The Valley Of Horses_ A Novel Part 9

"We find a place to make camp." The taller brother scanned the area from their vantage point. "Over there, just upstream, near that high bank with a stand of alder. There's a creek that joins the Sister-the water should be good."

"If we tie both backframes to one log, and attach a rope to both our waists, we could swim across and not get separated."

"I know you are hardy, Little Brother, but that's foolhardy. I'm not sure I could swim across, much less pulling a log with everything we have. That river is cold. Only the current keeps it from freezing-there was ice at the edge this morning. And what if we get tangled up in the branches of some tree? We'd get swept downstream, and maybe pulled under."

"Remember that Cave that lives close to the Great Water? They dig out the centers of big trees and use them to cross rivers. Maybe we could..."

"Find me a tree around here big enough," Jondalar said, flinging his arm at the gra.s.sy prairie, with only a few thin or stunted trees.

"Well...someone told me about another Cave that makes sh.e.l.ls out of birchbark...but that seems so flimsy."

"I've seen them, but I don't know how they're made, or what kind of glue they use so they won't leak. And the birch trees in their region grow bigger than any I've seen around here."

Thonolan glanced around, trying to think of some other idea that his brother couldn't put down with his implacable logic. He noticed the stand of straight tall alders on the high knoll just to the south, and grinned. "How about a raft? All we'd have to do is tie a bunch of logs together, and there are more than enough alders on that hill."

"And one long enough, and strong enough to make a pole to reach the bottom of the river to guide it? Rafts are hard to control even on small shallow rivers."

Thonolan's confident grin crumpled, and Jondalar had to suppress a smile. Thonolan never could hide his feelings; Jondalar doubted that he ever tried. But it was his impetuous, candid nature that made him so likable.

"That's really not such a bad idea, though," Jondalar amended, noting the return of Thonolan's smile, "once we get upstream far enough so there's no danger of getting swept into that rough water. And find a place where the river widens and gets shallower, and not so fast, and where there are trees. I hope the weather holds."

Thonolan was as serious as his brother by the time the weather was mentioned. "Let's get moving then. The tent is fixed."

"I'm going to look over those alders first. We still need a couple of st.u.r.dy spears. We should have made them last night."

"Are you still worried about that rhino? He's well behind us now. We need to get started so we can find a place to cross."

"I'm going to cut a shaft, at least."

"You might as well cut one for me then. I'll start packing."

Jondalar picked up his axe and examined the edge, then nodded to himself and started up the hill toward the alder grove. He looked over the trees carefully and selected a tall straight sapling. He had chopped it down, stripped the branches, and was looking for one for Thonolan when he heard a commotion. There was snuffling, grunting. He heard his brother shout, and then a sound more terrifying than anything he had ever heard: a scream of pain in his brother's voice. The silence as his scream was cut short was even worse.

"Thonolan! Thonolan!"

Jondalar raced back down the hill, still clutching the alder shaft and clutched by cold fear. His heart pounded in his ears when he saw a huge woolly rhinoceros, as tall at the shoulders as he, pushing the limp form of a man along the ground. The animal didn't seem to know what to do with his victim now that he was down. From the depths of his fear and anger, Jondalar didn't think, he reacted.

Swinging the alder staff like a club, the older brother rushed the beast, careless of his own safety. One hard blow landed on the rhino's snout, just below the large curving horn, and then another. The rhino backed off, undecided in the face of a berserk man charging him and causing him pain. Jondalar prepared to swing again, pulled back the long shaft-but the animal turned. The powerful whack on his rump didn't hurt much, but it urged him on, with the tall man chasing after him.

When a swing of the alder shaft whistled through the air as the animal raced ahead, Jondalar stopped and watched the rhino go, catching his breath. Then he dropped the shaft and ran back to Thonolan. His brother was lying face down where the rhino had left him.

"Thonolan? Thonolan!" Thonolan!" Jondalar rolled him over. There was a rip in Thonolan's leather trousers near the groin, and a bloodstain growing larger. Jondalar rolled him over. There was a rip in Thonolan's leather trousers near the groin, and a bloodstain growing larger.

"Thonolan! Oh, Doni!" He put his ear to his brother's chest, listening for a heartbeat, and was afraid he only imagined hearing it until he saw him breathing.

"Oh, Doni, he's alive! But what am I going to do?" With a grunt of effort, Jondalar picked up the unconscious man and stood for a moment, cradling him in his arms.

"Doni, O Great Earth Mother! Don't take him yet. Let him live, O please..." His voice cracked and a huge sob welled up in his breast, "Mother...please...let him live..."

Jondalar bowed his head, sobbed into his brother's limp shoulder a moment, then carried him back to the tent. He laid him down gently on his sleeping roll, and, with his bone-handled knife, cut away the clothing. The only obvious wound was a raw, jagged rip of skin and muscle at the top of his left leg, but his chest was an angry red, the left side swelling and discoloring. A close examination by touch convinced Jondalar that several ribs were broken; probably there were internal injuries.

Blood was pumping out of the gash in Thonolan's leg, collecting on the sleeping roll. Jondalar rummaged through his pack, trying to find something to sop it up with. He grabbed his sleeveless summer tunic, wadded it up, and tried to wipe up the blood on the fur, but only succeeded in smearing it around. Then he laid the soft leather on the wound.

"Doni, Doni! I don't know what to do. I'm not a zelandoni." Jondalar sat back on his heels, pulled his hand through his hair, and left bloodstains on his face. "Willowbark! I'd better make willowbark tea."

He went out to heat some water. He didn't have to be a zelandoni to know about the painkilling properties of willowbark; everyone made willowbark if they had a headache, or some other minor pain. He didn't know if it was used for serious wounds, but he didn't know what else to do. He paced nervously around the fire, looking inside the tent with each circuit, waiting for the cold water to boil. He piled more wood on the fire and singed an edge of the wooden frame that supported the cooking hide full of water.

Why is it taking so long! Wait, I don't have the willowbark. I'd better get it before the water boils. He put his head inside the tent and stared at his brother for a long moment, then ran to the edge of the river. After peeling bark from a bare-leafed tree whose long thin branches trailed the water, he raced back.

He looked first to see if Thonolan had roused, and saw that his summer tunic was soaked with blood. Then he noticed the overfull cooking skin boiling over and putting out the fire. He didn't know what to do first-tend to the tea, or to his brother-and he looked back and forth from the fire to the tent to the fire. Finally he grabbed a drinking cup and scooped out some water, scalding his hand, then dropped the willowbark in the hide pot. He put a few more sticks on the fire, hoping they would catch. He searched through Thonolan's backframe, dumped it out in frustration, and picked up his brother's summer tunic to replace his b.l.o.o.d.y one.

As he started into the tent, Thonolan moaned. It was the first sound he had heard from his brother. He scrambled out to scoop up a bowl of the tea, noticed there was hardly any liquid left, and wondered if it was too strong. He ducked back into the tent with a cup of the hot liquid, looked frantically for a place to set it, and saw that more was soaked with blood than his summer tunic. It was pooling under Thonolan, discoloring the sleeping roll.

He's losing too much blood! O Mother! He needs a zelandoni. What am I going to do? He was becoming more agitated and fearful for his brother. He felt so helpless. I need to go for help. Where? Where can I find a zelandoni? I can't even get across the Sister, and I can't leave him. Some wolf or hyena will smell the blood and come after him.

Great Mother! Look at all the blood on that tunic! Some animal will smell it. Jondalar s.n.a.t.c.hed the blood-soaked shirt and threw it out of the tent. No, that's not any better! He dove out of the tent, picked it up again, and looked wildly for some place to put it, away from the camp, away from his brother.

He was in shock, overcome with grief, and, in the depths of his heart, he knew there was no hope. His brother needed help that he could not give, and he could not go for help. Even if he knew where to go, he couldn't leave. It was senseless to think any b.l.o.o.d.y tunic would draw carnivorous animals any more than Thonolan himself would, with his open wound. But he didn't want to face the truth in his heart. He turned away from sense and gave in to panic.

He spied the stand of alder and, in an irrational moment, raced up the hill and stuffed the leather shirt high up in a crook of one of the trees. Then he ran back. He went into the tent and stared at Thonolan, as if by sheer effort of will he could make his brother sound and whole again, and smiling.

Almost as though Thonolan sensed the plea, he moaned, tossed his head, and opened his eyes. Jondalar kneeled closer and saw pain in his eyes, in spite of a weak smile.

"You were right, Big Brother. You usually are. We didn't leave that rhino behind."

"I don't want to be right, Thonolan. How do you feel?"

"Do you want an honest answer? I hurt. How bad is it?" he asked, trying to sit up. The halfhearted grin turned to a grimace of pain.

"Don't try to move. Here, I made some willowbark." Jondalar supported his brother's head and held the cup to his lips. Thonolan took a few sips, then lay back down with relief. A look of fear joined the pain in his eyes.

"Tell me straight, Jondalar. How bad is it?"

The tall man closed his eyes and drew a breath. "It's not good."

"I didn't think so, but how bad?" Thonolan's eyes fell on his brother's hands and opened wider with alarm. "There's blood all over your hands! Is it mine? I think you'd better tell me."

"I don't really know. You're gored in the groin, and you've lost a lot of blood. The rhino must have tossed you, too, or trampled you. I think you have a couple of broken ribs. I don't know what else. I'm not a zelandoni..."

"But I need one, and the only chance of finding help is across that river we can't cross."

"That's about it."

"Help me up, Jondalar. I want to see how bad it is."

Jondalar started to object, then reluctantly gave in and was immediately sorry. The moment Thonolan tried to sit, he cried out in pain and lost consciousness again.

"Thonolan!" Jondalar cried. The bleeding had slowed, but his effort caused it to flow again. Jondalar folded his brother's summer tunic and put it over the wound, then left the tent. The fire was nearly out. Jondalar added fuel more carefully and built it up again, set more water to heat, and cut more wood.

He went back to check on his brother again. Thonolan's tunic was soaked with blood. He moved it aside to look at the wound, and he grimaced remembering how he had run up the hill to get rid of the other tunic. His initial panic was gone, and it seemed so foolish. The bleeding had stopped. He found another piece of clothing, a cold-weather undergarment, laid it over the wound, and covered Thonolan, then picked up the second b.l.o.o.d.y tunic and walked to the river. He threw it in, then bent to wash the blood off his hands, still feeling ridiculous over his panic.

He didn't know that panic was a survival trait, in extreme circ.u.mstances. When all else fails, and all rational means of finding a solution have been exhausted, panic takes over. And sometimes an irrational act becomes a solution the rational mind would never have thought of.

He walked back, put a few more sticks of wood on the fire, then went to look for the alder staff, though it seemed pointless to be making a spear now. He just felt so useless, he needed to do something. He found it, then sat outside the tent, and with vicious strokes, began to shave one end.

The next day was a nightmare for Jondalar. The left side of Thonolan's body was tender to the lightest touch and deeply bruised. Jondalar had slept little. It had been a difficult night for Thonolan and every time he moaned, Jondalar got up. But all he could offer was willowbark tea, and that didn't help much. In the morning, he cooked some food and made broth, but neither man ate much. By evening, the wound was hot, and Thonolan was feverish.

Thonolan woke from a restless sleep to his brother's troubled blue eyes. The sun had just dipped below the rim of the earth, and though it was still light outside, in the tent it was harder to see. The dimness didn't keep Jondalar from noticing how glazed Thonolan's eyes were, and he had been moaning and mumbling in his sleep.

Jondalar tried to smile encouragingly. "How are you feeling?"

Thonolan hurt too much to smile, and Jondalar's worried look was not rea.s.suring. "I don't feel much like hunting rhinos," he replied.

They were silent for a while, neither knowing what to say. Thonolan closed his eyes and sighed deeply. He was tired of fighting the pain. His chest hurt with every breath, and the deep ache in his left groin seemed to have spread to his whole body. If he had thought there was any hope, he would have endured it, but the longer they stayed, the less chance Jondalar would have of crossing the river before a storm. Just because he was going to die was no reason his brother had to die, too. He opened his eyes again.

"Jondalar, we both know without help there's no hope for me, but there's no reason you..."

"What do you mean, no hope? You're young, you're strong. You'll be all right."

"There's not enough time. We don't have a chance out here in the open. Jondalar, keep moving, find a place to stay, you..."

"You're delirious!"

"No, I..."

"You wouldn't be talking like that if you weren't. You worry about gaining your strength-let me worry about taking care of us. We're both going to make it. I've got a plan."

"What plan?"

"I'll tell you about it when I get all the details worked out. Do you want something to eat? You haven't eaten much."

Thonolan knew his brother wouldn't leave while he was alive. He was tired; he wanted to give up, let it end, and give Jondalar a chance. "I'm not hungry," he said, then saw the hurt in his brother's eyes. "I could use a drink of water, though."

Jondalar poured out the last of the water and held Thonolan's head while he drank. He shook the bag. "This is empty. I'll get some more."

He wanted an excuse to get out of the tent. Thonolan was giving up. Jondalar had been bluffing when he said he had a plan. He had given up hope-no wonder his brother thought it was hopeless. I have to find some way to get across that river and find help.

He walked up a slight rise that gave him a view upriver, over the trees, and stood watching a broken branch snagged by a jutting rock. He felt as trapped and helpless as that bare limb and, on impulse, walked to the water's edge and freed it from the restraining stone. He watched the current carry it downstream, wondering how far it would go before it was snared by something else. He noticed another willow, and he peeled more inner bark with his knife. Thonolan might have a bad night again, not that the tea did much good.

Finally he turned away from the Sister and went back to the small creek that added its tiny fraction to the rampaging river. He filled the waterbag and started back. He wasn't sure what made him look upstream-he couldn't have heard anything above the sound of the rushing torrent-but when he did, he stared in open-mouthed disbelief.

Something was approaching from upriver, heading straight for the bank where he stood. A monstrous water bird, with a long curved neck supporting a fierce crested head and large unblinking eyes, was coming toward him. He saw movement on the creature's back as it drew near, heads of other creatures. One of the smaller creatures waved.

"Ho-la!" a voice called out. Jondalar had never heard a more welcome sound.

7.

Ayla wiped the back of her hand across her sweaty forehead and smiled at the little yellow horse who had nudged her, trying to insinuate her muzzle under the woman's hand. The filly didn't like to let Ayla out of her sight and followed her everywhere. Ayla didn't mind, she wanted the company.

"Little horse, how much grain should I pick for you?" Ayla motioned. The small, hay-colored foal watched her motions closely. It made Ayla think of herself when she was a young girl just learning the sign language of the Clan. "Are you trying to learn to talk? Well, understand, anyway. You'd have trouble talking without hands, but you seem to be trying to understand me."

Ayla's speech incorporated a few sounds; her clan's ordinary language wasn't entirely silent, only the ancient formal language was. The filly's ears perked up when she spoke a word out loud.

"You're listening, aren't you, little filly?" Ayla shook her head. "I keep calling you little filly, little horse. It doesn't feel right. I think you need a name. Is that what you are listening for, the sound of your name? I wonder what your dam called you? I don't think I could say it if I knew."

The young horse was watching her intently, knowing Ayla was paying attention to her when she moved her hands in that way. She nickered when Ayla stopped.

"Are you answering me? Whiiinneeey!" Ayal tried to mimic her and made a fair approximation of a horse's whinny. The young horse responded to the almost familiar sound with a toss of her head and an answering neigh.

"Is that your name?" Ayla motioned with a smile. The foal tossed her head again, bounded off a ways, then came back. The woman laughed. "All little horses must have the same name, then, or maybe I can't tell the difference." Ayla whinnied again and the horse whinnied back, and they played the game for a while. It made her think of the game of sounds she used to play with her son, except Durc could make any sound she could. Creb had told her she made many sounds when they first found her, and she knew she could make some no one else could. It had pleased her when she discovered her son could make them, too.

Ayla turned back to picking grain from the tall einkorn wheat. Emmer wheat grew in the valley, too, and rye gra.s.s similar to the kind that grew near the clan's cave. She was thinking about naming the horse. I've never named anyone before. She smiled to herself. Wouldn't they think I was strange, naming a horse. Not any stranger than living with one. She watched the young animal racing and frisking playfully. I'm so glad she lives with me, Ayla thought, feeling a lump in her throat. It's not so lonely with her around. I don't know what I'd do if I lost her now. I am going to name her.

The sun was on its way down when Ayla stopped and glanced at the sky. It was a big sky, vast, empty. Not a single cloud measured its depth nor arrested the eye from infinity. Only the distant incandescence in the west, whose wavering circ.u.mference was revealed in afterimage, marred the rich, uniformly blue expanse. Judging the amount of daylight left by the s.p.a.ce between the radiance and the top of the cliff, she decided to stop.

The horse, noticing her attention was no longer on her task, whinnied and came to her. "Should we go back to the cave? Let's get a drink of water first." She put her arm around the neck of the young horse and walked toward the stream.

The foliage near the running water at the base of the steep southern wall was a slow-motion kaleidoscope of color, reflecting the rhythm of the seasons; now deep somber greens of pine and fir dabbed with vivid golds, paler yellows, dry browns, and fiery reds. The sheltered valley was a bright swatch amidst the muted beige of the steppes, and the sun was warmer within its wind-protected walls. For all the fall colors, it had felt like a warm summer day, a misleading illusion.

"I think I should get more gra.s.s. You're starting to eat your bedding when I put it down fresh." Walking beside the horse, Ayla continued her monologue, then unconsciously stopped the hand motions, her thoughts alone carrying on the thread. Iza always collected gra.s.s in fall for winter bedding. It smelled so good when she changed it, especially when the snow was deep and the wind blowing outside. I used to love falling asleep listening to the wind and smelling summer-fresh hay.

When she saw the direction they were going, the horse trotted ahead. Ayla smiled indulgently. "You must be as thirsty as I am, little whiiinneey," she said, making the sound out loud in response to the filly's call. That does sound like a name for a horse, but naming should be done properly.

"Whinney! Whiiinneeey!" she called. The animal perked up her head, looked toward the woman, then trotted to her.

Ayla rubbed her head and scratched her. She was shedding her p.r.i.c.kly baby coat and growing in longer winter hair, and she always loved a scratching. "I think you like that name, and it suits you, my little horse baby. I think we should have a naming ceremony. I can't pick you up in my arms, though, and Creb isn't here to mark you, I guess I'll have to be the mog-ur and do it." She smiled. Imagine, a woman mog-ur.

Ayla started back toward the river again but veered upstream when she noticed she was near the open place where she had dug the pit trap. She had filled in the hole, but the young horse spooked around it, sniffing and snorting and pawing the ground, bothered by some lingering odor or memory. The herd had not returned since the day they raced down the length of the valley, away from her fire and her noise.

She led the filly to drink nearer the cave. The cloudy stream, engorged with fall runoff, had receded from its high point, leaving a slurry of rich brown mud at the water's edge. It squished under Ayla's feet and left a brownish red stain on her skin, and it reminded her of the red ochre paste Mog-ur used for ceremonial purposes, like namings. She swished her finger around in the mud and made a mark on her leg, then smiled and scooped up a handful.

I was going to look for red ochre, she thought, but this might do as well. Closing her eyes, Ayla tried to remember what Creb had done when he named her son. She could see his ravaged old face, with a flap of skin covering the place where an eye should have been, his large nose, his overhanging brow ridges and low sloping forehead. His beard had gotten thin and scraggly, and his hairline had receded, but she remembered him the way he had looked that day. Not young, but at the peak of his power. She had loved that magnificent, craggy old face.

Suddenly all her emotions came flooding back. Her fear that she would lose her son and her utter joy at the sight of a bowl of red ochre paste. She swallowed hard several times, but the lump in her throat would not go down, and she wiped a tear away, not knowing she left a smudge of brown in its place. The little horse leaned against her, nuzzling for affection, almost as though she sensed Ayla's need. The woman knelt down and hugged the animal, resting her forehead against the st.u.r.dy neck of the little filly.

This is supposed to be your naming ceremony, she thought, gaining control of herself. The mud had squeezed out between her fingers. She scooped up another handful, then reached toward the sky with the other hand, as Creb had always done with his abbreviated one-handed gestures, calling for the spirits to attend. Then she hesitated, not sure if she should invoke the Clan spirits at the naming of a horse-they might not approve. She dipped her fingers into the mud in her hand and made a streak down the foal's face, from her forehead to the end of her nose, as Creb had drawn a line with the paste of red ochre from the place where Durc's brow ridges met to the tip of his rather small nose.

"Whinney," she said aloud, and finished with the formal language. "This girl's...this female horse's name is Whinney."

The horse shook her head, trying to rid herself of the wet mud on her face, making Ayla laugh. "It will dry up and wear off soon, Whinney."

She washed her hands, adjusted the basketful of grain on her back, and walked slowly to the cave. The naming ceremony had reminded her too much of her solitary existence. Whinney was a warm living creature and eased her loneliness, but by the time Ayla reached the rocky beach, tears had come unbidden, unnoticed.