The Valley of Horses (Earth's Children 2)

“Where did they come from?” Thonolan said in a hoarse whisper.

“They must have seen our fire. Who knows how long they’ve been out there. I’ve been up all night watching for scavengers. They could have been waiting until we did something careless, like leaving our spears behind.”

“They don’t look too sociable; none of them has made a gesture of welcome. What do we do now?”

“Put on your biggest, friendliest smile, Little Brother, and you make the gesture.”

Thonolan tried to think self-assured and smiled what he hoped was a confident grin. He put both his hands out and started toward them “I am Thonolan of the Zelan …”

His progress was halted by a spear quivering in the ground at his feet.

“Any more good suggestions, Jondalar?”

“I think it’s their turn.”

One of the men said something in an unfamiliar language and two others sprang toward them. With the points of spears they were urged forward.

“You don’t have to get nasty, friend,” Thonolan said, feeling a sharp prick. “I was going that way when you stopped me.”

They were brought back to their own campfire and pushed down roughly in front of it. The one who had spoken before barked another command. Several men crawled into the tent and hauled everything out. The spears were taken from the backframes and the contents spilled on the ground.

“What do you think you’re doing?” Thonolan shouted, starting to get up. He was reminded to sit, forcibly, and felt a trickle of blood running down his arm.

“Relax, Thonolan,” Jondalar warned. “They look angry. I don’t think they’re in a mood for objections.”

“Is this the way to treat Visitors? Don’t they understand rights of passage for those on a Journey?”

“You were the one who said it, Thonolan.”

“Said what?”

“You take your chances; that’s what a Journey is all about.”

“Thanks,” Thonolan said, reaching for the stinging cut on his arm and looking at his blood-smeared fingers. “That’s just what I needed to hear.”

The one who seemed to be the leader spat out a few more words and the two brothers were hauled to their feet, Thonolan, in his loincloth, was given only a cursory glance, but Jondalar was searched and his bone-handled flint knife was taken. A man reached for the pouch fastened to his belt, and Jondalar grabbed for it. The next instant he felt a sharp pain at the back of his head and slumped to the ground.

He was stunned for only a short while, but when his head cleared, he found himself stretched out on the ground, staring into Thonolan’s worried gray eyes, his hands bound with thongs behind his back.

“You were the one who said it, Jondalar.”

“Said what?”

“They’re in no mood for objections.”

“Thanks,” Jondalar remarked with a grimace, suddenly aware of a bad headache. “That’s just what I needed to hear.”

“What do you suppose they’re going to do with us?”

“We’re still alive. If they were going to kill us, they’d have done it, wouldn’t they?”

“Maybe they’re saving us for something special.”

The two men lay on the ground, listening to voices and watching the strangers moving about their camp. They smelled food cooking and their stomachs growled. As the sun rose higher, the glaring heat made thirst a worse problem. As the afternoon wore on, Jondalar dozed, his lack of sleep from the night before catching up with him. He woke with a start to shouts and commotion. Someone had arrived.

They were dragged to their feet, and gaped in amazement at a burly man striding toward them carrying a white-haired, wizened old woman on his back. He got down on all fours, and the woman was helped off her human steed, with obvious deference.

“Whoever she is, she must be pretty important,” Jondalar said. A bruising blow in his ribs silenced him.

She walked toward them leaning on a knobbed staff with a carved finial. Jondalar stared, sure he had never seen anyone so old in his life. She was child-size, shrunken with age, and the pink of her scalp could be seen through her thin white hair. Her face was so wrinkled that it hardly looked human, but her eyes were oddly out of place. He would have expected dull, rheumy, senile eyes in someone so old. But hers were bright with intelligence and crackled with authority. Jondalar was awed by the tiny woman, and a little fearful for Thonolan and himself. She would not have come unless it was very important.

She spoke in a voice cracked with age, yet surprisingly strong. The leader pointed at Jondalar, and she directed a question to him.

“I’m sorry, I don’t understand,” he said.

She spoke again, tapped her chest with a hand as gnarled as her staff, and said a word that sounded like “Haduma.” Then she pointed a knobby finger at him.

“I am Jondalar of the Zelandonii,” he said, hoping he understood her meaning.

She cocked her head as though she had heard a sound. “Zel-an-don-yee?” she repeated slowly.

Jondalar nodded, licking his dry, parched lips nervously.

She stared at him speculatively, then spoke to the leader. His answer was brusque, and she snapped a command, then turned her back and walked to the fire. One of the men who had been guarding them pulled out a knife. Jondalar glanced at his brother and saw a face that expressed his own emotions. He braced himself, sent a silent plea to the Great Earth Mother, and closed his eyes.

He opened them with a surge of relief when he felt the thongs cut away from his wrists. A man was approaching with a bladder of water. Jondalar took a long drink and passed it to Thonolan, whose hands had also been freed. He opened his mouth to say a word of appreciation and then, remembering his bruised ribs, thought better of it.

They were escorted to the fire by guards who hovered close with menacing spears. The burly man who had carried the old woman brought a log, put a fur robe on it, then stood to the side with his hand on his knife handle. She settled herself on the log, and Jondalar and Thonolan were made to sit in front of her. They were careful to make no moves that might be construed as endangering to the old woman; they had no doubt of their fate if any man there even thought they might try to harm her.

She stared at Jondalar again, not saying a word. He met her gaze, but, as the silence continued, he began to feel disconcerted and uncomfortable. Suddenly, she reached into her robe, and with eves blazing anger and a spate of acrimonious words that left no doubt of their sense if not their meaning, she held out an object toward him. His eyes widened in wonder. It was the carved stone figure of the Mother, his donii, she held in her hand.

Out of the corner of his eye, he watched the guard beside him flinch. There was something about the donii he didn’t like.

The woman ended her tirade, and, lifting her arm dramatically, flung the statuette to the ground. Jondalar jumped involuntarily and reached for it. His anger at her desecration of his sacred object showed in his face. Ignoring the prick of a spear, he picked it up and cradled it protectively in his hands.

A sharp word from her caused the spear to be withdrawn. He was surprised to see a smile on her face and the glint of amusement in her eyes, but he wasn’t at all sure if she smiled out of humor or malice.

She got up from the log and walked closer. She was not much taller standing than he was seated and, facing him at eye level, she peered deep into his startling, vivid blue eyes. Then she stepped back, turned his head from side to side, felt the muscle of his arm, and survey

ed the breadth of his shoulders. She motioned for him to get up. When he didn’t quite understand, the guard prodded him into comprehension. She tilted her head back to look up at all six feet six inches of him, then walked around him, poking the hard muscles of his legs. Jondalar had the feeling he was being examined like some prize goods offered for trade, and he flushed to find himself wondering if he measured up.

She looked Thonolan over next, motioned for him to stand, then turned her attention back to Jondalar. His pink flush turned to deep crimson when the meaning of her next gesture dawned on him. She wanted to see his manhood.

He shook his head and gave the grinning Thonolan a dirty look. At a word from the woman, one of the men grabbed Jondalar from behind, while another, with obvious embarrassment, fumbled to unfasten his trouser flap.

“I don’t think she’s in any mood for objections,” Thonolan said, smirking.

Jondalar angrily shrugged off the man who was holding him and exposed himself to the old woman’s view, glowering at his brother who was hanging on to his sides, snorting, in a futile attempt to constrain his glee. The old woman looked at him, cocked her head to one side, and, with a gnarled finger, touched him.

Jondalar’s crimson turned to purple when, for some inexplicable reason, he felt his manhood swell. The woman cackled, and there were sniggers from the men standing nearby, but a strangely subdued note of awe as well. Thonolan burst out in loud guffaws, stomping and bending over double as tears came to his eyes. Jondalar hastily covered his offending member, feeling foolish and angry.

“Big Brother, you must really need a woman to get a rise over that old hag,” Thonolan quipped, catching his breath and wiping away a tear. Then he burst into uproarious laughter again.

“I just hope it’s your turn next,” Jondalar said, wishing he could think of some witty remark to squelch him.

The old woman signaled to the leader of the men who had stopped them, and spoke to him. A heated exchange followed. Jondalar heard the woman say “Zelandonyee” and saw the young man point to the meat drying on cords. The exchange ended abruptly with an imperious command from the woman. The man shot a glance at Jondalar, then motioned to a curly-haired youth. After a few words, the young man dashed away at full speed.