The Valley of Horses (Earth's Children 2)

“I had no idea fl … your Clan understood the spirit world at all, Ayla. It is still hard to believe—I do believe you—but it’s hard for me to comprehend that the people you talk about are the same ones I’ve always thought of as flatheads.”

Ayla put her head down, then looked up. Her eyes were serious, and concerned. “I think the Cave Lion has chosen you, Jondalar. I think he is your totem now. Creb told me a powerful totem is not easy to live with. He gave up an eye in his testing, but he gained great power. Next to Ursus, the Cave Lion is the most powerful totem, and it has not been easy. His tests have been difficult, but once I understood the reason, I have never been sorry. I think you should know, in case he is your totem now.” She looked down, hoping she hadn’t said too much.

“They meant very much to you, your Clan, didn’t they?”

“I wanted to be a woman of the Clan, but I could not. I could not make myself be one. I am not like them. I am of the Others. Creb knew it, and Iza told me to leave and find my own kind. I didn’t want to go, but I had to leave and I can never go back. I am cursed with death. I am dead.”

Jondalar wasn’t sure what she meant, but a chill raised his small hairs when she said it. She drew a deep breath before she continued.

“I did not remember the woman I was born to, or my life before the Clan. I tried, but I could not imagine a man of the Others, a man like me. Now, when I try to imagine others, I can only see you. You are the first of my own kind I have ever seen, Jondalar. No matter what happens, I will never forget you.” Ayla stopped, feeling she had said too much. She got up. “If we are going hunting in the morning, I think we should get some sleep.”

Jondalar knew she had been raised by flatheads and lived alone in the valley after she left them, but until she said it, he didn’t fully understand that he was the first. It disturbed him to think he represented all his people, and he wasn’t proud of the way he had done it. Yet, he knew how everyone felt about flatheads. If he had just told her, would it have made the same impression? Would she have really known what to expect?

He went to bed with unsettled, ambivalent feelings. He stared at the fire after he lay down, thinking. Suddenly he felt a distorting sensation, and something like vertigo without the dizziness. He saw a woman as though reflected in a pond into which a stone had dropped; a wavering image from which ripples spread out in larger and larger circles. He did not want the woman to forget him—to be remembered by her was significant.

He sensed a divergence, a path splitting, a choice, and he had no one to guide him. A current of warm air raised the hair on the back of his neck. He knew She was leaving him. He had never consciously felt Her presence, but he knew when She was gone, and the void She left behind ached. It was the beginning of an ending: the ending of the ice, the end of an age, the end of the time when Her nourishment provided. The Earth Mother was leaving Her children to find their own way, to carve out their own lives, to pay the consequences of their own actions—to come of age. Not in his lifetime, not in many lifetimes to come, but the first inexorable step had been taken. She had passed on Her parting Gift, Her Gift of Knowledge.

Jondalar felt an eerie keening wail, and he knew he heard the Mother cry.

Like a thong stretched taut and released, reality snapped back into place. But it had been stretched too far and could not fit back into its original dimension. He felt that something was out of place. He looked across the fire at Ayla and saw tears flowing down her face.

“What’s wrong, Ayla?”

“I don’t know.”

“Are you sure she can take both of us?”

“No, I’m not sure,” Ayla said, leading Whinney, loaded with her carrying baskets. Racer trailed behind, led by a rope that was tied to a sort of halter made of leather thongs. It gave him freedom to graze and to move his head, and it would not tighten up around his neck and choke him. The halter had bothered the colt at first, but he was getting used to it.

“If we can both ride, traveling will be faster. If she doesn’t like it, she will let me know. Then we can ride her in turns, or both walk.”

When they reached the large boulder in the meadow, Ayla climbed on the horse, moved up a bit, and held the mare steady while Jondalar mounted her. Whinney flicked her ears back. She felt the extra weight and wasn’t accustomed to it, but she was a sturdy rugged horse and she started out at Ayla’s urging. The woman kept her to a steady pace and was sensitive to the horse’s change in gait that signaled it was time to stop and rest.

The second time they started out, Jondalar was more relaxed and then wished he was still nervous. Without the tense worry, he became entirely aware of the woman riding in front of him. He could feel her back pressing up against him, her thighs against his, and Ayla became sensitive to more than the horse. A hot, hard pressure had risen behind her, over which Jondalar had no control, and every movement of the horse jogged them together. She wished it would go away—and yet she didn’t.

Jondalar was beginning to feel a pain he had not experienced before. He had never forced himself to hold in his aroused desire so much. From the first days of manhood, there had always been some means for release, but there was no other woman here except Ayla. He refused to bring it about himself again and just tried to bear it.

“Ayla,” his voice was strained, “I think … I think it’s time to rest,” he blurted out.

She stopped the horse and got off as quickly as she could. “It’s not far,” she said. “We can walk the rest of the way.”

“Yes, it will give Whinney a rest.”

Ayla didn’t argue, although she knew that was not why she was walking. They walked three abreast, with the horse between them, talking over her back. Even then, Ayla could hardly keep her mind on landmarks and directions, and Jondalar walked with aching loins, grateful for the screen the horse provided.

As they came in sight of a herd of bison, the anticipation of actually hunting with the spear thrower began to drain off a measure of their stifled ardor, though they took care not to stand too close together, and preferred to keep one or the other of the horses between them.

The bison were milling around a small stream. The herd was larger than when Ayla had first seen it. Several other small groupings had joined it and more would follow. Eventually, tens of thousands of densely packed, shaggy, brownish black animals would crowd across acres of rolling hills and river valleys; a lowing, thundering, living carpet. Within that throng, any one individual animal had little significance; their survival strategy depended on numbers.

Even the smaller number that had accumulated near the stream had subjugated their prickly individualities to the herding instinct. Later, survival would demand splintering again into small family herds to disperse and search for fodder during the lean seasons.

Ayla took Whinney to the edge of the stream near a tenacious wind-bent pine. In the sign language of the Clan, she told the horse to stay nearby, and, seeing the mare herd her young one close to her, Ayla knew she need not have worried about Racer. Whinney was entirely capable of guiding her foal away from danger. But Jondalar had gone to some trouble to find a solution to a problem she had envisaged, and she was curious to see how it would work.

The woman and man each took a spear thrower and a holder of long spears, and proceeded on foot toward the herd. Hard hooves had broken down the dry crust of the steppes and kicked up a haze of dust that settled in a fine coating on the dark shaggy fur. The movement of the herd was marked by the choking dust, the way smoke from a smoldering prairie fire showed the course of the blaze—and a similar devastation was left in the wake.

Jondalar and Ayla circled to get downwind of the slowly moving herd, squinting to pick out individual animals as the wind, laden with the hot rangy odor of bison, blew fine grit in their faces. Bawling calves straggled after cows, and butting yearlings tested the patience of hump-backed bulls.

One old bull, rolling in a dust wallow, heaved up to regain his feet. His massive head hung low as though w

eighted down by the enormous black horns. Jondalar’s six feet six inches topped the height of the bison at his humped shoulders—but not by much. The animal’s powerful, thickly furred front quarters tapered to low, lean hindquarters. The huge old beast, probably just past his prime, was too tough and stringy for their needs, but they knew he could be formidable when he stopped to eye them suspiciously. They waited until he moved on.

As they moved in closer, the rambling background noise of the herd increased and disintegrated into various pitches of bawling and lowing. Jondalar pointed out a young female. The heifer was nearly full grown, ready to bear young, and fattened from summer grazing. Ayla nodded agreement. They fitted the spears into their spear throwers and Jondalar signaled his intention to circle to the other side of the young cow.

By some unknown instinct, or perhaps because she had seen the man moving, the animal sensed she had been marked as prey. Nervously, she edged closer to the main body of the herd. Several others were moving to close around her, and Jondalar’s attention was distracted by them. Ayla was sure they were going to lose the cow. Jondalar’s back was toward her, she couldn’t signal, and the heifer was moving out of range. She couldn’t shout; even if he could hear her, it might warn the bison.

She made a decision and took aim. He glanced back as she was ready to hurl, took in the situation, and readied his thrower. The fast-moving heifer was stirring up the other animals, as were they. The man and women had thought the cloud of dust would be sufficient cover, but the bison were used to it. The young cow had almost reached the safety of the crowd, with others moving in.

Jondalar dashed toward her and heaved his spear. Ayla’s followed an instant later, finding its mark in the shaggy neck of the bison after his tore into her soft underbelly. The bison’s momentum carried her forward, then her pace slowed. She wavered, staggered, and slumped to her knees, cracking Jondalar’s spear as she collapsed on it. The herd smelled blood. A few sniffed at the downed heifer, lowing uneasily. Others picked up their dirge, jostling and eddying, the air rampant with tension.

Ayla and Jondalar ran toward the kill from opposite directions. Suddenly he started shouting and waving his arms at her. She shook her head, not understanding his signals.

A young bull, who had been playing at butting, had finally elicited a response from the old patriarch and dodged away, running into a nervous cow. The young male moved back, indecisive and agitated, but his evasive action was cut off by the big bull. He didn’t know which way to turn until his attention was caught by a moving bipedal figure. He lowered his head and ran toward it.

“Ayla! Look out!” Jondalar shouted, running toward her. He had a spear in his hand and pointed it.

Ayla turned and saw the young bull coming at her. Her first thought was her sling, an almost instinctive reaction. It had always been her immediate means of defense. But she dismissed it quickly and slapped a spear into her thrower.