The Valley of Horses (45 page)

She stumbled down the slope that led to the meadow, and rolled, and stayed where she stopped, gasping raggedly for breath. Even after she could breathe again, she didn’t move. She didn’t want to move. She didn’t want to cope, or try, or live. What was the use? She was cursed, wasn’t she?

Why can’t I just die then? Like I’m supposed to? Why do I have to lose everything I love? She felt a warm breath and a rasping tongue licking the salt from her cheek, and she opened her eyes to a huge cave lion.

“Oh, Baby!” she cried, reaching for him. He sprawled out beside her and, with claws retracted, put a heavy foreleg over her. She rolled over, hugged his furry neck, and buried her face in his lengthening mane.

When she finally cried herself out and tried to get up, she felt the result of her fall. Lacerated hands, skinned knees and elbows, a bruised hip and shin, and her right cheek was sore. She limped back to the cave. As she was treating her scrapes and bruises, she had a sobering thought. What if I’d broken a bone? That could be worse than dying, with no one to help.

I didn’t, though. If my totem wants to keep me alive, maybe he has a reason. Maybe the spirit of the Cave Lion sent Baby to me because he knew Whinney would leave someday.

Baby will leave, too. It won’t be long before he will want a mate. He will find one, even if he isn’t growing up in a regular pride. He’s going to be so big that he’ll be able to defend a big territory.
And
he’s a good hunter. He won’t go hungry while he’s looking for a pride, or at least one lioness.

She smiled wryly. You’d think I was a Clan mother worrying about her son growing up to be a big brave hunter. After all, he’s not my son. He’s just a lion, an ordinary … No, he’s not an ordinary cave lion. He is almost as big as some full-grown cave lions already, and he is an early hunter. But he will leave me.…

Durc must be big by now. Ura is growing, too. Oda will feel sad when Ura leaves to be Durc’s mate and live with Brun’s clan.… No, it’s Broud’s clan now. How long will it be until the next Clan Gathering?

She reached behind the bed for the bundle of marked sticks. She still made a notch every night. It was a habit, a
ritual. She untied the bundle and laid them out on the ground, then tried to count the days since she had found her valley. She fitted her hands into the notches, but there were too many marks, too many days had passed. She had a feeling the marks ought to come together and add up in some way that would tell her how long she’d been there, but she didn’t know how. It was so frustrating. Then she realized she didn’t need the sticks; she could think of the years by counting each spring. Durc was born the spring before the last Clan Gathering, she thought, The next spring ended his birth year. She made a mark in the dirt. Next was his walking year; she made another mark. The next spring would have been the end of his nursing year and the beginning of his weaning year—except he was already weaned. She made a third mark.

That was when I left—she swallowed hard and blinked her eyes—and that summer I found the valley, and Whinney. The next spring, I found Baby. She made a fourth mark. And this spring … She didn’t want to think about losing Whinney as a way to remember the year, but it was a fact. She made a fifth mark.

That’s all the fingers of one hand—she held up her left hand—and that’s how many Durc is now. She put out the thumb and forefinger of the right hand—And this many before the next Gathering. When they get back, Ura will be with them, for Durc. Of course, they won’t be old enough to mate yet. They’ll know by looking at her that she is for Durc. I wonder, does he remember me? Will he have Clan memories? How much of him is me, and how much Broud … Clan?

Ayla gathered up her marked sticks and noticed a regularity in the number of marks between the extra notches that she made when her spirit battled and she bled. What man’s totem spirit could be battling with mine here? Even if my totem were a mouse, I’d never get pregnant. It takes a man, and his organ, to start a baby. That’s what I think.

Whinney! Is that what that stallion was doing? Was he getting a baby started in you? Maybe I’ll see you sometime with that herd, and find out. Oh, Whinney, that would be wonderful.

Thoughts of Whinney and the stallion made her quiver. Her breath came a little faster. Then she thought of Broud, and the pleasant sensations stopped. But it was his organ that started Durc. If he’d known it would give me a baby, he
would never have done it. And Durc will have Ura. She’s not deformed either. I think Ura was started when that man of the Others forced Oda. Ura is just right for Durc. She’s part Clan, and part that man of the Others. A man of the Others …

Ayla was restless. Baby was gone, and she felt the need to be moving. She went out and strolled just outside the line of brush that hugged the stream. She walked farther than she had before, though she had ridden as far on Whinney’s back. She was going to have to get used to walking again, she realized, and to carrying a basket on her back. At the far end of the valley she followed the stream around the edge of the high scarp as it swung south. Just beyond the turn, the stream swirled around rocks that could have been placed on purpose, they were so neatly spaced for stepping stones. The high wall was only a steep grade at this place. She scrambled up and looked out across the western steppes.

There was no real difference between west and east, except for a slightly rougher terrain, and she was far less familiar with the west. She always knew that when she decided to leave the valley she would go west. She turned around, crossed the stream, then hiked the long valley back to the cave.

It was nearly dark when she arrived, and Baby had not returned yet. The fire was out, and the cave was cold and lonely. It seemed emptier now than it had when she first made it her home. She lit a fire, boiled some water and made tea, but didn’t feel like cooking. She took a piece of dried meat and some raisined cherries and sat on her bed. It had been a long time since she was alone in her cave. She went to the place where her old carrying basket stood and rummaged around in the bottom until she found Durc’s carrying cloak. Bunching it up, she crammed it to her stomach and watched the fire. When she lay down, she wrapped it around her.

Her sleep was disturbed by dreams. She dreamed of Durc and Ura, grown up and mated. She dreamed of Whinney, in a different place with a bay colt. She woke once in a sweat of fright. Not until she was fully awake did she understand that she had had her recurring nightmare of rumbling earth and terror. Why did she have that dream? She got up and stirred the fire, then warmed her tea and sipped it. Baby still wasn’t back. She picked up Durc’s cloak, and recalled again Oda’s story about the man of the Others
who had forced her. Oda said he looked like me. A man like me, how would one look?

Ayla tried to visualize a man like her. She tried to recall her features as she had seen them reflected in the pool, but all she could remember was her hair framing her face. She wore it long then, not tied up in many braids to keep it out of the way. It was yellow, like Whinney’s coat, but a richer, more golden color.

But every time she thought of a man’s face, she saw Broud, with a gloating sneer. She could not imagine the face of a man of the Others. Her eyes grew tired and she lay down again. She dreamed of Whinney and a bay stallion. And then of a man. His features were vague, in a shadow. Only one thing was clear. He had yellow hair.

“You’re doing fine, Jondalar! We’ll make a river man out of you yet!” Carlono said. “In the big boats, it doesn’t matter so much if you miss a stroke. The worst you can do is throw off the rhythm since you are not the only rower. In small boats, like this, control is important. To miss a stroke can be dangerous, or fatal. Always be aware of the river—never forget how unpredictable she can be. She’s deep here, so she looks calm. But you only have to dip your paddle in to feel the power in her current. It’s a hard current to fight—you have to work with it.”

Carlono kept up the running commentary as he and Jondalar maneuvered the small two-man dugout near the Ramudoi dock. Jondalar was only half listening, concentrating instead on handling the paddle properly so the boat he was guiding would go where he wanted it to, but he was understanding at the level of his muscles the meaning of the words.

“You may think it’s easier to go downstream because you are not fighting her carrent, but that’s the problem. When you are working against the flow, you have to keep your mind on the boat and the river all the time. You know if you let up you’ll lose all you’ve gained. And you can see anything coming soon enough to avoid it.

“Going with her, it’s too easy to slack up, let your mind wander and let the river take you. There are rocks midstream whose roots are deeper than the river. The current can throw you at them before you know it, or some water-soaked log lying low in the water will hit you. ‘Never turn your back on the Mother.’ That’s the one rule never to forget. She’s full of surprises. Just when you think you know what to expect and take her for granted, she’ll do the unexpected.”

The older man sat back and pulled his oar out of the water. He scrutinized Jondalar thoughtfully, noting his concentration. His blond hair was pulled back and tied with a thong at the back of his neck, a good precaution. He had adopted the clothing of the Ramudoi, which had been adapted from that of the Shamudoi to suit life near the river.

“Why don’t you head back to the dock and let me out, Jondalar. I think it’s time you tried it alone. There’s a difference when it’s just you and the river.”

“Do you think I’m ready?”

“For one not born to it, you’ve learned fast.”

Jondalar had been anxious to test himself on the river alone. Ramudoi boys usually had their own dugouts before they were men. He had long since proved himself among the Zelandonii. When he was not much older than Darvo, and hadn’t even learned his trade or reached his full growth, he had killed his first deer. Now, he could throw a spear harder and farther than most men, but, though he could hunt the plains, he did not quite feel an equal here. No river man could call himself a man until he had harpooned one of the great sturgeon, and no Shamudoi of the land, until he had hunted his own chamois in the mountains.

He had decided he would not mate Serenio until he had proved to himself that he could be both a Shamudoi and a Ramudoi. Dolando had tried to convince him that it wasn’t necessary for him to do either before mating; no one had any doubts. If anyone had needed proof, the rhino hunt had been sufficient. Jondalar had learned that none of the others
had ever hunted a rhino before. The plains were not their usual hunting ground.

Jondalar didn’t try to rationalize why he felt he had to be better than everyone else, though he had never before felt obliged to outdo other men in hunting skills. His strong interest, and the only skill in which he ever wanted to excel, was flint knapping. And his feeling wasn’t competitive. He derived personal satisfaction from perfecting his techniques. The Shamud spoke later to Dolando privately and told him the tall Zelandonii needed to work out his own acceptance.

Serenio and he had lived together so long that he felt he should formalize his tie. She was almost his mate. Most people thought of them in those terms. He treated her with consideration and affection, and to Darvo he was the man of the hearth. But after the evening when Tholie and Shamio were burned, one thing or another always seemed to interfere, and the mood was never quite right. It was easy to settle into the same routine with her. Did it really matter? he asked himself.

Serenio didn’t push—she still made no demands on him—and maintained her defensive distance. But recently, he had surprised her staring at him with a haunting look that came from the depths of her soul. He was the one who always felt disconcerted and turned away first. He decided to set himself the task of proving he could be a full Sharamudoi man, and he began letting his intentions be known. It was taken by some to be an announcement of Promise, though no Promise Feast was held.

“Don’t go too far this time,” Carlono said, getting out of the small vessel. “Give yourself a chance to get accustomed to handling it alone.”

“I’ll take the harpoon, though. It wouldn’t hurt to get used to throwing it while I’m at it,” Jondalar said, reaching for the weapon that was on the dock. He placed the long shaft in the bottom of the canoe beneath the seats, coiled the rope beside it, and put the barbed bone point in the holder attached to the side and fastened it down. The working end of the harpoon, with its sharp tip and backward-facing barbs, was not an implement to be left loose in the boat. In case of accident, it was just as difficult to pull out of a human as out of a fish—not to mention the difficulty of shaping the bone with stone tools. Dugouts that capsized seldom sank, but loose gear did.

Jondalar settled himself on the back seat while Carlono held the boat. When the harpoon was secured, he picked up the double-sided paddle and pushed off. Without the ballast of another person sitting in front, the small craft rode higher in the water. It was harder to handle. But after some initial adjustment to the change in buoyancy, he skimmed swiftly downstream with the current, using the paddle like a rudder off one side near the stern. Then he decided to paddle back upstream. It would be easier to fight the current while he was fresh and let it carry him back later.

He had slid farther downstream than he realized. When he finally saw the dock ahead, he almost turned into it, then changed his mind and paddled by. He was determined to master all the skills he’d set for himself to learn, and they were many, but no one, least of all himself, could accuse him of stalling to put off the commitment he had promised to make. He smiled at the waving Carlono, but he didn’t let up.

Upstream the river widened and the force of the current lessened, making paddling easier. He saw a shoreline on the opposite side of the river and made for it. It was a small secluded beach, overhung with willow. He pulled in close, skimming the shoals easily in the lightweight boat, relaxing a little by letting the craft glide backward while he steered with the paddle. He was watching the water in a desultory way when suddenly his attention focused on a large silent shape beneath the surface.