The Valley of Horses (Earth's Children 2)

He dove into the water and swam upstream, almost as far as the falls. When he returned to the beach, he put his breechclout on and hurried up to the cave. A roast was on, smelling delicious. He was so relaxed and happy, he couldn’t believe it.

“I’m glad you’re back. It will take some time to purify myself properly, and I didn’t want it to get too late.” She picked up a bowl of steaming liquid with horsetail ferns in it, for her hair, and a newly cured skin for a fresh wrap.

“Take as long as you need,” he said, kissing her lightly.

She started down, then stopped and turned around. “I like that mouth on mouth, Jondalar. That kiss,” she said.

“I hope you like the rest,” he said after she left.

He walked around the cave, seeing everything with new eyes. He checked the haunch of roasting bison and turned the spit, noticed she had wrapped some roots in leaves and put them near coals, and then found the hot tea she had ready for him. She must have dug the roots while I was swimming, he thought.

He saw his sleeping furs on the other side of the fireplace, frowned, and then, with great delight, picked them up and brought them back to the empty place beside Ayla’s. After straightening them, he went back for the bundle that held his tools, then remembered the donii he had begun to carve. He sat on the mat that had kept his sleeping furs off the ground and opened the deerskin-wrapped package.

He examined the piece of mammoth-tusk ivory he had started to shape into a female figure and decided to finish it.

Maybe he wasn’t the best of carvers, but it didn’t seem right to have one of the Mother’s most important ceremonies without a donii. He picked out a few carving burins and took the ivory outside.

He sat at the edge, carving, shaping, sculpting, but he realized the ivory was not turning out to be ample and motherly. It was taking on the shape of a young woman. The hair that he had intended to resemble the style of the ancient donii he had given away—a ridged form covering the face as well as the back—was suggestive of braids, tight braids all over the head, except for the face. The face was blank. No face was ever carved on a donii, who could bear to look upon the face of the Mother? Who could know it? She was all women, and none.

He stopped carving and looked upstream and then down, hoping he might see her, though she said she wanted to be alone. Could he bring her Pleasure? he wondered. He had never doubted himself when he was called upon for First Rites at Summer Meetings, but those young women understood the customs and knew what to expect. They had older women to explain it to them.

Should I try to explain? No, you don’t know what to say, Jondalar. Just show her. She will let you know if she doesn’t like anything. That’s one of her most appealing qualities, her honesty. No coy little ways. It’s refreshing.

What would it be like to show the Mother’s Gift of Pleasure to a woman with no pretenses? Who would neither hold back nor feign enjoyment?

Why should she be any different from any other woman at First Rites? Because she’s not like any other woman at First Rites. She has been opened, with great pain. What if you can’t overcome that terrible beginning? What if she can’t enjoy the Pleasures, what if you can’t make her feel them? I wish there was some way to make her forget. If I could draw her to me, overcome her resistance and capture her spirit.

Capture her spirit?

He looked at the figure in his hand, and suddenly his mind was racing. Why did they grave the image of an animal on a weapon, or on the Sacred Walls? To approach the mother-spirit of it, to overcome her resistance and capture the essence.

Don’t be ridiculous, Jondalar. You can’t capture Ayla’s spirit that way. It wouldn’t be right, no one puts a face on a donii. Humans were never pictured—a likeness might capture a spirit’s essence. But to whom would it be captive?

No one should hold another person’s spirit captive. Give the donii to her! She’d have her spirit back then, wouldn’t she? If you kept it just for a while, then gave it to her … afterward.

If you put her face on it, would it turn her into a donii? You almost think she is one, with her healing, and her magic way with animals. If she’s a donii, she might decide to capture your spirit. Would that be so bad?

You want a piece to stay with you, Jondalar. The piece of the spirit that always stays in the hands of the maker. You want that part of her, don’t you?

O Great Mother, tell me, would it be such a terrible thing to do? To put her face on a donii?

He stared at the small ivory figure he had carved. Then he took up a burin and began to carve the shape of a face, a familiar face.

When it was done, he held the ivory figurine up and turned it around slowly. A real carver might have done it better, but it wasn’t bad. It resembled Ayla, but more in the feeling than the actual likeness; his feeling of her. He went back inside the cave and tried to think of a place to put it. The donii should be nearby, but he didn’t want her to see it, yet. He saw a bundle of leather wrapped up near the wall by her bed, and he tucked the ivory figure in a flap of it.

He went back out and looked off the far edge. What’s taking her so long? He looked over the two bison that were laid out side by side. They would keep. The spears and spear throwers were leaning against the stone wall near the entrance. He picked them up and carried them into the cave, and then he heard the sound of gravel pattering on stone. He turned around.

Ayla adjusted the tie on her new wrap, put her amulet around her neck, and pushed her hair, just brushed with teasel but not quite dry, back from her face. Picking up her soiled wrap, she started up the path. She was nervous, and excited.

She had an idea of what Jondalar meant by First Rites, but she was touched because of his desire to do it for her and share it with her. She didn’t think the ceremony would be too bad—even Broud hadn’t hurt after the first few times. If men gave the signal to women they liked, did it mean Jondalar had grown to care?

As she neared the top, Ayla was startled out of her thoughts by a tawny blur of swift motion.

“Stay back!” Jondalar shouted. “Stay back, Ayla! It’s a cave lion!”

He was at the mouth of the cave, a spear in his hand poised for throwing at a huge cat, crouched, ready to spring, a deep snarl rumbling in his throat.

“No, Jondalar!” Ayla screamed, rushing between them. “No!”

“Ayla don’t! O Mother, stop her!” the man cried when she jumped in front of him, in the path of the charging lion.

The woman made a sharp, imperative motion, and in the guttural language of the Clan, shouted, “Stop!”

The huge rufous-maned cave lion, with a wrenching twist, pulled his leap short and landed at the woman’s feet. Then he rubbed his massive head against her leg. Jondalar was thunderstruck.

“Baby! Oh, Baby. You came back,” Ayla said in motions, and without hesitation, without the least fear, she wrapped her arms around the huge lion’s neck.

Baby knocked her over, as gently as he could, and Jondalar watched with mouth agape while the biggest cave lion he had ever seen draped forepaws around the woman in the closest equivalent to an embrace he could imagine a lion to be capable of. The feline lapped salty tears from the woman’s face with a tongue that rasped it raw.

“That’s enough, Baby,” she said, sitting up, “or I won’t have a face left.”

She found the places behind his ears and around his mane that he loved to have scratched. Baby rolled over on his back to bare his throat to her ministrations, growling a deep rumble of contentment.

“I didn’t think I’d ever see you again, Baby,” she said when she stopped and the cat rolled over. He was bigger than she remembered, and though a bit thin, seemed healthy. He had scars she hadn’t seen before, and she thought he might be fighting for territory, and winning. It filled her with pride. Then Baby noticed Jondalar again, and snarled.

“Don’t snarl at him! That’s the man you brought me. You have a mate … I think you must have many by now.” The lion got up, turned his back to t

he man, and padded toward the bison.

“Is it all right if we give him one?” she called over to Jondalar. “We really have too much.”

He still held the spear in his hand, standing in the mouth of the cave, stunned. He tried to answer, but only a squeak came out. Then he recovered his voice. “All right? You’re asking me if it’s all right? Give him both of them. Give him anything he wants!”

“Baby doesn’t need both of them.” Ayla used the word for his name in the language Jondalar didn’t know, but he guessed it was a name. “No, Baby! Don’t take the heifer,” she said in sounds and gestures the man still didn’t quite perceive as language, but elicited a gasp from him when she took one bison away from the lion and shoved him toward the other. He clamped huge jaws around the severed neck of the young bull and pulled it away from the edge. Then, getting a better grip, he started down the familiar path.

“I’ll be right back, Jondalar,” she said. “Whinney and Racer might be down there, and I don’t want Baby to scare the colt.”

Jondalar watched the woman follow behind the lion until she was out of sight. She appeared again on the valley side of the wall, walking casually beside the lion who was dragging the bison under his body between his legs.

When they reached the large boulder, Ayla stopped and hugged the lion again. Baby dropped the bison, and Jondalar shook his head in disbelief when he saw the woman climb on the fierce predator’s back. She lifted an arm and flung it forward, and held on to the rufous mane while the huge feline leaped forward. He raced off with all his great speed, Ayla dinging tight, her hair streaming behind her. Then he slowed and turned back to the stone.

He got a grip on the young bison again and dragged it down the valley. Ayla stayed by the large rock, watching after him. Far down the field, the lion dropped the bull once more. He began a series of speaking grunts, his familiar hnga hnga, and built up to a roar so loud that it shook Jondalar’s bones.