The Valley of Horses (57 page)

She knew her eyes were blue: it was one of the differences she had been reminded of often enough, and she had seen them in the reflection of the pool. But the eyes of the people of the Clan were brown. She had never seen another person with blue eyes, particularly blue of such a vivid shade that she could hardly believe it was real.

She was held by those blue eyes; she could not seem to move until she discovered she was shaking. Then she realized she had been looking directly at the man, and she felt the blood rise to her face as she tore her eyes away in embarrassment. It was not only impolite to stare, a woman was never supposed to look directly at a man, especially a stranger.

Ayla looked down at the ground, struggling to regain her composure. What must he think of me! But it had been so long since she had been around anyone, and this was the first time she could remember seeing one of the Others. She wanted to look at him. She wanted to fill her eyes, to drink in the sight of another human being, and one so unusual. But it was also important to her that he think well of her. She did not want to start out wrong because of her improper curious actions.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to embarrass you,” he said, wondering if he had offended her or if she was just shy. When she didn’t respond, he smiled wryly and realized he had been talking in Zelandonii. He switched to Mamutoi, and, when that elicited no answer, tried Sharamudoi.

She had been watching him with furtive glances, the way women did when they were waiting for a man’s signal to approach. But he made no gestures, at least none she could understand. He just made words. Only none of the words were anything like the sounds people of the Clan made. They weren’t guttural and distinct syllables; they flowed together. She couldn’t even tell where one stopped and the other started. His voice made a pleasant, deep, rumbling tone, but it frustrated her. She felt at some basic level that she ought to understand him, and she could not.

She kept waiting for him to signal, until the waiting became embarrassing. Then she recalled, from her early days with the Clan, that Creb had had to teach her to talk properly. He had told her she only knew how to make sounds, and he had wondered if the Others communicated that way. But didn’t this man know any signs? Finally, when she realized he wasn’t going to signal, she knew she had to find some other way to communicate with him, if only to make sure he took the medicine she had prepared for him.

Jondalar was at a loss. Nothing he had said evoked any response from her at all He wondered if she was unable to hear, then remembered how quickly she had turned to look at him the first time he spoke. What a strange woman, he thought, feeling uncomfortable. I wonder where the rest of her people are. He glanced around the small cave, saw the hay-colored foal and her bay colt, and was struck by another thought. What was that horse doing in a cave? And why did it allow a woman to midwife? He’d never seen a horse give birth before, not even out on the plains. Did the woman have some kind of special powers?

This whole thing was beginning to have the unreal quality of a dream, yet he didn’t think he was sleeping. Maybe it’s worse. Maybe she’s a donii who’s come for you, Jondalar, he thought with a shudder, not at all sure she was a benevolent spirit … if she was a spirit. He was relieved when she moved, if rather hesitantly, toward the fire.

Her manner was diffident. She moved as though she did not want him to see her; she reminded him of … something.
Her clothing was rather odd, too. It seemed to be nothing more than a leather hide wrapped around her and tied with a thong. Where had he seen something like that before? He couldn’t recall.

She had done something interesting with her hair. It was separated into orderly sections all over her head and braided. He had seen braided hair before, though never worn in a style quite like hers. It was not unattractive but unusual. He had thought she was rather pretty the first time he had looked at her. She’d seemed young—there was an innocence in her eyes—but as closely as he could tell with such a shapeless wrap, she had a mature woman’s body. She seemed to be avoiding his inquiring gaze. Why? he wondered. He was beginning to be intrigued—she was a strange enigma.

He didn’t notice he was hungry until he smelled the rich broth she brought him. He tried to sit up, and the deep pain in his right leg made him aware that he had other injuries as well. He hurt, all over. Then, for the first time, he wondered where he was and how he had gotten there. Suddenly he remembered Thonolan going into the canyon … the roar … and the most gigantic cave lion he had ever seen.

“Thonolan!” he cried, looking around the cave in panic. “Where’s Thonolan?” There was no one else in the cave except the woman. His stomach churned. He knew, but he did not want to believe. Maybe Thonolan was in some other cave nearby. Maybe someone else was taking care of him. “Where’s my brother? Where’s Thonolan?!”

That word sounded familiar to Ayla. It was the one he had repeated so often when he called out with alarm from the depths of his dreams. She guessed he was asking for his companion, and she put her head down to show respect for the young man who was dead.

“Where’s my brother, woman?” Jondalar shouted, grabbing her arms and shaking her. “Where is Thonolan?”

Ayla was shocked by his outburst, The loudness of his voice, the anger, the frustration, the uncontrolled emotions she could hear in his tone and see in his actions, all disturbed her. Men of the Clan would never have displayed their emotions so openly. They might feel as strongly, but manliness was measured by self-control.

There was grief in his eyes, though, and she could read from the tension in his shoulders and the tightening of his jaw that he was fighting the truth he knew but did not want
to accept. The people she had grown up among communicated by more than simple hand signs and gestures. Stance, posture, expression, all gave shades of meaning that were part of the vocabulary. The flexion of a muscle could reveal a nuance. Ayla was accustomed to reading the language of the body, and the loss of a loved one was a universal affliction.

Her eyes, too, conveyed her feelings, told of her sorrow, her sympathy. She shook her head and bowed it again. He could no longer deny to himself what he knew. He let go of her, and his shoulders slumped with acquiescence.

“Thonolan … Thonolan … why did you have to keep on going? O Doni, why? Why did you take my brother,” he called out, his voice tight and strained. He tried to resist the crush of desolation, giving in to his pain, but he had never known such profound despair. “Why did you have to take him and leave me with no one? You knew he was the only person I ever … loved. Great Mother … He was my brother … Thonolan … Thonolan…”

Ayla understood grief. She had not been spared its ravages, and she ached for him with empathy, wanting to comfort him. Without knowing how it happened, she found herself holding the man, rocking with him as he cried out the name in anguish. He didn’t know this woman, but she was human, and compassionate. She saw his need and responded to it.

As he clung to her, he felt an overpowering force well up inside him, and, like the forces contained within a volcano, once released, there was no holding back. He heaved a powerful sob and his body shook with convulsive spasms. Great deep cries were torn from his throat, and each ragged breath cost him an agony of effort.

Not since he was a child had he let go so completely. It was not his nature to reveal his innermost feelings. They were too overpowering, and he had learned early to keep them in check—but the outflowing brought on by Thonolan’s death exposed the raw edges of memories buried deep.

Serenio had been right, his love was too much for most people to bear. His anger, let loose, could not be contained until it had run its course either. Growing up, he had once wreaked such havoc with righteous anger that he had caused someone serious injury. All his emotions were too powerful. Even his mother had felt forced to put a distance between
them, and she had watched with silent sympathy when friends backed off because he clung too fiercely, loved too hard, demanded too much of them. She had seen similar traits in the man to whom she had once been mated, and to whose hearth Jondalar was born. Only his younger brother seemed able to handle his love, to accept with ease and deflect with laughter the tensions it caused.

When he became too much for her to handle, and the whole Cave was in an uproar, his mother had sent him to live with Dalanar. It had been a wise move. By the time Jondalar returned, he had not only learned his craft, he had learned to keep his emotions under control, and he had grown into a tall, muscular, remarkably handsome man, with extraordinary eyes and an unconscious charisma that was a reflection of his depth. Women, in particular, sensed there was more to him than he was willing to show. He became an irresistible challenge, but no one could win him. As deep as they could go, they could not touch his deepest feelings; as much as they could take, he had more to give. He learned quickly how far to go with each, but to him the relationships were superficial and unsatisfactory. The one woman in his life able to meet him on his terms had made her commitment to another calling. They would have been a mismatch in any case.

His grief was as intense as the rest of his nature, but the young woman who held him had known grief as great. She had lost everything—more than once; she had felt the cold breath of the spirit world—more than once; yet she persevered. She sensed that his passionate outpouring was more than the keening of ordinary sorrow, and, from her own loss, gave him surcease.

When his racking sobs slackened, she discovered she was crooning under her breath as she held him. She had soothed Uba, Iza’s daughter, to sleep with her crooning; she had watched her son close his eyes to the sound; and she had nursed her own grief and loneliness with the same tuneless lulling tone. It was appropriate. Finally, drained and exhausted, he released his hold. He lay back with his head to the side, staring at the stone walls of the cave. When she turned his face to wipe away the tears with cool water, he closed his eyes. He would not—or could not—look at her. Soon, his body relaxed and she knew he slept.

She went to see how Whinney was doing with her new foal, then walked outside. She felt drained as well, yet relieved.
At the far end of the ledge, she looked down the valley and remembered her anxious ride with the man on the travois, her fervent hope that he would not die. The thought made her nervous; more than ever she felt the man must live. She hurried back into the cave and reassured herself that he still breathed. She brought the cold soup back to the fire—he had needed other sustenance more—made sure the medicinal preparations were ready for him when he woke, and then sat quietly beside him on the fur.

She could not get enough of looking at him, and she studied his face as though she were trying to satisfy all at one time her years of yearning for the sight of another human. Now that some of the strangeness was wearing off, she saw his face as more of a whole, not just as the individual features. She wanted to touch it, to run her finger along his jaw and chin, to feel his light smooth eyebrows. Then it struck her.

His eyes had watered! She had wiped wetness from his face; her shoulder was still damp from it. It’s not just me, she thought. Creb could never understand why my eyes watered when I was sad—no one else’s did. He thought my eyes were weak. But the man’s eyes watered when he grieved. The eyes of all the Others must water.

Ayla’s all-night vigil and intense emotional reactions finally caught up with her. She fell asleep on the fur beside him though it was still afternoon. Jondalar woke up toward dusk. He was thirsty and looked for something to drink, unwilling to wake the woman. He heard the sounds of the horse and her newborn, but could only make out the yellow coat of the mare, who was lying down near the wall on the other side of the cave entrance.

He looked at the woman then. She was on her back, facing the other way. He could see only the line of her neck and jaw, and the shape of her nose. He remembered his emotional outbreak and felt a little embarrassed, then remembered the reason for it. His pain drove out all other feelings. He could feel his eyes filling and closed them tightly. He tried not to think about Thonolan; he tried not to think about anything. Soon, he succeeded, and didn’t wake again until the middle of the night, and then his moans woke Ayla as well.

It was dark; the fire was out. Ayla felt her way to the fireplace, got tinder and kindling from the place she kept her supply, then the firestone and flint.

Jondalar’s fever was up again, but he was awake. He thought he must have dozed off, though. He couldn’t believe the woman had made a fire so fast. He hadn’t even seen the glow of coals when he awakened.

She brought the man cold willowbark tea she had made earlier. He raised himself on one elbow to reach for the cup, and, though it was bitter, he drank for his thirst. He recognized the taste—everyone seemed to know the use of willowbark—but he wished for a drink of plain water. He was feeling an urge to urinate as well, but he didn’t know how to communicate either need. He picked up the cup which had held the willowbark tea, turned it over to show it was empty, then brought it to his lips.

She understood immediately, brought a waterbag, filled his cup, and then left it beside him. The water assuaged his thirst, but it added to his other problem, and he began to squirm uncomfortably. His actions made the young woman aware of his need. She picked a stick of wood out of the fire for a torch and went to the storage section of the cave. She wanted a container of some sort, but once there found some other useful items.

She had made stone lamps, nicking a shallow well into a stone that would hold melted fat and a moss wick, though she hadn’t used them much. Her fire usually provided sufficient light. She picked up a lamp, found the moss wicks, then looked for the bladders of congealed fat. When she saw the empty bladder beside them, she took that, too.

She put the full one near the fire to soften and took the empty one to Jondalar—but she could not explain what it was for. She unfolded the pouring end, showed him the opening. He looked puzzled. There was no other way. She pulled back the cover, but when she reached between his legs with the open waterbag, he quickly got the idea and took it from her.