The Valley of Horses (Earth's Children 2)

“What do you think, Ayla! Will it work?”

She took one from him. It was a simple, though ingenious, device: a fiat narrow wooden platform, about half as long as the spear, with a groove in the middle where the spear rested, and a backstop carved into a hook-shape. Two leather-thong loops for the fingers were fastened on either side near the front of the spear thrower.

The thrower was held first in a horizontal position, with two fingers through the front loops, holding the thrower and the spear, which was resting in the long groove, butt against the backstop. When hurling, holding the front end by the loops caused the back end to flip up, in effect increasing the length of the throwing arm. The additional leverage added to the speed and force with which the spear left the hand.

“I think, Jondalar, it’s time to start practicing.”

Practicing filled their days. The padded leather around the target tree fell apart from constant puncturings, and a second one was put up. This time Jondalar drew the outline of a deer. Minor adaptations suggested themselves as they both gained in proficiency. Each of them borrowed from the techniques of the weapon with which he or she was most familiar. His strong overhand casts tended to have more lift; hers, angling more to the side, had a flatter trajectory. And each made a few adjustments on the thrower to suit his or her individual style.

A friendly competition developed between them. Ayla tried but could not match Jondalar’s mighty thrusts which gave him greater range; Jondalar could not match Ayla’s deadly accuracy. They were both astounded by the tremendous advantage of the new weapon. With it, Jondalar could hurl a spear more than twice as far, with greater force and perfect control, once a measure of skill was achieved. But one aspect of the practice sessions with Jondalar had greater effect on Ayla than the weapon itself.

She had always practiced and hunted alone. First playing in secret, fearful of being found out. Then practicing in earnest, but no less secretly. When she was allowed to hunt, it was only grudgingly. No one ever hunted with her. No one ever encouraged her when she missed, or shared a triumph when her aim was true. No one discussed with her the best way to use a weapon, advised her of alternate approaches, or listened with respect and interest to a suggestion of hers. And no one had ever teased, or joked, or laughed with her. Ayla had never experienced the camaraderie, the friendship, the fun, of a companion.

Yet, with all the easing of tensions practicing brought about, a distance remained between them that they could not seem to close. When their talk was about such safe subjects as hunting or weapons, their conversations were animated; but the introduction of any personal element caused uncomfortable silences and halting courteous evasions. An accidental touch was like a jolting shock from which they both sprang apart, followed always by stiff formality and lingering afterthoughts.

“Tomorrow!” Jondalar said, retrieving a twanging spear. Some of the hay stuffing came with it through a much enlarged and ragged hole in the leather.

“Tomorrow what?” Ayla asked.

“Tomorrow we go hunting. We’ve played long enough. We’re not going to learn any more, dulling points on a tree. It’s time to get serious.”

“Tomorrow,” Ayla agreed.

They picked up several spears and started walking back. “You know the area around here, Ayla. Where should we go?”

“I know the steppes to the east best, but maybe I should scout it first. I could go on Whinney.” She looked up to check the placement of the sun. “It’s still early.”

“Good idea. You and that horse are better than a handful of foot scouts.”

“Will you hold Racer back? I’ll feel better if I know he’s not following.”

“What about tomorrow when we go hunting?”

“We’ll have to take him with us. We need Whinney to bring the meat back. Whinney is always a little bothered by a kill, but she’s used to it. She will stay where I want her to, but if her colt gets excited and runs, and maybe gets caught in a stampede … I don’t know.”

“Don’t worry about it now. I’ll try to think of something.”

Ayla’s piercing whistle brought the mare and the colt. While Jondalar put an arm around Racer’s neck, scratched his itchy places, and talked to him, Ayla mounted Whinney and urged her to a gallop. The young one was comfortable with the man. After the woman and the mare were well gone, Jondalar picked up the armload of spears and both throwers.

“Well, Racer, shall we go to the cave to wait for them?”

He laid the spears down outside the entrance to the small break in the canyon wall, then went in. He was restless and didn’t quite know what to do with himself. He stirred the fire, brought the coals together, and added a few sticks, then went out to the front edge of the shelf and looked down the valley. The colt’s muzzle reached for his hand, and he absently caressed the shaggy young horse. As he pulled his fingers through the animal’s thickening coat, he thought of winter.

He tried to think of something else. The warm summer days had an unending quality, one so like the next that time seemed held in suspension. Decisions were easy to put off. Tomorrow was soon enough to think about the coming cold … to think about leaving. He noticed the simple breech-clout he wore.

“I don’t grow a winter coat like you, little fellow. I ought to make myself something warm soon. I gave that sewing awl to Ayla and never made another one. Maybe that’s what I should do—make a few more tools. And I need to think of a way to keep you from getting hurt.”

He went back into the cave, stepped over his sleeping furs, and cast a longing look at Ayla’s side of the fireplace. He rummaged through the storage area for some thong or heavy cordage and found some skins that had been rolled up and put away. That woman certainly knows how to finish skins, he thought, feeling the velvety soft texture. Maybe she’d let me use some of these. I hate to ask her, though.

If those spear throwers work, I should get enough hides to make something to wear. Maybe I could carve a charm on them for good luck. It wouldn’t hurt. Here’s a coil of thong. Maybe I can make something for Racer out of this. He’s such a runner—wait until he’s a stallion. Would a stallion let someone ride on his back? Could I make him go where I wanted him to?

You’ll never know. You won’t be here when he’s a stallion. You’re leaving.

Jondalar picked up the coiled thong, stopped off to get his bundle of flint-knapping tools, and went down the path to the beach. The stream looked inviting, and he felt hot and sweaty. He took off his breechclout and waded in, then started pulling upstream, against the current. He usually turned back when he reached the narrow gorge. This time he decided to explore further. He made it past the first rapids and around the last bend, and saw a roaring wall of white water. Then he headed back.

The swim invigorated him, and the feeling that he had made a discovery encouraged a desire for change. He pulled his hair back, squeezed it out, and then his beard. You’ve worn this all summer, Jondalar, and it’s almost over. Don’t you think it’s time?

First I’ll shave, then make something to keep Racer out of the way. I don’t want to just put a rope around his neck. Then I’ll make an awl, and a burin or two so I can carve a charm on the throwers. And I think I’ll make the meal tonight. A man could forget how around Ayla. I may not be up to her standards, but I think I can still put a meal together. Mother knows, I did it often enough on the Journey.

What kind of carvings should I put on the spear throwers? A donii would bring the best luck, but I gave mine to Noria. I wonder if she ever had a baby with blue eyes? That certainly is a strange idea Ayla has, about a man making a baby start. Who would have thought that was what that old Haduma wanted. First Rites. Ayla’s never had First Rites. She’s been through so much, and she’s a wonder with that sling. Not bad with a spear thrower either. I think I’ll put a bison on hers. Will they really work? Wish I had a donii. Maybe I could make one …

Jondalar started watching for Ayla from the ledge as the evening sky darkened. When the valley b

ecame a black bottomless pit, he built a fire on the ledge so she could find her way, and he kept thinking he heard her coming up the path. Finally he made a torch and headed down. He followed the edge of the stream around the jutting wall, and he would have gone farther if he hadn’t heard the pounding of hooves approaching.

“Ayla! What took you so long?”

She was taken aback by his peremptory tone. “I’ve been scouting for herds. You know that.”

“But it’s after dark!”

“I know. It was almost dark before I started back. I think I’ve found the place, a herd of bison southeast …”

“It was nearly dark and you were still chasing bison! You can’t see a bison in the dark!”

Ayla couldn’t understand why he was so excited, or his demanding questions. “I wasn’t looking at bison in the dark, and why do you want to stand here talking?”

With a high-pitched nicker, the colt appeared in the circle of light from the torch and butted up against his dam. Whinney responded, and before Ayla could dismount, the young horse was nuzzling under the mare’s hind legs. It occurred to Jondalar then that he had been acting as if he had some right to question Ayla, and he turned away from the torchlight, grateful for the dark that hid his red face. He followed behind while she plodded up the path, so embarrassed that he didn’t notice her weary exhaustion.

She grabbed a sleeping fur and, wrapping it around her, hunkered near the fire. “I forgot how cold it gets at night,” she said. “I should have taken a warm wrap, but I didn’t think I’d be gone this long.”

Jondalar saw her shiver and was more chagrined. “You’re cold. Let me get you something hot to drink.” He poured some hot broth into a cup for her.