The Valley Of Horses_ A Novel Part 38

"That's one less-let me think," he said, making more marks in the dirt. Then he shook his head. "Are you sure? That means your son was born when you were eleven!"

"I'm sure, Jondalar."

"I've heard of a few women giving birth that young, but not many. Thirteen or fourteen is more usual, and some think that's too young. You were hardly more than a child yourself."

"No, I was not a child. I had not been a child for several years by then. I was too big to be a child, taller than everyone, including the men. And I was already older than most Clan girls are when they become women." Her mouth drew up in a skewed smile. "I don't think I could have waited any longer. Some thought I would never become a woman because I have such a strong male totem. Iza was so glad when...when the moon times started. So was I, until..." Her smile faded. "That was Broud's year. The next one was Durc's year."

"The year before your son was born-ten! Ten years when he forced you? How could he do it?"

"I was a woman, taller than most women. Taller than he."

"But not bigger than he! I've seen some of those flatheads! They may not be tall, but they're powerful. I wouldn't want to fight one hand to hand."

"They are men, Jondalar," she corrected gently. "They are not flatheads-they are men of the Clan."

It stopped him. For all her soft-spoken tones, there was a stubborn set to her jaw.

"After what happened, you still insist he isn't an animal?"

"You might say Broud was an animal for forcing me, but then what do you call the men who force women of the Clan?"

He hadn't thought of it in quite that way.

"Not all the men were like Broud, Jondalar. Most of them were not. Creb was not-he was gentle and kind, even though he was a powerful Mog-ur. Brun was not, even though he was leader. He was strong-willed, but he was fair. He accepted me into his clan. Some things he had to do-it was the Clan way-but he honored me with his grat.i.tude. Men of the Clan do not often show grat.i.tude to women in front of everyone. He let me hunt; he accepted Durc. When I left, he promised to protect him."

"When did you leave?"

She stopped to think. Birth year, walking year, weaning year. "Durc was three years when I left," she said.

Jondalar added three more lines. "You were fourteen? Only fourteen? And you've lived here alone since then? For three years?" He counted up all the lines. "You are seventeen years, Ayla. You have lived a lifetime in your seventeen years," he said.

Ayla sat silently for a time, pensively-then she spoke. "Durc is six years now. The men will be taking him with them to the practice field by now. Grod will make him a spear, his size, and Brun will teach him to use it. And if he's still alive, old Zoug will show him how to use a sling. Durc will practice hunting small animals with his friend, Grev-Durc is younger but he's taller than Grev. He always was tall for his age-he gets that from me. He can run fast; no one can run faster. And he's good with the sling. And Uba loves him. She loves him as much as I do."

Ayla didn't notice the tears falling until she took a breath that was a sob, and she didn't know how she found herself in Jondalar's arms with her head on his shoulder.

"It's all right, Ayla," the man said, patting her gently. Mother at eleven, torn away from her son at fourteen. Not able to watch him grow, not even sure if he's alive. She's sure someone loves him and is taking care of him, and teaching him to hunt...like any child.

Ayla felt wrung out when she finally lifted her head from the man's shoulder, but she felt lighter, too, as though her grief rested less heavily on her. It was the first time since she had left the clan that she had shared her loss with another human soul. She smiled at him with grat.i.tude.

He smiled back with tenderness and compa.s.sion, and something more that welled up from the unconscious source of his inner self and showed in the blue depths of his eyes. It found a responsive chord within the woman. They spent a long moment locked in the intimate embrace of outspoken eyes, declaring in silence that which they would not say aloud.

The intensity was too much for Ayla; she was still not entirely comfortable with a direct stare. She wrenched her eyes away and began gathering up her marked sticks. It took a moment for Jondalar to gather himself together and help her tie the sticks into bundles. Working beside her made him more aware of her warm fullness and pleasant female scent than when he was comforting her in his arms. And Ayla felt an aftersense of the places their bodies had met, where his gentle hands had touched her, and the taste of the salt of his skin mingled with her tears.

They both realized they had touched each other and neither had been offended, but they carefully avoided looking too directly at each other or brushing too close, fearful that it might disturb their unplanned moment of tenderness.

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." Compa.s.sion 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 gra.s.s 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 gra.s.s 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."

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 embarra.s.s 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 compet.i.tion-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?"

"Sisters and brothers come from the same woman. Cousins are not as close. I was born to Dalanar's hearth-I am probably of his spirit. People say we look alike. I think Joplaya is of his spirit, too. Her mother is short, but she is tall, like Dalanar. Not quite as tall, but a little taller than you, I think.

"No one knows for sure whose spirit the Great Mother will choose to mix with a woman's, so Joplaya and I may be of Dalanar's spirit, but who knows? That's why we are cousins."

Ayla nodded. "Perhaps Uba would be a cousin, but to me she was a sister."

"Sister?"

"We were not true siblings. Uba was Iza's daughter, born after I was found. Iza said we were both her daughters." Ayla's thoughts turned inward. "Uba was mated, but not to the man she would have chosen. But the other man would have only his sibling to mate, and in the Clan, siblings may not mate."

"We don't mate our brothers or sisters," Jondalar said. "We don't usually mate our cousins, either, though it is not absolutely forbidden. It is frowned on. Some kinds of cousins are more acceptable than others."

"What kind of cousins are there?"

"Many kinds, some closer than others. The children of your mother's sisters are your cousins; the children of the mate of your mother's brother; the children of..."

Ayla was shaking her head. "It's too confusing! How do you know who is a cousin and who isn't? Almost everyone could be a cousin....Who is left in your Cave to mate with?"

"Most people don't mate with people from their own Cave. Usually it's someone met at a Summer Meeting. I think mating with cousins is allowed sometimes because you may not know the person you want to mate is a cousin until you name your ties...your relationships. People usually know their closest cousins, though, even if they live at another Cave."

"Like Joplaya?"

Jondalar nodded a.s.sent, his month full of raspberries.

"Jondalar, what if it isn't spirits that make children? What if it's a man? Wouldn't that mean children are just as much from the man as from the woman?"

"The baby grows inside a woman, Ayla. It comes from her."

"Then why do men and women like to couple?"

"Why did the Mother give us the Gift of Pleasure? You'd have to ask Zelandoni that."

"Why do you always say 'Gift of Pleasure'? Many things make people happy and give them pleasure. Does it give a man such pleasure to put his organ in a woman?"

"Not only a man, a woman...but you don't know, do you? You didn't have First Rites. A man opened you, made you a woman, but it's not the same. It was shameful! How could those people let it happen?"

"They didn't understand, they only saw what he did. What he did was not shameful, only the way he did it. It was not done for Pleasures-Broud did it with hatred. I felt pain and anger, but not shame. And no pleasure, either. I don't know if Broud started my baby, Jondalar, or made me a woman so I could have one, but my son made me happy. Durc was my pleasure."

"The Mother's Gift of Life is a joy, but there is more to the joining of man and woman. That, too, is a Gift, and should be done with joy for Her honor."

There may be more than you know, too, she thought. Yet he seemed so certain. Could he be right? Ayla didn't quite believe him, but she was wondering.

After the meal, Jondalar moved over to the broad flat part of the ledge where his implements were laid out. Ayla followed and settled herself nearby. He spread out the blades he had made so he could compare them. Minor differences made some more appropriate for certain tools than others. He picked out one blade, held it up to the sun, then showed it to the woman.

The blade was more than four inches long and less than an inch wide. The ridge down the middle of its outer face was straight, and tapered evenly from the ridge to edges so thin that light shone through. It curved upward, toward its smooth inner bulbar face. Only when held up to the sun could the lines of fracture raying out from a very flat bulb of percussion be seen. The two long cutting edges were straight and sharp. Jondalar pulled a hair of his beard straight and tested an edge. It cut with no resistance. It was as close to a perfect blade as it was possible to get.

"I'm going to keep this one for shaving," he said.

Ayla didn't know what he meant, but she had learned from watching Droog to accept whatever comments and explanations were given without asking questions that might interrupt concentration. He put the blade off to one side and picked up another. The two cutting edges on this one tapered together, making it narrower at one end. He reached for a smooth beach rock, about twice the size of his fist, and laid the narrow end against it. Then, with the blunted tip of an antler, he tapped the end into a triangular shape. Pressing the triangle's edges against the stone anvil, he detached small chips which gave the blade a sharp, narrow point.

He pulled an end of his leather breechclout taut and poked a small hole in it. "This is an awl," he said, showing it to Ayla. "It makes a little hole for sinew to be drawn through to sew clothes."

Had he seen her examining his clothes, Ayla suddenly wondered. He seemed to know what she had been planning.

"I'm going to make a borer, too. It's like this, but bigger and st.u.r.dier, to make holes in wood, or bone, or antler."

She was relieved; he was just talking about tools.

"I've used an...awl, to make holes for pouches, but none so fine as that."

"Would you like it?" He grinned. "I can make another for myself."

She took it, then bowed her head, trying to express grat.i.tude the Clan way. Then she remembered. "Thank you," she said.

He flashed a big pleased smile. Then he picked up another blade and held it against the stone. With the blunted antler hammer, he squared off the end of the blade, giving it a slight angle. Then, holding the squared-off end so that it would be perpendicular to the blow, he struck one edge sharply. A long piece fell away-the burin spall-leaving the blade with a strong, sharp, chisel tip.

"Are you familiar with this tool?" he asked. She inspected it, then shook her head and gave it back.

"It's a burin," he said. "Carvers use them, and sculptors-theirs are a little different. I'm going to use this for the weapon I was telling you about."

"Burin, burin," she said, getting used to the word.

After making a few more tools similar to ones he had made, he shook the lap cover over the edge and pulled the trough-shaped bowl closer. He took a long bone out and wiped it off, then turned the foreleg over in his hands, deciding where to start. Sitting down, he braced the bone against his foot, and, using the burin, he scratched a long line down the length of it. Then he etched a second line which joined the first at a point. A third short scratch connected the base of an elongated triangle.