The Valley of Horses (70 page)

“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.

Jondalar opened his eyes. His dream of home had been so vivid that the rough walls of the cave seemed unfamiliar, as though the dream was reality and Ayla’s cave a figment of dream. The dregs of sleep began to clear, and the walls seemed displaced. Then he woke up and realized he had been looking from a different perspective, from the far side of the fireplace.

Ayla was gone. Two naked ptarmigan and the covered basket in which she saved loose feathers were beside the hearth; she had been up for some time. The cup he customarily used—the one fashioned so that the wood grain gave the impression of a small animal—was set out. Beside it was the tightly woven basket in which she steeped his morning tea, and a freshly peeled birch twig. She knew he liked to chew the end of a twig to a fibrous bristle and use it to clean his teeth of the coating that accumulated overnight, and she had formed the habit of having one ready for him in the morning.

He got up and stretched, feeling stiff from the unaccustomed hardness of his bed. He had slept on hard ground before, but a padding of straw could make a big difference to comfort, and it smelled clean and sweet. She changed the straw regularly, so unpleasant odors did not accumulate.

The tea in the pot-basket was hot—she could not have been
gone long. He poured some and sniffed the warm minty aroma. He made a game of trying to identify which herbs she used each day. Mint was one of his favorites and was usually one component. He sipped and thought he detected the taste of raspberry leaf, and perhaps alfalfa. He took the cup and twig outside with him.

Standing at the edge of the shelf facing the valley, he chewed on the twig and watched his stream arc down and water the cliff wall. He still wasn’t fully awake. His actions were the mechanical movements of habit. When he was through, he scrubbed his teeth with the gnawed stick of wood, then swished his mouth out with the tea. It was a ritual and always refreshed him, and it usually led him to thinking about plans for the day.

It wasn’t until he drank the last of the tea that he felt himself flush and his complacency slip away. This was not like every other day. His actions of the day before had seen to that. He was about to throw the twig away, then noticed it and held it up, twirling it between his thumb and forefinger, thinking about its implications.

It had been easy to fall into the habit of letting her take care of him; she did it with such subtle grace. He never had to ask, she anticipated his wishes. The twig was a good example. Obviously, she had gotten up before him, gone down to get one, peeled it, and put it there for him. When had she started doing it? He recalled that when he was first able to walk down, he had found one for himself one morning. The next morning, when a twig was beside his cup, he had been very grateful. He still had difficulty with the steep path, then.

And the hot tea. No matter what time he woke up, hot tea was ready. How did she know when to start it? The first time she had brought him a cup in the morning, he had been warm in his appreciation. When was the last time he thanked her? How many other thoughtful acts had she done for him so unobtrusively? She never makes an issue of it. Marthona is like that, he thought, so gracious with her gifts and her time that no one ever feels obligated. Whenever he offered to help, Ayla seemed surprised, and was so grateful—as though she genuinely expected nothing in return for everything she had done for him.

“I gave her worse than nothing,” he said aloud. “And even after yesterday …” He held up the twig, gave it a twirl, and pitched it over the edge.

He noticed Whinney and the colt in the field, racing
around in a large circle, full of high spirits, and he felt a twinge of excitement at seeing the running horses. “Look at him go! That colt can really run! In a sprint, I think he could outrace his dam!”

“In a sprint, young stallions often do, but not in the long run,” Ayla said, appearing at the top of the path. Jondalar spun around, his eyes glowing and his smile full of pride for the colt. His enthusiasm was hard to resist; she smiled in spite of her misgivings. She had hoped the man would develop an affection for the young horse—not that it mattered anymore.

“I was wondering where you were,” he said. He felt awkward in her presence and his smile faded.

“I started a fire in the roasting pit earlier, for the ptarmigan. I went to see if it was ready.” He doesn’t seem very happy to see me, she thought, turning to go into the cave. Her smile vanished, too.

“Ayla,” he called, hurrying after her. When she turned back, he didn’t know what to say. “I … uh … I was wondering … uh … I’d like to make some tools. If you don’t mind, that is. I don’t want to use up your flint.”

“I do not mind. Every year the floods take some away and bring more,” she said.

“Must be washing down from a chalk deposit upstream. If I knew it wasn’t far, I’d get some from the source. It’s so much better when it’s freshly mined. Dalanar mines his from a deposit near his Cave, and everyone knows the quality of Lanza donii flint.”

The enthusiasm returned to his eyes, as it always did when he talked about his craft. Droog was like that, Ayla thought. He loved toolmaking, and everything connected with it. She smiled to herself remembering the time Droog discovered Aga’s young son, the one born after they were mated, pounding rocks together. Droog was so proud, he even gave him a hammerstone. He liked teaching the skill; he didn’t even mind showing me, though I was a girl.

Jondalar noticed her inward look and the hint of a smile. “What are you thinking about, Ayla?” he asked.

“Droog. He was a toolmaker. He used to let me watch him if I was very quiet and didn’t disturb his concentration.”

“You can watch me, if you want,” Jondalar said. “In fact, I was hoping you’d show me the technique you use.”

“I am not an expert. I can make the tools I need, but Droog’s are much better than mine.”

“Your tools are perfectly serviceable. It’s the technique I’d like to see.”

Ayla nodded and went into the cave. Jondalar waited, and when she didn’t come out immediately, he wondered if she had meant now or later. He started in after her just as she was coming out, then jumped back so fast that he almost tripped. He didn’t want to offend her with an inadvertent touch.

Ayla took a breath, straightened her shoulders, and lifted her chin. Maybe he couldn’t stand to be near her, but she was not going to let him know how much it hurt. He’d be gone soon enough. She started down the path carrying both ptarmigan, the basket with the eggs, and a large bundle wrapped in a hide and tied with a cord.

“Let me help you carry something,” Jondalar said, hurrying after her. She paused long enough to give him the basket of eggs.

“The ptarmigan should be started first,” she said, putting the bundle down on the beach. It was just a statement, but Jondalar had the impression she was waiting for his consent, or at least acknowledgment. He was not far off. Despite her years of independence, the ways of the Clan still governed many of her actions. She was not accustomed to doing something else when a man had commanded, or requested, her to do something for him.

“Of course, go ahead. I need to get my implements before I can work the flint,” he said.

She carried the plump birds around the wall to the hole she had dug earlier and lined with rocks. The fire was out in the bottom of the pit, but the stones sizzled when she sprinkled drops of water on them. She had searched up and down the valley for the right combination of greens and herbs, and had brought them to the stone oven. She collected coltsfoot for its slightly salty taste; nettles, pigweed, and sprightly wood sorrel for greens; wild onions, garlicky-tasting ramsons, basil, and sage were for flavor. Smoke would add its touch of flavor as well, and wood ashes a taste of salt.

She stuffed the birds with their own eggs nested in the greens—three eggs in one bird and four in the other. She had always wrapped grape leaves around the ptarmigan before they were lowered into the pit, but grapes did not grow in the valley. She remembered fish was sometimes cooked wrapped in fresh hay, and decided that would work for fowl. After the birds were resting in the bottom of the pit, she
piled more grass on top, then rocks, and covered it all with dirt.

Jondalar had an array of antler, bone, and stone flint-knapping implements spread out, some of which Ayla recognized. Some, though, were totally unfamiliar. She opened her bundle and arranged her implements within easy reach, then sat down and spread the leather over her lap. It was good protection; flint could shatter into very sharp slivers. She glanced at Jondalar. He was looking over the pieces of bone and stone she had set out with great interest.

He moved several nodules of flint closer to her. She noticed two within easy reach—and thought of Droog. A good toolmaker’s ability began with selection, she recalled. She wanted stone with a fine grain, looked them over, then chose the smaller one. Jondalar was nodding his head in unconscious approval.

She thought of the youngster who had shown an inclination for toolmaking before he was hardly toddling. “Did you always know you would work the stone?” she asked.

“For a while I thought I might be a carver, perhaps even serve the Mother, or work with Those Who Served Her.” A touch of pain and poignant yearning crossed his features. “Then I was sent to live with Dalanar and learned to be a stone knapper instead. It was a good choice—I enjoy it and have some skill. I would never have been a great carver.”

“What is a ‘carver,’ Jondalar?”

“That’s it! That’s what is missing!” Ayla jumped with startled consternation. “There are no carvings, no paintings, no beads, no decorations at all. Not even colors.”

“I don’t understand …”

“I’m sorry, Ayla. How could you know what I’m talking about? A carver is someone who makes animals out of stone.”

Ayla frowned. “How can someone make an animal out of stone? An animal is blood and meat; it lives and breathes.”

“I don’t mean a real animal. I mean an image, a representation. A carver makes the likeness of an animal out of stone—makes the stone look like an animal. Some carvers make images of the Great Earth Mother, too, if they receive a vision of Her.”

“A likeness? Out of stone?”

“Out of other things, too. Mammoth ivory, bone, wood, antler. I’ve heard that some people make images out of mud. For that matter, I’ve seen some pretty good likenesses out of snow.”

Ayla had been shaking her head, struggling to understand, until he said snow. Then she remembered one winter day when she had piled bowls of snow against the wall near the cave. Hadn’t she, for a while, imagined the likeness of Brun in that pile of snow?