The Valley of Horses (Earth's Children 2)

Ayla picked up her bundles, then turned to the man. “How many years are you, Jondalar?”

“I was eighteen years when I started my Journey. Thonolan was fifteen … and eighteen when he died. So young.” His face showed his pain; then he continued: “I am twenty and one years now … and I’ve yet to mate. I’m old for an unmated man. Most men have found a woman and made a hearth at a much younger age. Even Thonolan. He was sixteen at his Matrimonial.”

“I found only two men, where is his mate?”

“She died. While giving birth. Her son died, too.” Compassion filled Ayla’s eyes. “That’s why we were traveling again. He couldn’t stay there. This was his Journey more than mine from the beginning. He was always the one after adventure, always reckless. He’d dare anything, but everyone was his friend. I just traveled with him. Thonolan was my brother, and the best friend I had. After Jetamio died, I tried to convince him to go back home with me, but he wouldn’t. He was so full of grief that he wanted to follow her to the next world.”

Ayla recalled the depth of Jondalar’s desolation when he had first comprehended that his brother was dead, and she saw the ache that still lingered. “Perhaps he’s happier, if it’s what he wanted. It’s difficult to go on living when you lose someone you love so much,” she said gently.

Jondalar thought of his brother’s inconsolable sorrow and understood it more now. Maybe Ayla was right. She ought to know; she had suffered enough grief and hardship. But she chose to live. Thonolan had courage, rash and impetuous; Ayla’s is the courage to endure.

Ayla didn’t sleep well, and the turnings and shufflings she heard from the other side of the fireplace made her wonder if Jondalar was lying awake, too. She wanted to get up and go to him, but the mood of caring tenderness that had grown out of shared griefs seemed so fragile that she was afraid to spoil it by wanting more than he was willing to give.

In the dim red light of the banked fire, she could see the shape of his body wrapped in sleeping furs with a tanned arm flung out and a muscular calf with a heel in the dirt. She saw him more distinctly when she closed her eyes than when she opened them to the breathing mound across the hearth. His straight yellow hair tied back with a piece of thong, his beard, darker and curly; his startling eyes that said more than his words, and his large, sensitive, long-fingered hands went deeper than vision. They filled her with inner sight. He always knew what to do with his hands, whether holding a piece of flint, or finding just the right place to scratch the colt. Racer. It was a good name. The man had named him.

How could a man so tall, so strong, be so gentle? She had felt his hard muscles, felt them move when he comforted her. He was … unashamed to show care, to show sorrow. Men of the Clan were more distant, more reserved. Even Creb, as much as she knew he loved her, had not shown his feelings so openly, not even within the boundary stones of his hearth.

What would she do when he was gone? She didn’t want to think about it. But she had to face it—he was going to leave. He said he wanted to give her something before he left—he said he was leaving.

Ayla tossed and turned through the night, catching glimpses of his bare torso, deeply tanned; the back of his head and broad shoulders; and once, his right thigh with a jagged scar but nothing worse. Why had he been sent? She was learning the new words—was it to teach her to talk? He was going to show her a new way to hunt, a better way. Who would imagine that a man would be willing to teach her a new hunting skill? Jondalar was different from men of the Clan in that way, too. Maybe I can do something special for him, to remember me.

Ayla dozed off thinking how much she wanted him to hold her again, how much she wanted to feel his warmth, his skin next to hers. She awoke just before dawn with a dream of him walking across the winter steppes, and she knew what she wanted to do. She wanted to make something for him that would always be close to his skin, something that would keep him warm.

She got up quietly and found the clothes she had cut off him that first night, and she brought them closer to the fireplace. They were still stiff with dried blood, but if she soaked it out, she could see how they were made. The shirt, with the fascinating design, could be salvaged, she thought, if she replaced the arm sections. The trousers would have to be remade from new material, but she could save some of the parka. The foot coverings were undamaged; they only needed new thongs.

She leaned close to the red coals, examining the seams. Small holes had been poked through the skins along the edges, then pulled together with sinew and thin leather strips. She had looked at them before, the night she had cut them off. She wasn’t sure if she could reproduce them, but she could try.

Jondalar stirred, and she held her breath. She didn’t want him to see her with his clothes; she didn’t want him to know until they were ready. He settled down again, making the heavy breathing sounds of deep sleep. She bundled up the clothes once more and put them under her sleeping fur. Later, she could go through her pile of finished skins and furs and select the ones to use.

As faint light began to filter in through the cave openings, a slight change in his movements and breathing signaled to Ayla that he would wake soon. She added wood to the fire along with heating stones, then set out the pot-basket. The waterbag was nearly empty, and tea was better made with fresh water. Whinney and her colt were standing on their side of the cave, and Ayla stopped on her way out when the mare blew softly.

“I have a wonderful idea,” she said to the horse in silent sign language, smiling. “I’m going to make Jondalar some clothes, his kind of clothes. Do you think he’ll like that?” Then her smile left her. She put an arm around Whinney’s neck, the other around Racer, and leaned her forehead on the mare. Then he’ll leave me, she thought. She could not force him to stay. She could only help him leave.

She walked down the path by the first light of dawn, trying to forget her bleak future without Jondalar, and trying to draw some comfort from the thought that the clothes she would make would be close to him. She slipped out of her wrap for a brisk morning swim, then found a twig of the right size and filled the waterbag.

I’ll try something different this morning, she thought: sweet grass and chamomile. She peeled the twig, put it beside the cup, and started the tea steeping. The raspberries are ripe. I think I’ll pick some.

She set the hot tea out for Jondalar, selected a picking basket, and went back out. Whinney and Racer followed her out and grazed in the field near the patch of raspberries. She also dug up wild carrots, small and pale yellow, and white, starchy groundnuts that were good raw, though she liked them better cooked.

When she returned, Jondalar was outside on the sunny ledge. She waved when she washed the roots, then brought them up and added them to a broth she had started using dry meat. She tasted it, sprinkled in some dried herbs, and divided the raspberries into two portions, then poured herself a cup of cool tea.

“Chamomile,” Jondalar said, “and I don’t know what else.”

“I don’t know what you call it, something like grass that is sweet. I’ll show you the plant sometime.” She noticed his toolmaking implements were out, along with several of the blades he had made the previous time.

“I thought I’d start early,” he said, seeing her interest. “There are certain tools I need to make first.”

“It is time to go hunting. Dried meat is so lean. The animals will have some fat built up this late in the season. I’m hungry for a fresh roast with rich drippings.”

He smiled. “You make it sound delicious just talking about it. I meant it, Ayla. You are a remarkably good cook.”

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; She flushed and put her head down. It was nice to know he thought so, but strange that he should take notice of something that ought to be expected.

“I didn’t mean to embarrass you.”

“Iza used to say compliments make the spirits jealous. Doing a task well should be enough.”

“I think Marthona would have liked your Iza. She’s impatient with compliments, too. She used to say, ‘The best compliment is a job well done.’ All mothers must be alike.”

“Marthona is your mother?”

“Yes, didn’t I tell you?”

“I thought she was, but I wasn’t sure. Do you have siblings? Other than the one you lost?”

“I have an older brother, Joharran. He’s the leader of the Ninth Cave now. He was born to Joconan’s hearth. After he died, my mother mated Dalanar. I was born to his hearth. Then Marthona and Dalanar severed the knot, and she mated Willomar. Thonolan was born to his hearth, and so was my young sister, Folara.”

“You lived with Dalanar, didn’t you?”

“Yes, for three years. He taught me my craft—I learned from the best. I was twelve years when I went to live with him, and already a man for over a year. My manhood came to me young, and I was big for my age, too.” A strange, unreadable expression crossed his face. “It was best that I left.”

He smiled then. “That was when I got to know my cousin, Joplaya. She is Jerika’s daughter, born to Dalanar’s hearth after they were mated. She’s two years younger. Dalanar taught both of us to work the flint at the same time. It was always a competition—that’s why I would never tell her how good she is. She knows it, though. She has a fine eye and a steady hand—she’ll match Dalanar someday.”

Ayla was silent for a while. “I don’t quite understand something, Jondalar. Folara has the same mother as you, so she is your sister, right?”

“Yes.”

“You were born to Dalanar’s hearth, and Joplaya was born to Dalanar’s hearth, and she is your cousin. What is the difference between sister and cousin?”