The Valley of Horses (58 page)

He felt ridiculous lying flat on his back rather than standing up to let his stream flow. Ayla could see his discomfort and went to the fire to fill the lamp, smiling to herself. He’s not been hurt before, she thought, at least not so badly that he couldn’t walk. He smiled a little sheepishly when she took the waterbag and went out to empty it. She returned it to him, to use when he needed, then finished putting oil in the lamp and lit the moss wick. She carried it to the bed and pulled the cover back from his leg.

He tried to sit up to see, though it hurt. She propped him up. When he saw the lacerations on his chest and arms, he understood why it hurt more to use his right side, but it was the deep pain in his leg that concerned him more. He wondered how skilled the woman was. Willowbark tea did not make a healer.

When she removed the bloody root-poultice, he worried even more. The lamp did not illuminate the way sunlight did, but it left no doubt as to the seriousness of his injury. His leg was swollen, bruised, and raw. He looked closer and thought he saw knots holding his flesh together. He wasn’t versed in the healing arts. Until recently, he hadn’t been any more interested than most healthy young men, but had any zelandoni ever tied and knotted someone together?

He watched carefully while she prepared a new poultice, this time of leaves. He wanted to ask her what the leaves were, talk to her, try to get a measure of her skill. But she didn’t know any of the languages he knew. In fact, now that he thought of it, he hadn’t heard her talk at all. How could she be a healer if she didn’t talk? But she did seem to know what she was doing, and whatever it was she put on his leg, it did ease the pain.

He let himself relax—what else could he do?—and watched her sponge a soothing wash onto his chest and arms. It wasn’t until she untied the strip of soft leather holding the compress that he knew his head had been injured. He reached up and felt a swelling and a sore spot before she bound on a fresh compress.

She returned to the fireplace to heat the soup. He watched her, still trying to fathom who she was. “That smells good,” he said, when the meaty aroma wafted toward him.

The sound of his voice seemed out of place. He wasn’t sure why, but it was something more than knowing he would not be understood. When he had first met the Sharamudoi, neither he nor they understood a word of each other’s language, yet there had been speech—immediate and voluble speech—as each strove to exchange words that would begin the process of communication. This woman made no attempt to begin a mutual exchange of words, and she responded to his efforts with only puzzled looks. She seemed not only to lack an understanding of the languages he knew, but to have no desire to communicate.

No, he thought. That wasn’t quite true. They had communicated. She had given him water when he wanted it, and
she had given him a container to make his stream, though he wasn’t sure how she knew he needed one. He didn’t form a specific thought for the communication they had shared when he gave vent to his grief—the pain was still too fresh—but he had felt it and included it in his wonderings about her.

“I know you can’t understand me,” he said, rather tentatively. He didn’t know quite what to say to her, but he felt a need to say something. Once he started, words came easier. “Who are you? Where are the rest of your people?” He could not see much beyond the circle of light shed by the fire and the lamp, but he had not seen any other people, nor any evidence of them. “Why don’t you want to talk?” She looked at him but said nothing.

A strange thought then began to insinuate itself into his mind. He recalled sitting near a fire in the dark before with a healer, and he remembered the Shamud talking about certain tests Those Who Served the Mother had to put themselves through. Wasn’t there something about spending periods of time alone? Periods of silence when they could not speak to anyone? Periods of abstinence and fasting?

“You live here alone, don’t you?”

Ayla glanced at him again, surprised to see a look of wonder on his face—as though he were seeing her for the first time. For some reason, it made her conscious of her discourtesy again, and she quickly looked down at the broth. Yet he had seemed unaware of her indiscretion. He was looking around at her cave and making his mouth sounds. She filled a bowl, then sat down in front of him with it and bowed her head, trying to give him the opportunity to tap her shoulder and acknowledge her presence. She felt no tap, and when she looked up, he was gazing at her questioningly and speaking his words.

He doesn’t know! He doesn’t see what I’m asking. I don’t think he knows any signals at all. With sudden insight, a thought occurred to her. How are we going to communicate if he doesn’t see my signals, and I don’t know his words?

She was jarred by a memory of when Creb had been trying to teach her to talk, but she didn’t know he was talking with his hands. She didn’t know people could talk with their hands; she had only spoken with sounds! She had spoken the language of the Clan for so long that she could not remember the meaning of words.

But I am not a woman of the Clan anymore. I am dead. I was cursed. I can never go back. I must live with the Others now, and I must speak the way they speak. I must learn to understand words again, and I must learn to speak them, or I will never be understood. Even if I had found a clan of Others, I would not have been able to talk to them, and they would not have known what I was saying. Is that why my totem made me stay? Until this man could be brought? So he could teach me to speak again? She shuddered, feeling a sudden cold, but there had been no draft.

Jondalar had been rambling on, asking questions for which he didn’t expect answers, just to hear himself talk. There had been no response from the woman, and he thought he knew the reason. He felt sure she was either training to be, or in the Service of the Mother. It answered so many questions: her healing skills, her power over the horse, why she was living alone and would not speak to him, perhaps even how she had found him and brought him to this cave. He wondered where he was, but for the moment it didn’t matter. He was lucky to be alive. He was troubled, though, by something else the Shamud had said.

He realized now, that if he had paid attention to the old white-haired healer, he would have known Thonolan was going to die—but hadn’t he also been told that he followed his brother because Thonolan would lead him where he would not otherwise go? Why had he been led here?

Ayla had been trying to think of some way to begin to learn his words, and then she remembered how Creb had begun, with the name sounds. Steeling herself, she looked directly in his eyes, tapped her chest, and said, “Ayla.”

Jondalar’s eyes opened wide. “So you have decided to talk after all! Was that your name?” He pointed to her. “Say it again.”

“Ayla.”

She had a strange accent. The two parts of the word were clipped, the insides pronounced back in her throat as though she were swallowing them. He had heard many languages, but none had the quality of the sounds she made. He couldn’t quite say them, but tried for the closest approximation: “Aaay-lah.”

She almost couldn’t recognize the sounds he made as her name. Some people in the Clan had had great difficulty, but none said it the way he did. He strung the sounds together, altered the pitch so that the first syllable rose and the second
dropped. She couldn’t ever remember hearing her name said that way, yet it seemed so right, She pointed at him and leaned forward expectantly.

“Jondalar,” he said. “My name is Jondalar of the Zelandonii.”

It was too much; she couldn’t get it all. She shook her head and pointed again. He could see she was confused.

“Jondalar,” he said, then slower, “Jondalar.”

Ayla strained to make her mouth work the same way. “Duh-da,” was as close as she could come.

He could tell she was having trouble making the right sounds, but she was trying so hard. He wondered if she had some deformity in her mouth that kept her from speaking. Is that why she hadn’t been talking? Because she couldn’t? He said his name again, slowly, making each sound as clear as he could, as though he were speaking to a child, or someone lacking adequate intelligence, “Jon-da-lar … Jonnn-dah-larrr.”

“Don-da-lah,” she tried again.

“Much better!” he said, nodding approvingly and smiling. She had really made an effort that time. He wasn’t so sure if his analysis of her as someone who was studying to Serve the Mother was correct. She didn’t seem bright enough. He kept smiling and nodding.

He was making the happy face! No one else in the Clan ever smiled like that, except Durc. Yet it had come so naturally to her, and now he was doing it.

Her look of surprise was so funny that Jondalar had to suppress a chuckle, but his smile deepened and his eyes sparkled with amusement. The feeling was contagious. Ayla’s mouth turned up at the corners, and when his answering grin encouraged her, she responded with a full, wide, delighted smile.

“Oh, woman,” Jondalar said. “You may not talk much, but you are lovely when you smile!” The maleness in him began to see her as a woman, as a very attractive woman, and he looked at her that way.

Something was different. The smile was still there, but his eyes … Ayla noticed that his eyes in the firelight were deep violet, and they held more than amusement. She didn’t know what it was about his look, but her body did. It recognized the invitation and responded with the same drawing, tingling sensations deep inside that she had felt when she was watching Whinney and the bay stallion. His eyes were
so compelling that she had to force herself to look away with a jerk of her head. She fumbled around straightening his bed coverings, then picked up the bowl and stood up, avoiding his eyes.

“I believe you’re shy,” Jondalar said, softening the intensity of his gaze. She reminded him of a young woman before her First Rites. He felt the gentle but urgent desire he always had for a young woman during that ceremony, and the eager pull in his loins. And then the pain in his right thigh. “It’s just as well,” he said with a wry grin. “I’m in no shape for it anyway.”

He eased himself back down on the bed, pushing aside and smoothing out the furs she had used to prop him up, feeling drained. His body hurt, and when he remembered why, he hurt deeper. He didn’t want to remember or think. He wanted to close his eyes and forget, sink into the oblivion that would end all his pain. He felt a touch on his arm and opened his eyes to see Ayla holding a cup of liquid. He swallowed it, and before long he felt the pain ease and a drowsiness overcome him. She had given him something that had caused it, he knew, and was grateful, but he wondered how she had known what he needed without his saying a word.

Ayla had seen his grimace of pain and knew the extent of his injuries. She was an experienced medicine woman. She had prepared the datura before he even woke up. She watched the wrinkles on his forehead smooth out and his body relax, then put out the lamp and banked the fire. She arranged the fur she was using beside the man, but she was far from sleepy.

By the glow of the banked coals, she made her way toward the mouth of the cave, then, hearing Whinney nicker softly, she crossed over to her. She was pleased to see the mare lying down. The strange scent of the man in the cave had made her nervous after she foaled. She was accepting the man’s presence if she felt relaxed enough to lie down. Ayla sat down below Whinney’s neck and in front of her chest, so she could stroke her face and scratch around her ears. The foal, who had been lying near his dam’s teats, got curious. He nuzzled between them. Ayla patted and scratched him too, then extended her fingers. She felt the suction, but he let go when he discovered she had nothing for him. His need to suck was satisfied by his mother.

He’s a wonderful baby, Whinney, and he’ll grow up strong and healthy, just as you did. You have someone now, like you, and so do I. It’s hard to believe. After all this time, I’m not alone anymore. Unexpected tears came to her eyes. How many, many moons have passed since I was cursed, since I’ve seen anyone. And now someone is here. A man, Whinney. A man of the Others, and I think he’s going to live. She wiped her tears with the back of her hand. His eyes made water like this, too, and he smiled at me. And I smiled back.

I am one of the Others, just as Creb said. Iza told me to find my own kind, to find my mate. Whinney! Is he my mate? Was he brought here for me? Did my totem bring him?

Baby! Baby gave him to me! He was chosen, just as I was chosen. Tested and marked, by Baby, by the cave lion cub my totem gave me. And now his totem is the Cave Lion, too. It means he could be my mate. A man with a Cave Lion totem would be powerful enough for a woman with a Cave lion totem. I could even have more babies.

Ayla frowned. But babies aren’t really made by totems. I know Broud started Durc when he put his organ inside me. Men start babies, not totems. Don-da-lah is a man.…

Suddenly Ayla thought of his organ, stiffened with the need to lose his water, and she remembered his disconcerting blue eyes. She felt a strange pulsing inside that made her feel restless. Why did she have these strange feelings? They had started when she watched Whinney and the dark brown horse.…

A dark brown horse! And now she has a dark brown foal. That stallion did start a baby in her. Don-da-lah could start a baby in me. He could be my mate.…

What if he doesn’t want me? Iza said men do that if they like a woman. Most men. Broud didn’t like me. I wouldn’t hate it if Don-da-lah … Suddenly she flushed. I’m so big and ugly! Why should he want to do that to me? Why should he want me for a mate? He might have a mate. What if he wants to leave?

He can’t leave. He has to teach me to make words again. Would he stay if I could understand his words?

I’ll learn them. I’ll learn all his words. Then maybe he’ll stay, even if I am big and ugly. He can’t go now. I’ve been alone too long.

Ayla jumped up, almost in a panic, and went out of the cave. Black was shading into deep velvet blue; night was nearly over. She watched shapes of trees and familiar landmarks take on definition. She wanted to go in and look at the man again, and fought the urge. Then she thought about getting him something fresh for breakfast and started in for her sling.