The Plains of Passage (Earth's Children 4)

Ayla smiled. "I'm going to look for something fresh and delicious to eat this morning," she said.

Wolf was gone again, and Ayla was sure he was exploring or hunting; spring brought adventures for him, too. She headed toward the horses, who were in the middle of the spring meadow grazing on the fine short blades of sweet grass. It was the rich season, the time of growth throughout the land.

For most of the year the broad plains surrounding the miles-thick sheets of ice, and the high mountain meadows, were dry and cold. Only scant rain or snow managed to fall on the land; the glaciers usually captured most of the moisture circulating in the air for themselves. Though permafrost was as pervasive on the ancient steppes as in the wetter northern tundras of later times, the glacier-driven winds kept the summers arid, and the land dry and firm, with few bogs. In winter, the winds kept the light snows blown into drifts, leaving large sections of the frozen ground bare of snow, but covered with grass that had dried into hay; feed that maintained the uncountable numbers of huge grazing animals.

But not all grasslands are the same. To create the rich abundance of the Ice Age plains, it wasn't so much the amount of precipitation—so long as it was sufficient—as when it fell; a combination of moisture and drying winds in the right proportions and at the right times made the difference.

Because of the angle of incoming sunlight, in lower latitudes the sun begins to warm the earth not long after the winter solstice. Where snow or ice have accumulated, most of the early spring sunlight is reflected back into space, and the little that is absorbed and converted to heat must be used to melt the snow cover before plants can grow.

But on the ancient grasslands, where winds had laid the plains bare, the sun poured its energy onto the dark soil, and received a warm welcome. The dry, frozen top layers of permafrost began to warm and thaw, and though it was still cold, the wealth of solar energy impelled seeds and extensive roots to prepare to send up shoots. But water in usable form was necessary if they were to flourish.

The glistening ice resisted the warming rays of spring, reflecting back the sunlight. Hut with so much moisture stored in the mountain-high icy sheets, it could not entirely reject the sun's advances or its caress of wanning winds. The tops of the glaciers began to melt, and some water trickled down through the fissures and slowly began to fill streams, and then rivers, which would bring the precious liquid to the parched land later in summer. But even more important were the fogs and the mists evaporating off the glacial masses of frozen water, because they filled the skies with rain clouds.

In spring, the warm sunlight caused the great mass of ice to give off moisture rather than to take it. For almost the only time during the entire year, rain fell, not on the glacier, but on the thirsty and fertile land that bounded it. An Ice Age summer could be hot, but it was brief; the primeval spring was long and wet, and plant growth was explosive and profuse.

Ice Age animals also did their growing in spring when everything was fresh and green, and rich in the nutrients they needed, at just the time they needed them. By nature, whethe

r the season is lush or dry, spring is the time of the year when animals add size to young bones or to old tusks and horns, or grow new and bigger antlers, or shed thick winter coats and begin new ones. Because spring started early and lasted long, the growing season for animals was long as well, which encouraged their lavish size, and the impressive horny adornments.

During the long spring, all the species partook of the herbaceous green bounty indiscriminately, but with the end of the growing season they faced fierce competition from each other for the maturing and less nutritious or less digestible grasses and herbs. The competition did not express itself in squabbling over who would eat first or most, or in guarding boundaries. Herding animals of the plains were not territorial. They migrated over great distances and were highly social, seeking the company of their own kind as they traveled, and sharing their ranges with others that were adapted to open grasslands.

But whenever more than one species of animal had nearly identical eating and living habits, invariably only one would prevail. The others would evolve new ways to exploit another niche, utilize some other element of the available food, migrate to a new area, or die off. None of the many different grazing and browsing animals were in direct competition with each other for exactly the same food.

Fighting was always between males of the same kind, and was saved for rutting season, when often the mere display of a particularly imposing rack of antlers or pair of horns or tusks was enough to establish dominance and the right to breed—genetically compelling reasons for the magnificent embellishments that the rich spring growth encouraged.

But once the surfeit of spring was over, life for the itinerant dwellers of the steppes settled into established patterns, and it was never as easy. In summer they had to maintain the spectacular growth spring had wrought and fill out and put on fat for the harsh season ahead. Autumn brought the demanding rutting season for some; for others the growth of heavy fur and other protective measures. But hardest of all was winter; in winter they had to survive.

Winter determined the carrying capacity of the land; winter decided who would live and who would die. Winter was hard on males, with a larger body size and heavy social adornments to maintain or regrow. Winter was hard on females, who were smaller in size because they had not only to sustain themselves with essentially the same amount of available food, but also the next generation either developing inside them, or nursing, or both. But winter was particularly hard on the young, who lacked the size of adults to store reserves, and spent what they had accumulated on growth. If they could survive their first year, their chances were much better.

On the dry, cold, ancient grasslands near the glaciers, the great diversity of animals shared the complex and productive land and were maintained because eating and living habits of one species fit in between or around those of another. Even the carnivores had preferred prey. But an inventive, creative new species, one that didn't so much adapt to the environment as alter the environment to suit itself, was beginning to make its presence felt.

Ayla was strangely quiet when they stopped for a rest near another gurgling mountain stream, to finish the venison and fresh greens they had cooked that morning.

"It's not very far now. Thonolan and I stopped near here when we left," Jondalar said.

"It's breathtaking," she answered, but only part of her mind appreciated the breathtaking view.

"Why so quiet, Ayla?"

"I've been thinking about your kin. It makes me realize, I don't have any kin."

"You have kin! What about the Mamutoi? Aren't you Ayla of the Mamutoi?"

"It's not the same. I miss them, and I'll always love them, but it wasn't so hard to leave. It was harder the other time, when I had to leave Durc behind." A look of pain filled her eyes.

"Ayla, I know it must have been difficult to leave a son." He took her in his arms. "It wouldn't bring him back, but the Mother may give you other children ... someday ... perhaps even children of my spirit."

She didn't seem to hear him. "They said Durc was deformed, but he wasn't. He was Clan, but he was mine, too. He was part of both. They didn't think I was deformed, just ugly, and I was taller than any man of the Clan ... big and ugly..."

"Ayla, you are not big and ugly. You are beautiful, and remember, my kin are your kin."

She looked up at him. "Until you came, I had no one, Jondalar. Now I have you to love and maybe, someday, a child of yours. That would make me happy," she said, smiling.

Her smile relieved him, and her mention of a child even more. He looked up at the sun's position in the sky. "We won't make it to Dalanar's cave today if we don't hurry. Come on, Ayla, the horses need a good run. I'll race you across the meadow. I don't think I could stand another night in the tent when we're so close."

Wolf bounded out of the woods, full of energy and playfulness. He jumped up, put his paws on her chest, and licked her jaw. This was her family, she thought, as she grabbed his neck fur. This magnificent wolf, the faithful and patient mare, the spirited stallion, and the man, the wonderful caring man. Soon she would be meeting his family.

She fell silent while she packed the few things; then suddenly she started digging things out of a different pack. "Jondalar, I'm going to take a bath in this stream and put on a clean tunic and leggings," she said, taking off the leather tunic she had been wearing.