would not perceive that a man suffering from exposure needed warmth; would not have a fire and lead him to it; would not
ask
for a share of his food. That was human behavior; more, it was humane.

His structure of beliefs—fed to him with his mother’s milk and bred into his bones—was teetering. Flatheads were animals. Everyone said flatheads were animals. Wasn’t it obvious? They couldn’t talk. Is that all? Is that the difference?

Jondalar wouldn’t have cared if he had taken the whole fish, but he was curious. How much would the flathead take? It needed to be cut anyway, it was too heavy to move. Four men would have trouble lifting it.

Suddenly the flathead didn’t matter. His heart raced. Had he heard something?

“Jondalar! Jondalar!”

The flathead looked startled, but Jondalar was pushing through trees on the bank to get a clear view of the river.

“Here! Here I am, Thonolan!” His brother
had
come looking for him. He saw a boatload of people in the middle of the river and hailed them again. They saw him, waved back, and rowed toward him.

A straining grunt brought his attention back to the flathead. He saw, on the beach, that the sturgeon had been split in half lengthwise, from the backbone to the belly, and the young male had moved half the huge fish to a large leather hide spread out beside it. While the tall man watched, the young flathead gathered up the ends of the hide and slung the entire load on his back. Then, with the
half of the head and tail sticking out the top of the huge sack, he disappeared into the woods.

“Wait!” Jondalar called, running after him. He caught up as they reached the glade. The female, with a large basket on her back, slid into the shadows as he approached. There was no evidence that the glade had been used, not even a trace of the fire. If he hadn’t felt its heat, he would have doubted it had ever been there.

He took the wolf fur from his shoulders and held it out. At a grunt from the male, she took it, then both moved silently into the woods and were gone.

Jondalar felt chilled in his damp clothes as he walked back to the river. He reached it as the boat was pulling in, and he smiled as his brother climbed out. They threw their arms around each other in a great bear hug of brotherly affection.

“Thonolan! Am I happy to see you! I was afraid that when they found that empty boat I’d be given up for lost.”

“Big Brother, how many rivers have we crossed together? Don’t you think I know you can swim? Once we found the boat, we knew you were upriver and couldn’t be much farther ahead.”

“Who took half this fish?” Dolando asked.

“I gave it away.”

“Gave it away! Who did you give it to?” Markeno asked.

“Who
could
you give it to?” Carolio added.

“To a flathead.”

“A flathead?!” many voices echoed in response. “Why would you give half a fish that size to a flathead?” Dolando asked.

“He helped me, and he asked for it.”

“What kind of nonsense is that? How could a flathead ask for anything?” Dolando said. He was angry, which surprised Jondalar. The leader of the Sharamudoi seldom showed his ire. “Where is he?”

“He’s gone by now, into the woods. I was soaked, and shivering so badly that I thought I’d never warm up. Then this young flathead appeared and led me to his fire.…”

“Fire? Since when do they use fire?” Thonolan asked.

“I’ve seen flatheads with fire,” Barono said.

“I’ve seen them on this side of the river before, too … from a distance,” Carolio remarked.

“I didn’t know they were back. How many were there?” Dolando asked.

“Just the young one, and an older female. Maybe his dam,” Jondalar replied.

“There’s more, if they have their females with them.” The stocky leader glanced around the woods. “Maybe we should get up a flathead hunting party and clean the vennin out.”

There was ugly menace in Dolando’s tone that made Jondalar look twice. He’d picked up shades of that feeling toward flatheads in the leader’s comments before, but never with such venom.

Leadership among the Sharamudoi was a matter of competence and persuasion. Dolando was tacitly acknowledged leader not because he was the best in every way, but because he was competent, and he had the ability to attract people to him and handle problems when they arose. He did not command; he cajoled, coaxed, convinced, and compromised, and in general provided the oil that smoothed the inevitable friction of people living together. He was politically astute, effective, and his decisions were usually accepted, but no one was required to abide by them. Arguments could be vociferous.

He was confident enough to push his own judgment when he felt it was right, and to defer to someone with greater knowledge or experience on a particular subject if the need arose. He tended not to interfere in personal squabbles unless they got out of hand and someone called him in. Though generally dispassionate, his ire could be raised by cruelty, stupidity, or carelessness that threatened or caused harm to the Cave as a whole, or to someone unable to defend himself. And by flatheads. He hated them. To him, they were not just animals, they were dangerous, vicious animals that should be eliminated.

“I was freezing,” Jondalar objected, “and that young flathead helped me. He brought me to his fire, and they gave me a fur to use. As far as I’m concerned, he could have had the whole fish, but he only took half. I’m not about to go out on any flathead-hunting party.”

“They don’t usually cause that much trouble,” Barono said. “But if they’re around, I’m glad to know it. They’re smart. It’s not a good idea to let a pack catch you by surprise …”

“They’re murderous brutes …” Dolando said.

Barono ignored the interjection. “You’re probably lucky it was a younger one and a female. The females don’t fight.”

Thonolan didn’t like the direction the conversation was heading. “How are we going to get this splendid half-catch of my brother’s home?” He remembered the ride the fish had given Jondalar, and a grin cracked his face. “After the fight he gave you, I’m surprised you let half of him get away.”

The laughter spread to the others, with nervous relief.

“Does that mean he’s half Ramudoi, now?” Markeno said.

“Maybe we can take him hunting and he’ll get half a chamois,” Thonolan said. “Then the other half can be Shamudoi.”

“Which half will Serenio want?” Barono winked.

“Half of him is more than most,” Carolio quipped, and her expression left no doubt that she was not referring to his height. In the close quarters of the Cave, his skill in the furs had not gone unnoticed. Jondalar flushed, but the ribald laughter brought a final release of tension, both from the concern over him and from Dolando’s reaction to the flatheads.

They brought out a net made of fiber which held up well when wet, spread it out beside the bleeding open half of the sturgeon, and, with some grunting and straining, moved the carcass onto the net and into the water, then tied it to the stern of the boat.

While the rest were struggling with the fish, Carolio turned to Jondalar and said, quietly, “Roshario’s son was killed by flatheads. He was just a young man, not yet Promised, full of fun and daring, and Dolando’s pride. No one knows how it happened, but Dolando had the whole Cave out hunting them. A few were killed—then they disappeared. He didn’t much care for them in the first place, but since then …”

Jondalar nodded, understanding.

“How did that flathead haul his half of this fish away?”

Thonolan asked as they were getting into the boat.

“He picked it up and carried it,” Jondalar said.

“He? He picked it up and carried it?”

“By himself. And he wasn’t even full grown.”

Thonolan approached the wooden structure shared by his brother, Serenio, and Darvo. It was constructed of planks which were leaned against a ridgepole that itself sloped to the ground. The dwelling resembled a tent made of wood, with the triangular front wall higher and wider than the rear one, making trapezoids of the sides. The planks were fastened
together like the strakes on the sides of the boats, with the slightly thicker edge overlapping the thinner edge and sewn together.

These were snug, sturdy structures, tight enough so that only in the older ones could light be seen through the cracks of the dried and warped wood. With the sandstone overhang to protect them from the worst elements of the weather, the dwellings were not maintained or caulked the way the boats were. They were lighted inside primarily by the stone-lined fireplace, or by opening the front.

The younger man looked in to see if his brother was still sleeping.

“Come on in,” Jondalar said, sniffling. He was sitting up on the fur-covered sleeping platform, with more furs piled around him and with a cup of something steaming in his hands.

“How’s your cold?” Thonolan asked, sitting on the edge of the platform.

“Cold’s worse, I’m better.”

“No one thought about your wet clothes, and that wind was really blowing down the river gorge by the time we got back.”

“I’m glad you found me.”

“Well, I’m really glad you’re feeling better.” Thonolan seemed strangely at a loss for words. He fidgeted, got up and walked toward the opening, then walked back to his brother. “Is there anything I can get you?”

Jondalar shook his head and waited. Something was bothering his brother, and he was trying to get it out, He just needed time.

“Jondalar …” Thonolan started, then paused. “You’ve been living with Serenio and her son for a long time now.” For a moment, Jondalar thought he was going to make some reference to the unformalized status of the relationship, but he was wrong. “How does it feel to be man of your hearth?”

“You’re a mated man, a man of your hearth.”

“I know, but does it make any difference to have a child of your hearth? Jetamio’s been trying so hard to have a baby, and now … she lost another one, Jondalar.”

“I’m sorry …”

“I don’t care if she ever has a baby. I just don’t want to lose her,” Thonolan cried, his voice cracking. “I wish she’d stop trying.”

“I don’t think she has a choice. The Mother gives …”

“Then why won’t the Mother let her keep one!” Thonolan shouted, brushing past Serenio as he ran out.

“He told you about Jetamio … ?” Serenio asked. Jondalar nodded. “She held this one longer, but it was harder on her when she lost it. I’m glad she’s so happy with Thonolan, She deserves that much.”

“Will she be all right?”

“It’s not the first time a woman has lost a baby, Jondalar. Don’t worry about her—she’ll be fine. I see you found the tea. It’s peppermint, borage, and lavender, in case you were trying to guess. Shamud said it would help your cold. How are you feeling? I just came to see if you were awake yet.”