The Valley of Horses (59 page)

Maybe he won’t like it if I hunt? I already decided I wasn’t going to let anyone stop me, she remembered, but did not go in to get her sling. Instead she walked down to the beach, doffed her wrap, and took a morning swim. It felt especially good and seemed to wash away her emotional turmoil. Her favorite fishing place no longer existed after the spring flood, but she had discovered another place downstream a short ways and headed in that direction.

Jondalar woke up to the smell of food cooking, which made him know he was famished. He used the waterbag to empty his bladder and managed to prop himself up so he could look around. The woman was gone, and so were the horse and her foal, but the place they had occupied was the only other place in the cave that looked remotely like a sleeping place, and there was only one hearth. The woman did live here alone, except for the horses, and they could not be considered people.

But then, where were her people? Were there other caves nearby? Were they on an extended hunting trip? In the storage area were cave furnishings, furs and leathers, plants hanging from racks, meat and food storage enough for a large Cave. Was it just for her? If she lived alone, why did she need so much? And who had carried him here? Perhaps her people had brought him and left him with her.

That must be it! She’s their zelandoni, and they brought me here for her to take care of. She’s young for it—at least she seems young—but she is competent. No doubt of that. She probably came here to impose some test on herself, to develop some special skill—maybe with animals—and her people found me, and there wasn’t anyone else, so she let them leave me here. She must be a very powerful zelandoni to have such control over animals.

Ayla came into the cave, carrying a dried and bleached pelvic-bone platter, with a large, freshly baked trout on it. She smiled at him, surprised to find him awake. She put the fish down, then rearranged the furs and straw-stuffed leather
pads so that he could sit more comfortably. She gave him a willowbark tea to start with, to keep down the fever and alleviate pain. She put the platter across his lap, then went out and returned with a bowl of cooked grain, fresh peeled thistle stalks and cow parsley, and the first wild strawberries.

Jondalar was hungry enough to eat anything, but after the first few bites, he slowed down to appreciate the taste. Ayla had learned Iza’s way with herbs, not only as medicines, but as seasonings. Both trout and grain were enhanced by her deft hand. The fresh stalks were crisp and at the right stage of tenderness, and the wild strawberries, though few, brought their own reward of sweetness with no assistance from anyone but the sun. He was impressed. His mother was acknowledged as a fine cook, and though the flavors were not the same, he understood the subtleties of food well prepared.

It pleased Ayla that he took time to savor the meal. When he was through, she brought him a cup of mint tea and prepared to change his dressings. She left the head compress off. The swelling was down and only a little soreness remained. The slashes on his chest and arms were healing. He might carry some slight scarring, but no impairment. It was the leg. Would it heal properly? Would he regain full use? Some use? Or would he be a cripple?

She removed the poultice, relieved to see that the wild cabbage leaves had reduced the festering, as she had hoped. There was definite improvement, though no way to tell yet how much use he would have of it. Tying the wounds together with sinew seemed to be working. Considering the damage, the leg was close to its original shape, though there would be extensive scarring and perhaps some deformation. She was quite pleased.

It was the first time Jondalar really had a look at his leg, and he was not pleased. It looked much more seriously damaged than he had imagined. He blanched at the sight and swallowed hard a few times. He could see what she had attempted to do with the knots. It might make a difference, but he wondered if he would ever walk again.

He talked to her and asked her where she had learned healing, not expecting an answer. She recognized her name, but nothing else. She wanted to ask him to teach her the meaning of his words, but she didn’t know how. She went out to get wood for the fireplace in the cave, feeling frustrated.
She was hungry to learn to talk, but how could they even begin?

He thought about the meal he had just eaten. Whoever supplied her, she was well provisioned, but she obviously knew how to take care of herself. The berries, stalks, and trout had been fresh. The grains, though, must have been harvested the previous fall, which meant surplus from winter storage. That spoke well for planning; no late winter or early spring famine. It also meant the area was probably well known, and therefore settled for some duration. There were some other indications that the cave had been used for some time: the black soot around the smoke hole and the well-tramped floor in particular.

While she was well supplied with cave furnishings and implements, close inspection revealed they were totally lacking in carvings or decoration, and rather primitive. He looked at the wooden cup out of which he had been drinking tea. But not crude, he thought. In fact, very well made. The cup had been carved out of a gnarl, judging from the pattern of the wood grain. As Jondalar examined it closely, it seemed to him that the cup had been formed to take advantage of a shape suggested by the grain. It would not be hard to imagine the face of a small animal in the knots and curves. Had she done that on purpose? It was subtle. He liked it better than some implements he had seen with more blatant carvings.

The cup itself was deep, with a flaring lip, symmetrical, and finished to a fine smoothness. Even the inside showed no gouging ridges. A gnarled piece of wood was hard to work; this cup must have taken many days to make. The closer he looked, the more he realized the cup was unquestionably a fine piece of workmanship, deceiving in its simplicity. Marthona would like this, he thought, remembering his mother’s ability to arrange even the most utilitarian implements and storage containers in a pleasing way. She had a knack for seeing beauty in simple objects.

He looked up when Ayla brought in a load of wood and shook his head at her primitive leather wrap. Then he noticed the pad on which he was lying. Like her wrap, it was just the hide, not cut to shape, wrapped around fresh hay and tucked under in a shallow trench. He pulled out an end to examine it closer. The very outside edge was a bit stiff, and a few deer hairs still clung, but it was very pliable and velvety soft. Both the inner grain and the tough outer grain
along with the fur had been scraped off, which helped to account for the supple texture. But her furs impressed him more. It was one thing to stretch and pull a skin with the grain removed to make it flexible. It was far more difficult with furs since only the inner grain was removed. Furs usually tended to be stiffer, yet the ones on the bed were as pliant as the skins.

There was a familiarity to the feel of them, but he could not think why.

No carvings or decorations on implements, he was thinking, but made with the finest workmanship. Skins and furs cured with great skill and care—yet no clothing was cut or shaped to fit, sewn or laced together, and no item was beaded, or quilled, or dyed, or decorated in any way. Yet she had fitted and sewn his leg together. They were peculiar inconsistencies, and the woman was a mystery.

Jondalar had been watching Ayla as she prepared to make a fire, but he really had not been paying attention. He’d seen fire made many times. He had wondered in passing why she didn’t just bring in a coal from the fire she used to cook his meal, and then he supposed it had gone out. He saw, without seeing, the woman gather together quick-starting tinder, pick up a couple of stones, strike them together, and blow a flame to life. It was done so quickly that the fire was burning well before it occurred to him what she had done.

“Great Mother! How did you get that fire started so fast?” He vaguely recalled thinking she had made a very quick fire in the middle of the night, but he had passed that off as a misimpression.

Ayla turned at his outburst with a quizzical look.

“How did you start that fire?” he asked again, sitting forward. “Oh, Doni! She doesn’t understand a word I’m saying.” He threw his hands up in exasperation. “Do you even know what you’ve done? Come here, Ayla,” he said, beckoning to her.

She went to him immediately; it was the first time she had seen him use a hand motion in any purposeful way. He was greatly concerned about something, and she frowned, concentrating on his words, wishing she could understand.

“How did you make that fire?” he asked again, saying the words slowly and carefully as though, somehow, that would enable her to understand—and flung his arm toward the fire.

“Fy … ?” She made a tentative attempt to repeat his last
word. Something was important. She was shaking with concentration, trying to will herself to understand him.

“Fire! Fire! Yes, fire,” he shouted, gesticulating toward the flames. “Do you have any idea what it could mean to make a fire that fast?”

“Fyr … ?”

“Yes, like that over there,” he said, jabbing his finger in the air at the fireplace. “How did you make it?”

She got up, went to the fireplace and pointed to it, “Fyr?” she said.

He heaved a sigh and leaned back on the furs, suddenly realizing he had been trying to force her to understand words she didn’t know. “I’m sorry, Ayla. That was stupid of me. How can you tell me what you did when you don’t know what I’m asking?”

The tension was gone. Jondalar closed his eyes feeling drained and frustrated, but Ayla was excited. She had a word. Only one, but it was a beginning. Now, how could she keep it going? How could she tell him to teach her more, that she had to learn more.

“Don-da-lah … ?” He opened his eyes. She pointed to the fireplace again. “Fyr?”

“Fire, yes, that’s fire,” he said, nodding affirmatively. Then he closed his eyes again, feeling tired, a little silly for getting so excited, and in pain, physically and emotionally.

He wasn’t interested. What could she do to make him understand? She felt so thwarted, so angry that she couldn’t think of some way to communicate her need to him. She tried one more time.

“Don-da-lah.” She waited until he opened his eyes again. “Fyr … ?” she said with hopeful appeal in her eyes.

What does she want? Jondalar thought, his curiosity aroused. “What about that fire, Ayla?”

She could sense he was asking a question, in the set of his shoulders and the expression on his face. He was paying attention. She looked around, trying to think of some way to tell him, and she saw the wood beside the fire. She picked up a stick, brought it to him, and held it up with the same hopeful look.

His forehead knotted in puzzlement, then smoothed as he thought he was beginning to understand. “Do you want the word for that?” he asked, wondering at her sudden interest in learning his language, when she seemed not to have any interest in speaking before. Speaking! She wasn’t exchanging
a language with him, she was trying to speak! Could that be why she was so silent? Because she didn’t know how to speak?

He touched the stick in her hand. “Wood,” he said.

Her breath exploded out; she didn’t know she had been holding it. “Ud … ?” she tried.

“Wood,” he said slowly, exaggerating his mouth to enunciate clearly.

“Ooo-ud,” she said, trying to make her mouth mimic his.

“That’s better,” he said, nodding.

Her heart was pounding. Did he understand? She searched again, frantically, for something to keep it going. Her eyes fell on the cup. She picked it up and held it out.

“Are you trying to get me to teach you to talk?”

She didn’t understand, shook her head, and held the cup up again.

“Who are you, Ayla? Where do you come from? How can you do … everything you do, and not know how to talk? You are an enigma, but if I’m ever going to learn about you, I think I’m going to have to teach you to talk.”

She sat on her fur beside him, waiting, anxiously, still holding the cup. She was afraid that with all the words he was saying he would forget the one she asked for. She held the cup out to him once again.

“What do you want, ‘drink’ or ‘cup’? I don’t suppose it matters.” He touched the vessel she was holding. “Cup,” he said.

“Guh,” she responded, then smiled with relief.

Jondalar followed through on the idea. He reached for the waterbag of fresh water she had left for him and poured some into the cup. “Water,” he said.

“Ahddah.”

“Try it again, ‘water,’” he encouraged. “Ooo-ah-dah.”

Jondalar nodded, then held the cup to his lips and took a sip. “Drink,” he said. “Drink water.”

“Drringk,” she replied, quite clearly except for rolling the r and swallowing the word somewhat. “Drringk ooahdah.”

“Ayla, I can’t stand it in this cave anymore. Look at that sunshine! I know I’m healed enough to move a little, at least outside the cave.”

Ayla didn’t understand everything Jondalar said, but she knew enough to understand his complaint—and sympathize with it. “Knots,” she said, touching one of the stitches. “Cut knots. Morning see leg.”

He smiled as though he had won a victory. “You’re going to take out the knots, and then tomorrow morning I can go out of the cave.”

Language problems or not, Ayla was not going to be committed to more than she intended. “See,” she repeated emphatically. “Ayla look …” She struggled to express herself with her limited ability. “Leg no … heal, Don-da-lah no out.”

Jondalar smiled again. He knew he had overstated her meaning, hoping she would go along with him, but he was rather pleased that she was not taken in by his ploy and insisted on making herself understood. He might not get out of the cave tomorrow, but it meant that ultimately she would learn faster.

Teaching her to speak had become a challenge, and her progress pleased him, though it was uneven. He was intrigued by the way she learned. The extent of her vocabulary was already astounding; she seemed able to memorize words as fast as he could give them to her. He had spent the better part of one afternoon telling her the names of everything she and he could think of, and when they were through, she had repeated every word back to him with its correct association. But pronunciation was difficult for her. She could not produce some sounds right no matter how hard she tried, and she did try hard.