The Valley of Horses (Earth's Children 2)

“I … I’m sorry, Ayla. I shouldn’t have run off like that.”

“Sometimes I need to run. Yesterday, I let Whinney run for me. She goes farther.”

“I’m sorry about that, too.”

She nodded. Courtesy again, she thought, custom. What does it really mean? In silence, she leaned against Whinney and the horse dropped her head over the woman’s shoulder. Jondalar had seen them in a similar pose before, when Ayla was upset. They seemed to be drawing support from each other. He was finding satisfaction in stroking the colt, himself.

But the young horse was too impatient to put up with such inaction for long, as much as he loved attention. He tossed his head, raised his tail, and bounded off. Then with a bucking jump, he turned around, came back, and bumped the man, as though asking him to come and play. Ayla and Jondalar both laughed, breaking the tension.

“You were going to name him,” she said. It was just a statement, carrying no urging tones. If he didn’t name the colt, she most probably would.

“I don’t know what to name him. I’ve never had to think of a name before.”

“I never did either, until Whinney.”

“What about your … son? Didn’t you name him?”

“Creb named him. Durc was the name of a young man in a legend. It was my favorite of all the legends and stories, and Creb knew it. I think he chose the name to please me.”

“I didn’t know your Clan had legends. How do you tell a story without talking?”

“The same way you’d tell one with words, except, in some ways, it’s easier to show something than to tell it.”

“I suppose that’s true,” he said, wondering what kind of stories they told, or rather, showed. He wouldn’t have thought flatheads were capable of imagining stories.

They were both watching the colt, tail out, head reaching forward, enjoying a good run. What a stallion he’s going to be, Jondalar thought. What a racer.

“Racer!” he said. “What do you think of naming him Racer?” He had used the word so often in reference to the colt that it fit him.

“I like it. It’s a good name. But if it is to be his, he should be named properly.”

“How do you name a horse properly?”

“I’m not sure if it is proper for a horse, but I named Whinney the way children of the Clan are named. I’ll show you.”

With the horses following them, she led him to a draw on the steppes that had once been a riverbed, but had been dry for so long that it was partially filled in. One side had eroded to show the horizontal layers of strata. To Jondalar’s surprise, she loosened a layer of red ochre with a stick and gathered up the deep brownish red earth in both hands. Back at the stream, she mixed the red earth with water to a muddy paste.

“Creb mixed the red color with cave bear grease, but I don’t have any, and I think plain mud is better for a horse. It dries and brushes off. It’s the naming that counts. You’ll have to hold his head.”

Jondalar beckoned. The colt was full of lively antics but understood the gesture. He stood still while the man put an arm around his neck and scratched. Ayla made some movements in the Old Language requesting the attention of the spirits. She did not want to make it too serious. She still wasn’t sure if spirits were offended by the naming of a horse, though naming Whinney had produced no ill effects. Then she picked up a handful of red mud.

“The name of this male horse is Racer,” she said, making the gestures at the same time. Then she smeared the wet red earth down his face, from the tuft of white hair on his forehead to the end of his rather long nose.

It was done quickly, before the colt could wriggle out of Jondalar’s grasp. He pranced away, tossing his head, trying to rid himself of the unaccustomed wetness, then butted up against Jondalar, leaving a red streak on his bare chest.

“I think he just named me,” the man said, smiling. Then, true to his name, Racer sped down the field. Jondalar brushed at the reddish smear on his chest. “Why did you use this? The red earth?”

“It is special … holy … for spirits,” she said.

“Sacred? We call it sacred. The blood of the Mother.”

“The blood, yes. Creb … the Mog-ur rubbed a salve of red earth and cave bear grease on Iza’s body after her spirit left. He called it the blood of birth, so Iza could be born into the next world.” The memory still brought her pain.

Jondalar’s eyes widened. “Flatheads … I mean, your Clan uses the sacred earth to send a spirit to the next world? Are you sure?”

“No one is buried properly without it.”

“Ayla, we use the red earth. It is the blood of the Mother. It is put on the body and the grave so she will take the spirit back into Her womb to be born again.” A look of pain came into his eyes. “Thonolan had no red earth.”

“I had none for him, Jondalar, and I couldn’t take the time to get it. I had to get you back here, or I would have needed to make a second grave. I did ask my totem, and the spirit of Ursus, the Great Cave Bear, to help him find his way.”

“You buried him?! His body was not left to scavengers?”

“I put his body next to the wall and loosened a rock so the gravel and stones covered him. But I had no red earth.”

Jondalar found the idea of flathead burials the hardest to comprehend. Animals did not bury their dead. Only humans thought about where they came from, and where they were going after this life. Could her Clan spirits guide Thonolan on his way?

“It is more than my brother would have had if you hadn’t been there, Ayla. And I have so much more—I have my life.”

26

“Ayla, I can’t remember when I’ve tasted anything this good. Where did you learn to cook like this?” Jondalar said, reaching for another piece of the rich, delicately seasoned ptarmigan.

“Iza taught me. Where else would I have learned? This was Creb’s favorite dish.” Ayla didn’t know why, but his question irritated her a little. Why shouldn’t she know how to cook? “A medicine woman knows herbs, Jondalar, those that flavor as well as those that heal.”

He detected the tone of annoyance in her voice and wondered what had brought it on. He had only meant to compliment her. The meal was good. Excellent, in fact. When he thought about it, everything she prepared was delicious. Many of the foods were unusual to his taste, but new experiences were one reason for traveling, and though unfamiliar, the quality was evident.

And she did it all. Like the hot tea in the morning, she makes it so easy to forget how much she does. She hunted, foraged, cooked this meal. She provided everything. All you’ve done is eat it, Jondalar. You haven’t contributed a thing. You’ve taken it all and given nothing back … less than nothing.

And now you give her compliments, words. Can you blame her for being annoyed? She’ll be glad to see you go, you just make more work for her.

You could do some hunting, repay some of the meat you’ve eaten, at least. That seems so little, after everything she’s done for you. Can’t you think of something more … lasting? She hunts well enough herself. How worthwhile is a little hunting?

How she does it, though, with that clumsy spear? I wonder … would she think I was insulting her Clan if I offered …

“Ayla … I, um … I want to say something, but I don’t want to offend you.”

“Why do you worry now about offending me? If you have something to say, say it.” The prickles of her irritation were still showing, and his chagrin almost stopped him.

“You’re right. It is a little late. But, I was wondering … ahhh … how do you hunt with that spear?”

She was puzzled by his question. “I dig a hole, and run, no, stampede, a herd toward it. But last winter …”

“A pit trap! Of course, so you can get close enough to use that spear. Ayla, you’ve done so much for me, I want to do something for you before I leave, something worthwhile. But I don’t want you to feel offended by my suggestion. If you don’t like it, just forget I said anything, all right?”

She nodded,

a little apprehensive, but curious.