The Valley of Horses (Earth's Children 2)

The tall blond man spied the pile of round cooking stones and scooped them up in both hands. “Let me show you,” he said. He lined them up in a row, and, pointing to each in turn, began to count, “One, two, three, four, five, six, seven …”

Ayla watched with rising excitement.

When he finished, he looked around for something else to count, and he picked up a few of Ayla’s marked sticks. “One,” he said, putting down the first, “two,” laying the next down beside it, “three, four, five …”

Ayla had a vivid recollection of Creb telling her, “Birth year, walking year, weaning year …” as he pointed to her outstretched fingers. She held up her hand, and, looking at Jondalar, she pointed to each finger. “One, two, three, four, five,” she said.

“That’s it! I knew you were close when I saw your sticks.”

Her smile was gloriously triumphant. She picked up one of the sticks and began counting the marks. Jondalar continued with the counting words beyond the ones she knew, but even he had to stop a few marks beyond the second extra mark. His brow knotted in concentration. “Is this how long you’ve been here?” he asked, indicating the few sticks she had brought out.

“No,” she said, and got the rest. Untying the bundles, she spread out all the sticks.

Jondalar looked closer, and paled. His stomach turned. Years! The marks represented years! He lined them up so he could see all the marks, then studied them for a while. Though Zelandoni had explained some ways to tally larger numbers, he had to think.

Then he smiled. Rather than try to count the days, he would count the extra marks, the ones that represented a complete cycle of the moon’s phases as well as the beginning of her moon times. Pointing to each mark, he made a mark in the dirt floor as he said the counting word aloud. After thirteen marks, he started another row, but skipped the first, as Zelandoni had explained, and made only twelve marks. Moon cycles did not match the seasons or the years exactly. He came to the end of her marks at the end of the third row, then looked at her with awe.

“Three years! You’ve been here three years! That’s how long I’ve been on my Journey. Have you been alone all that time?”

“I’ve had Whinney, and up until …”

“But you haven’t seen any people?”

“No, not since I left the Clan.”

She thought of the years the way she had tallied them. The beginning, when she left the Clan, found the valley, and adopted the little filly, she called Whinney’s year. The next spring—the beginning of the cycle of regrowth—she found the lion cub, and thought of that as Baby’s year. From Whinney’s year to Baby’s year was Jondalar’s one. Next was the stallion’s year, two. And three was the year of Jondalar and the colt. She remembered the years better her way, but she liked the counting words. The man had made her marks tell him how long she had been in the valley, and she wanted to learn to do it.

“Do you know how old you are, Ayla? How many years you have lived?” Jondalar suddenly asked.

“Let me think about it,” she said. She held up one hand with her fingers outstretched. “Creb said Iza thought I was about this many … five years … when they found me.” Jondalar made five marks on the ground. “Durc was born the spring of the year we went to the Clan Gathering. I took him with me. Creb said there are this many years between Clan Gatherings.” She held up two fingers in addition to the full hand.

“That’s seven,” Jondalar said.

“There was a Clan Gathering the summer before they found me.”

“That’s one less—let me think,” he said, making more marks in the dirt. Then he shook his head. “Are you sure? That means your son was born when you were eleven!”

“I’m sure, Jondalar.”

“I’ve heard of a few women giving birth that young, but not many. Thirteen or fourteen is more usual, and some think that’s too young. You were hardly more than a child yourself.”

“No, I was not a child. I had not been a child for several years by then. I was too big to be a child, taller than everyone, including the men. And I was already older than most Clan girls are when they become women.” Her mouth drew up in a skewed smile. “I don’t think I could have waited any longer. Some thought I would never become a woman because I have such a strong male totem. Iza was so glad when … when the moon times started. So was I, until …” Her smile faded. “That was Broud’s year. The next one was Durc’s year.”

“The year before your son was born—ten! Ten years when he forced you? How could he do it?”

“I was a woman, taller than most women. Taller than he.”

“But not bigger than he! I’ve seen some of those flatheads! They may not be tall, but they’re powerful. I wouldn’t want to fight one hand to hand.”

“They are men, Jondalar,” she corrected gently. “They are not flatheads—they are men of the Clan.”

It stopped him. For all her soft-spoken tones, there was a stubborn set to her jaw.

“After what happened, you still insist he isn’t an animal?”

“You might say Broud was an animal for forcing me, but then what do you call the men who force women of the Clan?”

He hadn’t thought of it in quite that way.

“Not all the men were like Broud, Jondalar. Most of them were not. Creb was not—he was gentle and kind, even though he was a powerful Mog-ur. Brun was not, even though he was leader. He was strong-willed, but he was fair. He accepted me into his clan. Some things he had to do—it was the Clan way—but he honored me with his gratitude. Men of the Clan do not often show gratitude to women in front of everyone. He let me hunt; he accepted Durc. When I left, he promised to protect him.”

“When did you leave?”

She stopped to think. Birth year, walking year, weaning year. “Durc was three years when I left,” she said.

Jondalar added three more lines. “You were fourteen? Only fourteen? And you’ve lived here alone since then? For three years?” He counted up all the lines. “You are seventeen years, Ayla. You have lived a lifetime in your seventeen years,” he said.

Ayla sat silently for a time, pensively—then she spoke. “Durc is six years now. The men will be taking him with them to the practice field by now. Grod will make him a spear, his size, and Brun will teach him to use it. And if he’s still alive, old Zoug will show him how to use a sling. Durc will practice hunting small animals with his friend, Grev—Durc is younger but he’s taller than Grev. He always was tall for his age—he gets that from me. He can run fast; no one can run faster. And he’s good with the sling. And Uba loves him. She loves him as much as I do.”

Ayla didn’t notice the tears falling until she took a breath that was a sob, and she didn’t know how she found herself in Jondalar’s arms with her head on his shoulder.

“It’s all right, Ayla,” the man said, patting her gently. Mother at eleven, torn away from her son at fourteen. Not able to watch him grow, not even sure if he’s alive. She’s sure someone loves him and is taking care of him, and teaching him to hunt … like any child.

Ayla felt wrung out when she finally lifted her head from the man’s shoulder, but she felt lighter, too, as though her grief rested less heavily on her. It was the first time since she had left the clan that she had shared her loss with another human soul. She smiled at him with gratitude.

He smiled back with tenderness and compassion, and something more that welled up from the unconscious source of his inner self and showed in the blue depths of his eyes. It found a responsive chord within the woman. They spent a long moment locked in the intimate embrace of outspoken eyes, declaring in silence that which they would not say aloud.

The intensity was too much for Ayla; she was still not entirely comfortable with a direct stare. She wrenched her eyes away and began gathering up her marked sticks. It took a moment for Jondalar to gather himself together and help her tie the sticks into bundles. Working beside her made him more aware of her warm fullness and pleasant female scent than when he was

comforting her in his arms. And Ayla felt an aftersense of the places their bodies had met, where his gentle hands had touched her, and the taste of the salt of his skin mingled with her tears.

They both realized they had touched each other and neither had been offended, but they carefully avoided looking too directly at each other or brushing too close, fearful that it might disturb their unplanned moment of tenderness.