The Valley of Horses (Earth's Children 2)

Wouldn’t Brun be surprised to see me, she thought, smiling. He never allowed animals that hunted, he wouldn’t even let me bring that little wolf cub into the cave. Now look at me, with a lion cub! I think I’m going to learn a lot about cave lions in a hurry—if he lives.

She set more water to boil for a comfrey-leaf and chamomile tea, though she didn’t know how she was going to get the internally healing medicine into the baby lion. She left the cub then and went out to skin the reindeer. When the first thin, tongue-shaped slices of meat were ready to hang, she was suddenly at a loss. There was no layer of soil on top of the stone ledge, nothing into which she could sink the sticks she used to string her cords across. She hadn’t even thought of that when she was so concerned about bringing the deer carcass up to the cave. Why was it the small things that always seemed to stymie her? Nothing could be taken for granted.

In her frustration, she couldn’t think of any solution. She was tired, and overwrought, and anxious about bringing a cave lion home. She wasn’t sure she should have, and what was she going to do with him? She threw down the stick and got up. Walking to the far end of the porch, she looked out over the valley while the wind blew in her face. What could she be thinking of—to bring a baby lion back that would need care, when she should be getting ready to leave and continue her search for the Others? Maybe she should just take him back out to the steppes now, and let him go the way of all weakened animals in the wild. Had living alone made her stop thinking straight? She didn’t know how to take care of him, anyway. How would she feed him? And what would happen if he did recover? She couldn’t send him back to the steppes then; his mother would never take him back, he would die. If she was going to keep the cub, she’d have to stay in the valley. To continue her search, she’d have to take him back to the steppes.

She went back into the cave and stood over the young cave lion. He still hadn’t moved. She felt his chest. He was warm and breathing, and his fuzzy coat reminded her of Whinney’s when she was a baby. He was cute, and he looked so funny with his head bandaged up that she had to smile. But that cute baby is going to become a very large lion, she reminded herself. She stood up and looked down at him again. It didn’t matter. There was no way she could take that baby out to the steppes to die.

She went back out and stared at the meat. If she was going to stay in the valley, she would have to start thinking about storing food again. Especially since she had another mouth to feed. She picked up the stick, trying to think of some way to make it stay upright. She noticed a mound of crumbled rock along the back wall near the far edge, and she tried poking the stick into it. The piece of wood stayed upright, but it would never support the weight of strings of meat. It did give her an idea though. She went into the cave, grabbed a basket, and ran down to the beach.

After some experimenting, she discovered that a pyramid of beach stones would support a longer stick. She made several trips to gather stones and cut suitable pieces of wood before she was able to string several lines across the ledge to dry the meat and could go back to the business of cutting it. She built a small fire near the place she was working and spitted a rump to roast for dinner, thinking again about how she was going to feed the cub, and how she was going to get the medicine down him. What she needed was lion baby food.

Young ones could eat the same food as adults, she recalled, but it had to be softer, easier to chew and swallow. Perhaps a meat broth, with the meat cut up very fine. She had done that for Durc, why not for the cub? In fact, why not cook the broth in the tea she had infused for medicine?

She set to work immediately, cutting up the piece of deer meat she picked up next. She brought it inside to put into the wooden cooking pot, then decided to add a little of the leftover comfrey root as well. The cub hadn’t stirred, but she thought he was resting easier.

Some time later, she thought she heard sounds of stirring and went back to check on him again. He was awake, mewling softly, unable to roll over and get up—but when she approached the oversize kitten, he snarled and hissed and tried to back away. Ayla smiled and dropped down beside him.

Frightened little thing, she thought. I don’t blame you. Waking up in a strange den, hurting, and then seeing someone not at all like mother and siblings. She stretched out a hand. Here, I won’t hurt you. Ow! Your little teeth are sharp! Go ahead, little one. Taste my hand, get the smell of me. It will make it easier to get used to me. I’ll have to be your mother now. Even if I knew where your den was, your mother wouldn’t know how to take care of you—if she’d even take you back. I don’t know much about cave lions, but I didn’t know much about horses either. A baby is a baby, though. Are you hungry? I can’t give you milk. I hope you’re going to like broth and meat cut up fine. And the medicine should make you feel better.

She got up to check the cooking bowl. She was rather surprised at the thickened consistency of the cooled broth, and when she stirred it with a rib bone, she found the meat compacted into a lump at the bottom of the bowl. Finally, she poked it with a sharpened skewer and lifted out a congealed mass of meat, with thick viscid liquid hanging down in strings. Suddenly she understood, and she burst out laughing. It frightened the cub so much that he almost found strength enough to get up.

No wonder that comfrey root is so good for wounds. If it holds torn flesh together as well as it has glued this meat together, it’s bound to help healing!

“Baby, do you think you can drink some of this?” she motioned to the cave lion. She poured some of the cooled gummy liquid into a smaller birchbark eating dish. The cub had squirmed off the grass mat and was struggling to get up. She put the dish under his nose. He hissed at her and backed away.

Ayla heard the clatter of hooves coming up the path, and a moment later Whinney came in. She noticed the cub, very much awake and moving now, and went to investigate. She lowered her head to sniff the fuzzy creature. The young cave lion, who as an adult could instill terror in one of Whinney’s kind, was instead terrified by yet another unfamiliar large animal looming near. He spit and snarled and backed away until he was almost in Ayla’s lap. He felt the warmth of her leg, remembered a smell a little more familiar, and huddled there. There were just too many strange new things in this place.

Ayla lifted the baby lion to her lap, cuddled him, and made humming sounds—the way she would have soothed any baby. The way she had soothed her own.

It’s all right. You’ll get used to us. Whinney shook her head and nickered. The cave lion in Ayla’s arms didn’t seem threatening, though her instincts told her that scent ought to be. She had changed behavior patterns before for the woman, by living with her. Perhaps this particular cave lion could be tolerated.

The young animal responded to Ayla’s petting and cuddling by nuzzling around for a place to nurse. You are hungry, aren’t you, baby? She reached for the dish of thick broth and held it under the cub’s nose. He smelled it, but didn’t know what to do with it. She dipped two fingers in the bowl, put them in his mouth. He knew what to do then. Like any baby, he sucked.

As she sat in her small cave, holding the cave lion cub, rocking back and forth as he suckled her two fingers, Ayla was so overcome with the memory of her son that she didn’t notice the tears running down her face and dripping on the fuzzy fur.

A bond was formed in those first days—and nights when she took the baby lion to her bed to cuddle and suckle her fingers—between the lonely young woman and the cave lion cub; a bond that could never have formed between the cub and its natural mother. The ways of nature were harsh, particularly for the young of the mightiest of predators. While the lion mother would suckle her cubs during their early weeks—and even allow them to nurse, occasionally, for six months—from the time they first opened their eyes, lion cubs began eating meat. But the hierarchy of feeding in a pride of lions allowed no sentimentality.

The lioness was the hunter, and, unlike other members of the feline family, she hunted in a cooperative group. Three or four lionesses together were

a formidable hunting team; they could bring down a healthy giant deer, or a bull aurochs in its prime. Only a full-grown mammoth was immune to attack, though the young and the old were susceptible. But the lioness didn’t hunt for her young, she hunted for the male. The lead male always got the lion’s share. As soon as he appeared, the lionesses gave way, and only after he gorged did the females take their share. The older adolescent lions were next, and only then, if there was any left, did the young cubs get a chance to squabble over scraps.

If a young cub, out of hungry desperation, tried to dash in to snatch a bite out of turn, it was likely to be dealt a fatal blow. The mother often led her young away from a kill, though they might be starving, to avoid such dangers. Three-quarters of the cubs born never reached maturity. Most of those that did were driven from the pride to become nomads, and nomads were unwelcome anywhere, particularly if they were male. Females had a slight edge. They might be allowed to stay on the fringes if a pride was short of hunters.

The only way a male could win acceptance was to fight for it, often to the death. If the pride’s dominant male was aging or hurt, a younger member of the pride, or more likely a wanderer, might drive him out and take over. The male was kept to defend the pride’s territory—marked by his scent glands or the lead female’s urine—and to assure the continuance of the pride as a breeding group.

Occasionally a male and female wanderer would join to form the nucleus of a new pride, but they had to claw their own niche out of adjoining territories. It was a precarious existence.

But Ayla was not a lion mother, she was human. Human parents not only protected their young, they provided for them. Baby, as she continued to call him, was treated as no cave lion had ever been treated. He had to fight no siblings for scraps, nor avoid the heavy blows of his elders. Ayla provided; she hunted for him. But though she gave him his share, she did not relinquish her own. She let him suck her fingers whenever he felt the need, and she usually took him to bed with her.

He was naturally housebroken, always going outside the cave, except in the beginning when he could not. Even then, when he puddled, he made such a grimace of disgust at his mess that it brought a smile to Ayla’s face. It wasn’t the only time he made her smile. Baby’s antics often caused outright laughter. He loved to stalk her—and he loved it more if she feigned ignorance of his intent, then acted surprised when he landed on her back, though sometimes she’d surprise him, turn at the last moment, and catch him in her arms.

Children of the Clan were always indulged; punishment seldom involved more than ignoring behavior that was calculated to get attention. As they grew older and became more aware of the status accorded to older siblings and adults, children began to resist pampering as babyish, and to emulate adult ways. When this brought the inevitable approval, it was usually continued.

Ayla pampered the cave lion in the same way, particularly in the beginning, but, as he grew bigger, there were times when his games inadvertently caused her pain. If he scratched in rambunctious playfulness, or knocked her down with a mock attack, her usual response was to stop playing, often accompanied by the Clan gesture for “Stop!” Baby was sensitive to her moods. A refusal to play tug-of-war with a stick or an old hide often made him try to appease her with behavior which usually made her smile, or he would try to reach for her fingers to suck.

He began to respond to her gesture for “Stop” with the same actions. With Ayla’s usual sensitivity to actions and postures, she noticed his behavior and began using the signal for stop whenever she wanted him to cease whatever he was doing. It wasn’t so much a matter of her training him as one of mutual responsiveness, but he learned fast. He would stop in midstride, or try to break a playful leap in midair at her signal. He usually needed the reassurance of sucking her fingers when the “Stop” signal was issued with imperative sharpness, as though he knew he had done something that displeased her.

On the other hand, she was sensitive to his moods and she bound him with no physical restraints. He was as free to come and go as she or the horse. It never occurred to her to pen or tie either one of her animal companions. They were her family, her clan, living creatures who shared her cave and her life. In her lonely world, they were the only friends she had.

She soon forgot how strange it would seem to the Clan to have animals living with her, but she did wonder about the relationship that developed between the horse and the lion. They were instinctive enemies, prey and predator. If she had thought about it when she found the wounded cub, she might not have brought the lion to the cave she shared with a horse. She wouldn’t have thought they could live together, much less anything more.

In the beginning, Whinney had merely tolerated the cub, but once he was up and around it was hard to ignore him. When she saw Ayla pulling at one end of a piece of hide while the baby lion held the other end in his teeth, shaking his head and snarling, the horse’s natural curiosity got the better of her. She had to come and find out what was going on. After sniffing at the hide, she often grabbed it in her teeth, making it a three-way pull. When Ayla let go, it became a tug-of-war between horse and lion. In time, Baby formed the habit of dragging a hide—under his body between his front legs the way he would someday drag a kill—across the path of the horse, trying to entice her to pick up an end and play tug-of-war. Whinney often complied. With no siblings to play his lion games, Baby made do with the creatures at hand.

Another game—that Whinney was not so fond of, but that Baby could not seem to resist—was catch-a-tail. In particular, Whinney’s tail. Baby stalked it. Crouching, he’d watch it swish and move so invitingly as he moved up with silent stealth, quivering with excitement. Then, with an anticipatory wiggle, he’d pounce, delighted with a mouthful of hair. Sometimes, Ayla was sure Whinney played along with the cub, fully aware that her tail was the object of such intense desire, but pretending not to notice. The young mare was playful too. She just hadn’t had anyone to play with before. Ayla was not given to inventing games; she had never learned how.

But after a while, when she’d had enough, Whinney would turn on the attacker of her tail and nip Baby on the rump. Though she, too, was indulgent, she never conceded her dominance. Baby might be a cave lion, but he was just a baby. And if Ayla was his mother, Whinney became his nursemaid. While games between the two developed over time, the change from mere tolerance to active care was the result of one particular trait; Baby loved dung.

The droppings of carnivorous animals were of no interest, he loved only the dung of grazers and browsers, and when they were out on the steppes, he would roll in it whenever he found it. As with most of his games, this was preparation for future hunting. An animal’s own dung could mask the scent of lion, but that didn’t make Ayla laugh less when she watched him discover a new pile of dung. Mammoth dung was especially nice. He would embrace the big balls, break them up, and lie on them.

But no dung was as wonderful as Whinney’s. The first time he found the pile of the dried droppings which Ayla used to supplement her firewood, he couldn’t get enough. He carried it around, rolled in it, played in it, immersed himself in it. When Whinney came into the cave, she smelled her own scent on him. She seemed to feel it made him a part of her. From that moment on, she lost all traces of nervousness around the young cub and adopted him as her charge. She guided him, and guarded him, and if he responded in ways that were puzzling at times, it did not lessen her attentive care.

That summer, Ayla was happier than she had been since she left the Clan. Whinney had been company and more than friend; Ayla didn’t know what she would have done without her during the long lonely winter. But the addition of the cub to her fold brought a new dimension. He brought laughter. Between the protective horse and the playful cub, something was always amusing.

On a warm sunny day in midsummer, she was in the meadow watching the cub and the horse playing a new game. They were chasing each other around in a large circle. First the young lion would slow down just enough for Whinney to

catch up, then he would bound ahead while she slowed until he came all the way around and behind her. Then she would spring ahead while he checked his speed until she caught up again. Ayla thought it was the funniest sight she had ever seen. She laughed until she collapsed against a tree, holding her stomach.

As her spasms of laughter died down, for some reason, she became aware of herself. What was this sound she made when something amused her? Why did she do it? It came so easily when there was no one to remind her it wasn’t proper. Why wasn’t it proper? She could not remember, ever, seeing anyone in the Clan smile or laugh, except her son. Yet they understood humor, funny stories brought on nods of agreement and a pleasant expression that centered more in the eyes. People of the Clan did make a grimace somewhat similar to her smile, she recalled. But it conveyed nervous fear, or menace, not the happiness she felt.

But if laughter made her feel so good, and came out so easily, could it be wrong? Other people like her, did they laugh? The Others. Her warm happy feelings left her. She didn’t like thinking of the Others. It made her aware that she had stopped looking for them, and it filled her with mixed emotions. Iza had told her to find them, and living alone could be dangerous. If she got sick or had an accident, who would help her?

But she was so happy in the valley with her animal family. Whinney and Baby didn’t look at her disapprovingly when she forgot herself and ran. They never told her not to smile, or not to cry, or what she could hunt, or when, or with what weapons. She could make her own choices, and it made her feel so free. She didn’t consider that the time it took to provide for her physical needs—like food, warmth, and shelter—limited her freedom, though it took most of her efforts. Just the reverse. It gave her confidence to know she could take care of herself.