The Valley of Horses (66 page)

“I don’t know.” She glanced toward the sun to see how late it was, then swung the basket to her back. “We can see.”

“Now?” he asked. She nodded, already starting back. “I thought you went to get the water so we could pick more grain.”

“I did. I forgot, the picking goes faster with two sets of hands. I was only looking at my basket—I’m not used to the help.”

The man’s range of skills was a constant surprise to her. He was not only willing, he was able to do anything she could, or he could learn to. He was curious and interested in everything, and particularly liked to try anything new. She could see herself in him. It gave her a new appreciation for just how unusual she must have seemed to the Clan. Yet they had taken her in and tried to fit her into their pattern of life.

Jondalar flipped his picking basket to his back and fell in beside her. “I’m ready to give this up for today. You’ve got so much grain already, Ayla, and the barley and wheat
aren’t even ripe yet, I don’t understand why you want more.”

“It’s for Whinney and her baby. They’ll need grass, too. Whinney feeds outside in winter, but when the snow is deep, many horses die.”

The explanation was sufficient to quell any objection he might have had. They walked back through the tall grass, enjoying the warm sun on bare skin—now that they weren’t working in it. Jondalar wore only his breechclout, and his skin was as tanned as hers. Ayla had changed to her short summer wrap that covered her from waist to thigh, but more importantly, provided pouches and folds for carrying tools, sling, and other objects. Her only other piece of apparel was the small leather pouch around her neck. Jondalar had found himself admiring her firm supple body more than once, but he made no overt gestures, and she invited none.

He was anticipating the ride on the horse, wondering what Whinney would do. He could get out of her way in a hurry if he had to. Except for a slight limp, his leg was fine, and he thought the limp would work its way out in time. Ayla had done a miraculous job of treating his wound; he had so much to thank her for. He had begun to think about leaving—there was no reason for him to stay anymore—but she seemed in no hurry for him to go, and he kept putting it off. He wanted to help her prepare for the coming winter; he owed her that much at least.

And she had to worry about the horses, too. He hadn’t thought of that. “It takes a lot of work to store feed for the horses, doesn’t it?”

“Not so much,” she said.

“I was just thinking, you said they needed grass, too. Couldn’t you cut whole stalks and take them to the cave? Then, instead of gathering grain in these,” he indicated the picking baskets, “you could shake the seeds into a basket. And have grass for them besides.”

She paused, frowning, to consider the idea. “Maybe.… If the stalks are left to dry after they’re cut, the seeds might shake loose. Some better than others. There’s still wheat and barley … worth a try.” A big smile spread across her face. “Jondalar, I think it might work!”

She was so genuinely excited that he had to smile, too. His approval of her, his attraction, his sheer delight in her were all apparent in his wonderfully seductive eyes. Her response was open and spontaneous.

“Jondalar, I like it so much when you smile … to me, with your mouth, and with your eyes.”

He laughed—his unexpected, unconstrained, exuberantly wanton laugh. She is so honest, he thought. I don’t think she’s ever been anything but completely forthright. What a rare woman she is.

Ayla was caught up by his outburst. Her smile gave in to the contagion of his merriment, collapsed into a chuckle, then grew into a full, uninhibited exultation of delight.

They were both breathless when they regained control, relapsing into new spasms, then taking deep breaths and wiping their eyes. Neither of them could say what had been so outrageously funny; their laughter had fed on itself. But it was as much a release of tensions that had been accumulating, as the mirthfulness of the situation.

When they started walking again, Jondalar put an arm around Ayla’s waist. It was an affectionate reflex to the shared laughter. He felt her stiffen and jerked his arm away immediately. He had promised himself, and her, even if she hadn’t understood him at the time, that he would not impose himself on her. If she had made vows to abstain from Pleasures, he was not going to put himself in a position that would force her to refuse him. He had been very careful to respect her person.

But he had smelled the female essence of her warm skin, felt the turgid fullness of her breast on his side. He remembered, suddenly, how long it had been since he had lain with a woman, and the breechclout did nothing to hide the evidence of his thoughts. He turned away in an attempt to conceal his obvious tumescence, but it was all he could do to keep from tearing off her wrap. His stride lengthened until he was nearly running ahead of her.

“Doni! How I want that woman!” he muttered under his breath.

Tears squeezed out of the corners of Ayla’s eyes as she watched him bolt ahead. What did I do wrong? Why does he pull away from me? Why won’t he give me his signal? I can see his need, why doesn’t he want to relieve it with me? Am I so ugly? She quivered with the remembered feel of his arm around her; her nostrils were full of his masculine scent. She dragged her feet, not wanting to face him, feeling the way she had when she was a little girl and had done something she knew was wrong—only this time, she didn’t know what it was.

Jondalar had reached the cool shade of the wooded strip near the stream. His urgency was so strong that he could not constrain himself. Only moments after he was out of sight behind a screen of dense foliage, spasms of viscous white spurted to the ground, and then, still holding himself, he leaned his head against the tree, shaking. It was release, nothing more, but at least he could face the woman without trying to throw her down and force her.

He found a stick to loosen the soil and covered the essence of his Pleasures with the earth of the Mother. Zelandoni had told him it was a waste of the Mother’s Gift to spill it, but if it was necessary, it should be given back to Her, spilled on the ground and covered. Zelandoni was right, he thought. It was a waste, and there had been no pleasure in it.

He walked alongside the stream, embarrassed to come out in the open. He saw her waiting by the large boulder with her arm around the colt and her forehead pressed on Whinney’s neck. She looked so vulnerable, clinging to the animals for support and comfort. She should be leaning on him for support, he thought, he should be comforting her. He was sure he had caused her distress, and he felt ashamed, as though he had committed some reprehensible act. With reluctance, he came out of the woods.

“There are times when a man can’t wait to make his stream,” he lied, with a weak smile.

Ayla was surprised. Why should he make words that were not true? She knew what he had done. He had relieved himself.

A man of the Clan would have asked for the leader’s mate before he would have relieved himself. If he couldn’t control his need, even she, as ugly as she was, would have been signaled, if there was no other woman. No adult male would relieve himself. Only adolescents, who had reached physical maturity but had not yet made their first kill, would consider it. But Jondalar had preferred to take care of himself rather than signal her. She was beyond hurt; she was humiliated.

She ignored his words and avoided a direct look. “If you want to ride Whinney, I’ll hold her while you get up on the rock and put your leg over. I will tell Whinney you want to ride. Maybe she will let you.”

That was the reason they had stopped picking, he recalled. What had happened to his enthusiasm? How could so much
change in the course of walking from one end of the field to the other? Trying to give the impression that everything was normal, he climbed up on the seatlike indentation of the large boulder while Ayla guided the horse closer, but he avoided eye contact, too.

“How do you make her go where you want?” he asked.

Ayla had to consider the question. “I do not make her go, she wants to go where I want to go.”

“But how does she know where you want to go?”

“I don’t know …” She didn’t; she hadn’t thought about it.

Jondalar decided he didn’t care. He was willing to go wherever the horse would take him, if she was willing to take him at all. He put a hand on her withers to steady himself, then gingerly straddled the horse.

Whinney cocked her ears back. She knew it wasn’t Ayla, and the load was heavier and lacked the immediate sense of guidance, the muscle tension of Ayla’s thighs and legs. But Ayla was close, holding her head, and the man was familiar. The mare pranced with uncertainty but settled down after a few moments.

“What do I do now?” Jondalar asked, seated on the small horse with his long legs dangling on either side—not quite knowing what to do with his hands.

Ayla patted the horse with familiar reassurance, then addressed her in a language that was part gesture, part clipped Clan words, and part Zelandonii. “Jondalar would like you to give him a ride, Whinney.”

Her voice had the urging-forward tone, and her hand exerted gentle pressure; cue enough to the animal so attuned to the woman’s directions. Whinney started forward.

“If you need to hold on, put your arms around her neck,” Ayla advised.

Whinney was used to carrying a person on her back. She didn’t jump or buck, but without guidance, she moved with hesitancy. Jondalar leaned forward to pat her neck, as much to reassure himself as the horse, but the movement had a similarity to Ayla’s direction to move faster. The unexpected forward jolt caused the man to follow Ayla’s advice. He wrapped his arms around the mare’s neck, leaning far forward. To Whinney, it was a signal to increase speed.

The horse broke into an all-out gallop straight across the field, with Jondalar hanging on to her neck for all he was worth, his long hair streaming behind him. He could feel the
wind in his face, and, when he finally dared open his eyes a crack, he saw the land moving past at an alarming speed. It was frightening—and thrilling! He understood Ayla’s inability to describe the feeling. It was like sliding down an icy hill in winter, or the time he was pulled up the river by the big sturgeon, but more exciting. His eye was drawn by a blur of movement to his left. The bay colt was racing beside his mother, matching her pace.

He heard a distant whistle, sharp and piercing, and suddenly the horse wheeled around in a tight turn and galloped back.

“Sit up!” she called to Jondalar as they approached. When the horse slowed, nearing the woman, he sat up straighter. Whinney cantered to a halt beside the stone.

Jondalar was shaking a bit when he dismounted, but his eyes glistened with excitement. Ayla patted the mare’s sweaty flanks, then followed her more slowly when Whinney trotted toward the beach near the cave.

“Do you know that colt kept up with her the whole way? What a racer he is!”

From the way Jondalar used it, Ayla sensed there was more to the word than its meaning. “What is a ‘racer’?” she asked.

“At Summer Meetings there are contests—all kinds—but the most exciting are the Races, the running contests,” he explained. “The runners are called racers, and the word has come to mean anyone who strives to win, or tries to achieve some goal. It is a word of approval and encouragement-praise.”

“The colt is a racer; he likes to run.”

They continued walking in silence, which grew more painful with each step. “Why did you tell me to sit up?” Jondalar finally asked, trying to fill it. “I thought you said you didn’t know how you told Whinney what you wanted. She did slow down when I sat up.”

“I never thought about it before, but when I saw you coming, I suddenly thought, ‘sit up.’ I didn’t know how to tell you at first, but when you needed to slow down, I just knew.”

“You do give the horse signals, then. Some kind of signals. I wonder if the colt could learn signals,” he mused.

They reached the wall that extended out toward the water and rounded it to the spectacle of Whinney rolling in the mud at the edge of the stream to cool down, groaning with
exquisite pleasure. Near her was the colt with his legs in the air. Jondalar, smiling, stopped to watch, but Ayla kept walking with her head down. He caught up with her as she started up the path.

“Ayla …” She turned around, and then he didn’t know what to say. “I … I, ahhh … I want to thank you.”

It was still a word she had some difficulty comprehending. There was no direct parallel in the Clan. The members of each small clan were so dependent on each other for survival, mutual assistance was a way of life. Thanks were no more offered than a baby would thank its mother for care, or a mother expect it. Special favors or gifts imposed obligations to return them in kind, and they were not always received with pleasure.

The closest anyone in the Clan came to thanks was a form of gratitude from someone of lower status to someone with more rank, usually a woman toward a man, for a special dispensation. It seemed to her that Jondalar was trying to say he was grateful to her for riding on Whinney.

“Jondalar, Whinney allowed you to sit on her back. Why do you thank me?”

“You helped me ride her, Ayla. And besides, I have so much more to thank you for. You’ve done so much for me, taken care of me.”

“Would the colt say thank you to Whinney for taking care of him? You were in need, I took care of you. Why … ‘thank you’?”

“But you saved my life.”

“I am a woman who heals, Jondalar.” She tried to think of a way to explain that when someone saved another’s life, a piece of the life spirit was claimed, and, therefore, the obligation of protecting that person in return; in effect, the two became closer than siblings. But she was a medicine woman, and a piece of everyone’s spirit had been given to her with the piece of black manganese dioxide that she carried in her amulet. No one was obligated to give her more. “Thank you is not necessary,” she said.

“I know it is not necessary. I know you are a Woman Who Heals, but it is important to me that you know how I feel. People say thank you to each other for help. It’s courtesy, a custom.”