The Valley Of Horses

22

"Say me right…'Don-da-lah.'"

"You say my name just fine."

"No. Ayla say wrong." She shook her head vehemently. "Say me right."

"Jondalar. Jon-da-lar."

"Zzzon…"

"Juh," he showed her, articulating carefully, "Jondalar."

"Zh… dzh…" She struggled with the unfamiliar sound.

"Dzhon-da-larrr," she finally got out, rolling the r.

"That's good! That's very good," he said.

Ayla smiled with her success; then her smile changed to a sly grin. "Dzhon-da-larr ob da Zel-ann-do-nee." He had said the name of his people more often than he said his own name, and she had been practicing in private.

"That's right!" Jondalar was genuinely surprised. She hadn't said it quite right, but only a Zelandonii would know the difference. His pleased approval made all her effort worth it, and Ayla's smile of success was beautiful.

"What means 'Zelandonee'?"

"It means my people. Children of the Mother who live in the southwest. Doni means the Great Earth Mother. Earth's Children, I guess that's the easiest way to say it. But all people call themselves Earth's Children, in their own language. It just means the people."

They were facing each other, leaning against opposite boles of a birch clump whose stalks had grown into several sturdy trunks of a tree with a common base. Though he used a staff and still had a pronounced limp, Jondalar was grateful to be standing in the green meadow of the valley. From his first tentative steps, he had pushed himself each day. His initial trip down the steep path had been an ordeal – and a triumph. Climbing back up turned out to be easier than going down.

He still didn't know how she had gotten him up to the cave in the beginning, without help. But if others had helped her, where were they? It was a question he had long wanted to ask, but first she would not have understood him, and then it seemed inappropriate to blurt it out just to satisfy his curiosity. He had been waiting for the right moment, and this seemed to be it.

"Who are your people, Ayla? Where are they?"

The smile left her face; he was almost sorry he asked. After a long silence, he began to think she had not understood him.

"No people. Ayla of no people," she answered finally, pushing herself away from the tree and moving out of its shade. Jondalar grabbed his staff and hobbled after her.

"But you had to have some people. You were born to a mother. Who took care of you? Who taught you healing? Where are your people now, Ayla? Why are you alone?"

Ayla walked ahead slowly, staring at the ground. She was not trying to avoid replying – she had to answer him. No woman of the Clan could refuse to answer a direct question asked by a man. In fact, all members of the Clan, male and female, responded to direct questions. It was simply that women didn't ask men searching personal questions, and men seldom posed them to each other. Women were the ones usually asked. Jondalar's questions brought up many memories, but she did not know the answer to some and did not know how to answer others.

"If you don't want to tell me…"

"No." She looked at him and shook her head. "Ayla say." Her eyes were troubled. "Not know words."

Jondalar wondered again if he should have brought it up, but he was curious and she seemed willing. They stopped again at the large jagged chunk of rock that had knocked out part of the wall before coming to rest in the field. Jondalar sat on an edge where the stone had been cleaved to form a seat at a convenient height with a sloping back rest.

"What do your people call themselves?" he asked.

Ayla thought for a moment. "The people. Man… woman… baby." She shook her head again, not knowing how to explain. "The Clan." She made the gesture for the concept at the same time.

"Like family? A family is a man, woman, and her children, living at the same he… Usually."

She nodded. "Family… more."

"A small group? Several families living together is a Cave," he said, "even if they don't live in one."

"Yes," she said, "clan small. And more. Clan mean all people."

He hadn't quite heard her say the word the first time, and he did not perceive the hand signal she used. The word was heavy, guttural, and there was that tendency that he could only explain as swallowing the insides of the words. He would not have thought it was a word. She had not spoken any words other than the ones she learned from him, and he was interested.

"Glun?" he said, trying to copy her.

It wasn't quite right, but it was close. "Ayla no say Jondalar words right, Jondalar no say Ayla words right. Jondalar say fine."

"I didn't know you knew any words, Ayla. I've never heard you speak in your language."

"Not know many words. Clan not speak words."

Jondalar didn't understand. "What do they speak if not words?"

"They speak… hands," she said, knowing that was not completely accurate.

She noticed she had been making the gestures unintentionally in an effort to express herself. When she saw Jondalar's puzzled look, she took his hands and moved them with the proper motions while she repeated herself.

"Clan not speak many words. Clan speak… hands."

His forehead of puzzlement slowly smoothed out as comprehension took its place. "Are you telling me your people talk with their hands?! Show me. Say something in your language."

Ayla thought for a moment, then began. "I want to say so much to you, but I must learn to say it in your language. Your way is the only way left to me now. How can I tell you who my people are? I'm not a woman of the Clan anymore. How can I explain that I am dead? I have no people. To the Clan, I walk the next world, like the man you traveled with. Your sibling, I think, your brother.

"I would like to tell you I made the signs over his grave to help him find his way, so the grief in your heart will be eased. I would like to tell you I grieved for him, too, though I did not know him.

"I don't know the people I was born to. I must have had a mother, and a family, who looked like me… and you. But I only know them as the Others. Iza is the only mother I remember. She taught me the healing magic and she made me a medicine woman, but she is dead now. And so is Creb.

"Jondalar, I ache to tell you about Iza, and Creb, and Durc…" She had to stop and take a deep breath. "My son is gone from me too, but he lives. That much I have. And now the Cave Lion has brought you. I was afraid men of the Others would be like Broud, but you are more like Creb, gentle and patient. I want to think you will be my mate. When you first came, I thought that was why you were brought here. I think I wanted to believe that because I was so lonely for company, and you are the first man of the Others I have seen… that I can remember. It would not have mattered who you were, then. I wanted you for a mate, just to have a mate.

"Now, it is not the same. Every day you are here, my feeling for you grows stronger. I know that Others are not too far, and there must be other men who could be a mate. But I don't want any other, and I am afraid you will not want to stay here with me once you are well. I'm afraid I will lose you, too. I wish I could tell you, I am so… so… grateful you are here, sometimes I cannot bear it." She stopped, not able to go on, but feeling in some way that she wasn't finished.

Her thoughts had not been entirely incomprehensible to the man watching her. Her movements – not just of her hands, but her features, her eyes, her whole body – were so expressive that he was deeply moved. She reminded him of a silent dancer, except for the rough sounds that, strangely, fit together with the graceful movements. He perceived only with his emotions, and he could not quite believe that what he felt was what she had communicated – but when she stopped, he knew she had communicated. He knew, too, that her language of motions and gestures was not, as he had supposed, a simple extension of the gestures he sometimes used for added emphasis to his words. Rather, it seemed, the sounds she made were used for emphasis to her motions.

When she stopped, she stood a few moments, pensively, then gracefully dropped to the ground at his feet and bowed her head. He waited, and when she didn't move, he began to feel uncomfortable. She seemed to be waiting for him, and it made him feel she was paying homage. Such deference to the Great Earth Mother was fine, but She was known to be jealous and did not take kindly to one of Her children receiving veneration that was Her due.

Finally, he reached down and touched her arm. "Get up, Ayla. What are you doing?"

A touch on the arm was not exactly a tap on the shoulder, but it was as close as she thought he would come to giving her the Clan signal to speak. She looked up at the seated man.

"Clan woman sit, want talk. Ayla want talk Jondalar."

"You don't have to sit on the ground to talk to me." He reached forward and tried to lift her up. "If you want to talk, just talk."

She insisted on remaining where she was. "Is Clan way." Her eyes pleaded for him to understand. "Ayla want say…" Tears of frustration began to well. She started over. "Ayla no talk good. Ayla want to say, Jondalar give Ayla talk, want say…"

"Are you trying to say thank you?"

"What mean, thank you?"

He paused. "You saved my life, Ayla. You have taken care of me, treated my wounds, given me food. For that I would say thank you. I would say more than thank you."

Ayla frowned. "Not same. Man hurt, Ayla take care. Ayla take care all man. Jondalar give Ayla talk. Is more. Is more thank you." She looked at him earnestly, willing him to understand.

"You may not 'talk good,' but you communicate very well. Get up, Ayla, or I'll have to get down beside you. I understand that you are a healer, and it is your calling to take care of anyone who needs help. You may not think it is anything special that you saved my life, but that doesn't make me less grateful. To me, it is a small matter to teach you my language, to teach you to talk, but I'm beginning to understand that to you it is very important, and you are grateful. It is always difficult to express gratitude, in any language. My way is to say thank you. I think your way is more beautiful. Please get up now."

She sensed that he understood. Her smile conveyed more gratitude than she knew. It had been a difficult, but important, concept for her to communicate, and she stood up feeling elated that she had succeeded. She sought to express her exuberance in action, and when she saw Whinney and her colt, she whistled, loud and shrill. The mare perked her ears and galloped to her, and when she neared, Ayla made a running leap and landed lightly on the horse's back.

They made a large circuit of the meadow, with the colt following closely. Ayla had been staying so close to Jondalar that she hadn't ridden much since she found him, and to ride now gave her an exhilarating sense of freedom. When they returned to the rock, Jondalar was standing waiting for them. His mouth was no longer agape, though it had been when she started out. For a moment, a chill had crawled down his back, and he wondered if the woman was supernatural, perhaps even a donii. He vaguely remembered a dream of a mother spirit in the form of a young woman turning aside a lion.

Then he recalled Ayla's all too human frustration over her inability to communicate. Certainly no spirit form of the Great Earth Mother would have such problems. Still, she had an uncommonly gifted way with animals. Birds came at her call and ate out of her hand, and a nursing mare ran to her whistle and allowed the woman to ride on her back. And what about these people who spoke not with words, but with motions? Ayla had given him much to think about that day, he mused, as he scratched the colt. The more he thought about her, the deeper her mystery.

He could understand why she didn't speak, if her people did not speak. But who were these people? Where were they now? She said she had no people, and she did live in the valley alone, but who had taught her healing, or the magic way she had with animals? Where had she gotten the firestone? She was young to be such a gifted zelandoni. Usually it took many years to reach her abilities, often at special retreats…

Could that be who her people were? He knew of special groups of Those Who Served the Mother that devoted themselves to gaining deep insights into profound mysteries. Such groups were greatly esteemed; Zelandoni had spent several years with one. The Shamud had spoken of tests that were self-imposed to gain insights and skills. Could Ayla have lived with such a group that did not speak except with motions? And was she now living alone to perfect her abilities?

And you were thinking of having Pleasures with her, Jondalar. No wonder she reacted the way she did. But what a shame. To give up Pleasures, as beautiful as she is. You will certainly respect her wishes, Jondalar, beautiful or not.

The brown colt was butting and rubbing against the man, looking for more attentive scratching from the sensitive hands that always managed to find just the right places in the itchy process of shedding newborn fuzz. Jondalar was delighted when the foal sought him out. Horses had never before been more than sustenance to him, and it had never occurred to him that they might be warm responsive animals that would enjoy his petting.

Ayla smiled, pleased at the attachment developing between the man and Whinney's foal. She recalled an idea she'd had, and spontaneously mentioned it.

"Jondalar give name colt?"

"Name the colt? You want me to name the colt?" He was unsure, and pleased. "I don't know, Ayla. I've never thought about naming anything, much less a horse. How do you name a horse?"

Ayla understood his dismay. It had not been an idea she had accepted immediately. Names were fraught with significance; they gave recognition. Recognizing Whinney as a unique individual apart from the concept of horse had certain consequences. She was no longer just an animal of the herds who roamed the steppes. She associated with humans, drew her security from and gave her trust to a human. She was unique among her kind. She had a name.

But it imposed obligations on the woman. The comfort and well-being of the animal required considerable effort and concern. The horse could never be very far from her thoughts; their lives had become inextricably entwined.

Ayla had come to recognize the relationship, especially after Whinney's return. Though it wasn't planned or calculated, there was an element of that recognition in her desire to have Jondalar name the colt. She wanted him to stay with her. If he became attached to the young horse, it could be additional reason to stay where the colt would need to stay – at least for some time – in the valley with Whinney, and with her.

There was no need to rush the man, though. He wouldn't be going anywhere for a while, not until his leg healed.

Ayla woke up with a start. The cave was dark. She lay on her back, peering into the dense unfocusable black, and tried to go back to sleep. Finally, she slipped quietly out of her bed – she had dug a shallow trench in the earth floor of the cave beside the bed now used by Jondalar – and felt her way to the cave mouth. She heard Whinney blow an acknowledgment of her presence as she passed by on her way out.

I let the fire go out again, she thought, walking along the wall to the edge. Jondalar isn't as familiar with the cave as I am. If he needs to get up in the middle of the night, he should have more light.

When she was through, she stayed outside for a while. A quarter moon, setting in the west, was close to the lip of the wall above, across on the upstream side of the ledge, and would soon disappear behind it. It was closer to morning than middle of the night. Below was darkness except for the silvery shimmer of starshine reflected in the whispering stream.

The night sky made a barely perceptible shift from black to deep blue, but it was noticed at some unconscious level. Without knowing why, Ayla decided not to return to bed. She watched the moon deepen in color before the black edge of the opposite wall wallowed it. She felt an ominous shiver when the last glimmer of light was snuffed out.

Gradually the sky lightened, and the stars faded into the luminous blue. At the far end of the valley, the horizon was purple. She watched the sharply defined arc of a blood-red sun swell up from the edge of the earth and cast a lurid shaft of light into the valley.

"Must be a prairie fire to the east," Jondalar said.

Ayla spun around. The man was bathed in the livid glow of the fiery orb, which turned his eyes to a shade of lavender never seen by firelight. "Yes, big fire, much smoke. I not know you up."

"I've been awake for a while, hoping you'd come back. When you didn't, I thought I might as well get up. The fire is out."

"I know. I careless. Not make right to burn for night."

"Bank, you didn't bank it so it would not go out."

"Bank," she repeated. "I go start."

He followed her back into the cave, ducking his head as he went through the entrance. It was apprehension more than necessity. The cave opening was high enough for him, but not by much. Ayla got out the iron pyrite and flint and gathered tinder and kindling.

"Didn't you say you found that firestone on the beach? Are there more?"

"Yes. Not many. Water come, take."

"A flood? The stream flooded and washed out some of the firestones? Maybe we should go and collect as many as we can find."

Ayla nodded absently. She had other plans for the day, but she wanted Jondalar's help and didn't know how to bring it up. She was running low on meat, and she didn't know if he would object to her hunting. She had occasionally gone out with her sling, and he had not questioned where the jerboas, hares, and giant hamsters came from. But even the men of the Clan had allowed her to hunt small game with her sling. She needed to hunt larger game, though, and that meant going out with Whinney and digging a pit trap.

She wasn't looking forward to it. She would have preferred hunting with Baby, but he was gone. The absence of her hunting partner was the least of her worries, however. Jondalar concerned her more. She knew that, even if he objected, he couldn't stop her. It wasn't as though she were part of his clan – this was her cave, and he wasn't fully recovered. But he seemed to enjoy the valley, Whinney, and the colt; he even seemed to like her. She didn't want that to change. It had been her experience that men did not like women to hunt, but she had no choice.

And she wanted more than his acquiescence – she wanted his support, his help. She did not want to take the foal hunting. She was afraid he might get caught in the stampede and be hurt. He'd stay behind when she left with Whinney, if Jondalar would keep him company, she was sure. She wouldn't be gone long. She could scout a herd, dig a trap, and return, then hunt the next day. But how could she ask the man to keep a foal company while she hunted? Even if he himself wasn't able to hunt yet?

When she made a broth for the morning meal, a good look at her dwindling supply of dried meat convinced her something had to be done soon. She decided the way to begin was to expose her hunting proclivities in a small way first, by showing him her skill with her favorite weapon. His reaction to her sling hunting would give her some idea if it would be worthwhile to ask his help.

They had formed the habit of walking together in the morning alongside the brush lining the stream. It was good exercise for him, and she enjoyed it. On that morning, she tucked her sling in her waist thong when they left. All she would need was the cooperation of some creature willing to come within range.

Her hopes were more than fulfilled when a walk into the field away from the stream flushed a pair of willow grouse. She reached for sling and stones when she saw one. As she knocked the first out of the sky, the second took to wing, but her second stone brought it down. Before she retrieved them, she glanced at Jondalar. She saw astonishment, but more important, she saw a smile.

"That was amazing, woman! Is that how you've been catching those animals? I thought you had snares set. What is that weapon?"

She gave him the leather strap with a bulge in the middle, then went to get the birds.

"I think this is called a sling," he said when she returned. "Willomar told me about a weapon like this. I couldn't quite imagine what he was talking about, but this must be it. You're good with it, Ayla. That had to take a lot of practice, even with some natural ability."

"You like I hunt?"

"If you didn't hunt, who would?"

"Clan man not like woman hunt."

Jondalar studied her. She was anxious, worried. Perhaps the men didn't like women who hunted, but it hadn't stopped her from learning. Why had she chosen this day to demonstrate her skill? Why did he feel she was looking for approval from him?

"Most Zelandonii women hunt, at least when they're young. My mother was noted for her tracking skill. I don't see any reason why women shouldn't, if they want. I like women who hunt, Ayla."

He could see her tension evaporate; he had obviously said what she wanted to hear, and it was the truth. He wondered, though, why it was so important to her.

"I need go hunt," she said. "Need help."

"I'd like to, but I don't think I'm up to it yet."

"Not help hunt. I take Whinney, you keep colt?"

"So that's it," he said. "You want me to mind the colt while you go hunting with the mare?" He chuckled. "That's a change. Usually, after she has a child or two, a woman stays to mind them. It's a man's responsibility to hunt for them. Yes, I'll stay with the colt. Someone has to hunt, and I don't want the little fellow to get hurt."

Her smile was one of relief. He didn't mind, he really didn't seem to mind.

"You might investigate that fire to the east before you plan your hunt, though. One that big can do your hunting for you."

"Fire hunt?" she said.

"Whole herds have been known to die from the smoke alone. Sometimes you'll find your meat cooked! Storytellers have a funny fable about a man finding cooked meat after a prairie fire, and the problems he had trying to convince the rest of his Cave to try meat he burned on purpose. It's an old story."

A smile of comprehension crossed her face. A fast-raging fire could overcome a whole herd. I might not have to dig a pit after all.

When Ayla got out the basket-harness-travois arrangement, Jondalar was intrigued, not able to understand the purpose of the complicated equipment.

"Whinney take meat to cave," she explained, showing him the travois while adjusting the straps on the mare. "Whinney take you to cave," she added.

"So that's how I got here! I've been wondering for a long time. I didn't think you carried me here alone. I thought perhaps some other people found me and left me here with you."

"No… other people. I find… you… other man."

Jondalar's expression became strained and bleak. The reference to Thonolan caught him by surprise, and the pain of his loss gripped him. "Did you have to leave him there? Couldn't you have brought him, too?" he flung at her.

"Man dead, Jondalar. You hurt. Much hurt," she said, feeling frustration well up inside her. She wanted to tell him she had buried the man, that she sorrowed for him, but she could not communicate. She could exchange information, but she could not explore ideas. She wanted to speak to him of thoughts she wasn't even sure could be expressed in words, but she felt stifled. He had spent his grief on her the first day, and now she couldn't even share his sorrow.

She longed for his ease with words, his ability to marshal them spontaneously into the proper order, his freedom of expression. But there was a vague barrier she couldn't cross, a lack that she often felt on the verge of breaching, which eluded her. Intuition told her she ought to know – that the knowledge was locked inside her, if only she could find the key.

"I'm sorry, Ayla. I shouldn't have shouted at you like that, but Thonolan was my…" The word was almost a cry.

"Brother. You and other man… have same mother?"

"Yes, we had the same mother."

She nodded and turned back to the horse, wishing she could tell him she understood the closeness of siblings and the special tie that could exist between two men born of the same mother. Creb and Brun had been brothers.

She finished loading the pack baskets, then picked up her spears to carry them outside to load after they were through the low cave opening. As he watched her making final preparations, he began to see that the horse was more than a strange companion to the woman. The animal gave her a decided advantage. He hadn't realized how useful a horse could be. But he was puzzled by another set of contradictions she posed: she used a horse to help her hunt and to carry back the meat – an advancement he'd never heard of before – yet she used a spear more primitive than any he'd seen.

He had hunted with many people, and each group had its own variation of hunting spear, but none was as radically different as hers. Yet there was something familiar about it. Its point was sharp and fire-hardened, and the shaft was straight and smooth, but it was so clumsy. There was no question that it was not meant to be thrown; it was larger than the one he used to hunt rhino. How did she hunt with it? How could she get close enough to wield it? When she came back, he'd have to ask her. It would take too much time now. She was learning the language, but it was still difficult.

He led the colt into the cave before Ayla and Whinney left. He scratched, stroked, and talked to the young horse until he was sure Ayla and his dam were far away. It felt odd to be in the cave alone, knowing the woman would be gone most of the day. He used the staff to pull himself up, and then, succumbing to his curiosity, he found a lamp and lit it. Leaving the staff behind – he didn't need it inside the cave – he held the hollowed-out stone lamp in one pains and started following the walls of the cave to see how big it was and where it led. There were no surprises in the size – it was about as big as he had thought, and, except for the small niche, there were no side passages. But the niche held a surprise: every indication of recent cave lion occupation, including a pug-mark, a big one!

After he had looked over the rest of the cave, he was convinced Ayla had been there for years. He had to be wrong about the cave lion spoor, but when he went back and examined the niche even more carefully, he was certain a cave lion had dwelled in that corner some time within the past year.

Another mystery! Would he ever find an answer to all the perplexing questions?

He picked up one of Ayla's baskets – unused as far as he could tell – and decided to look for firestones on the beach. He might as well try to be useful. While the colt bounded ahead, Jondalar worked his way down the steep path with the help of the staff, then leaned it against the wall near the bone pile. He'd be grateful when he wouldn't have to use it at all.

He stopped to scratch and fondle the foal who was nosing his hand, and then laughed when the young horse rolled with exuberant delight in the wallow he and Whinney both used. Squealing with intense pleasure, the colt, with his legs in the sir, wriggled in the loose giving earth. He got up and shook himself, throwing dirt in all directions, then found a favorite spot in the shade of a willow and settled down to rest.

Jondalar walked slowly on the rocky beach, bent over to scan each rock. "I found one!" he shouted in excitement, which startled the colt. He felt a bit foolish. "Here's another!" he said again, then smiled sheepishly. But as he picked up the brassy gray stone, he was stopped by the sight of another stone, much larger. "There's flint on this beach!"

She gets the flint to make her tools right here! If you could find a hammerstone, and make a punch, and… You could make some tools, Jondalar! Good sharp blades, and burins… He straightened up and appraised the pile of bones and rubble which the stream had thrown against the wall. It looks like there is good bone around here, too, and antler. You could even make her a decent spear.

She might not want a "decent spear," Jondalar. She might have a reason for using the one she does. But that doesn't mean you can't make a spear for yourself. It would be better than sitting around all day. You might even do some carving. You used to have a fair hand for carving, before you gave it up.

He rummaged through the heap of bones and driftwood piled against the wall, then went around to her midden on the other side of it and searched through the overgrown brush to find disarticulated bones, skulls, and antler among the refuse. He found several handfuls of firestones, while searching for a good hammerstone. When he broke off the cortex of the first nodule of flint, he was smiling. He hadn't realized how much he missed practicing his craft.

He thought about everything he could do, now that he had some flint. He wanted a good knife, and an axe, with handles. He wanted to make spears, and now he could fix his clothes with some good awls. And Ayla might like his kind of tools; at least he could show her.

The day had not dragged the way he had feared, and twilight was settling before he carefully gathered his new flintknapping tools, and the new flint tools he had made with them, into the hide he had borrowed from Ayla. When he returned to the cave, the colt was nudging and looking for attention, and he suspected the young animal was hungry. Ayla had left behind some cooked grains in a thin gruel – which the colt had refused at first, then took later, but that had been at midday. Where was she?

By the time it was dark, he was definitely worried. The colt needed Whinney, and Ayla should be back. He stood out on the far side of the ledge watching for her, then decided to build a fire, thinking she might see it in case she had lost her way. She wouldn't lose her way, he said to himself, but he made the fire anyway.

It was late when she finally returned. He heard Whinney and started down the path to meet them, but the colt was ahead of him. Ayla dismounted on the beach, dragged a carcass off the travois, adjusted the poles to accommodate the narrow trail, and led the mare up as Jondalar reached the bottom and stepped aside. She came back with a stick from the fire for a torch. Jondalar took it while Ayla loaded a second carcass back on the travois. He hobbled over to help, but she had moved it already. Watching her handle the dead weight of the deer gave him an appreciation of her strength, and an insight into how she had acquired it. The horse and travois were useful, perhaps even indispensable, but she was still only one person.

The colt was eagerly searching for his dam's teat, but Ayla pushed him aside until they reached the cave.

"You right, Jondalar," she said as he reached the ledge. "Big, big fire. I not see before so big fire. Far away. Many, many animals."

Something in her voice made him look closer. She was exhausted, and the carnage she had seen had left its imprint in the strained hollowness of her eyes. Her hands were black, her face and wrap were smudged with soot and blood. She unfastened the harness and travois, then put an arm around Whinney's neck and leaned her forehead against the mare in weariness. The horse was standing with her head down and front legs spraddled while her colt eased the fullness of her udders. She looked as tired.

"That fire must have been far away. It's late. Have you been riding all day?" Jondalar asked.

She pulled her head up and turned to him. For a moment, she had forgotten he was there. "Yes, all day," she said, then took a deep breath. She couldn't give in to her fatigue yet, she had too much to do. "Many animal die. Many come take meat. Wolf. Hyena. Lion. Other I not see before. Big teeth." She demonstrated an open mouth and her two index fingers hanging down like elongated canines.

"You saw a dirk-toothed tiger! I didn't know they were real! One old man used to tell stories to the youngsters at Summer Meetings about seeing one when he was young, but not everyone believed him. You really saw one?" He was wishing he could have been with her.

She nodded and shivered, tightening her shoulders and shutting her eyes. "Make Whinney fright. Stalk. Sling make go. Whinney, I run."

Jondalar's eyes opened wide at her halting recitation of the incident. "You drove off a dirk-toothed tiger with your sling? Good Mother, Ayla!"

"Much meat. Tiger… not need Whinney. Sling make go." She wanted to say more, to describe the incident, to express her fear, to share it with him, but she didn't have the means. She was too tired to visualize the motions and then try to think how the words fit in.

No wonder she's exhausted, Jondalar thought. Maybe I shouldn't have suggested checking the fire, but she did get two deer. That took nerve, though, facing down a dirk-toothed tiger. She is quite a woman.

Ayla looked at her hands, then headed down the path to the beach again. She took the torch which Jondalar had left stuck in the ground, carried it to the stream, and held it up to look around. Pulling up a stalk of pigweed, she crushed the leaves and roots in her hand, wet the mixture, and added a bit of sand. Then she scoured her hands, cleaned the travel grime off her face, and went back up.

Jondalar had started cooking rocks heating, and she was grateful. A cup of hot tea was just what she wanted. She had left food behind for him and hoped he wasn't expecting her to cook. She couldn't worry about meals now. She had two deer to skin and cut up into pieces for drying.

She had searched for animals that were not scorched, since she wanted the hides. But when she started to work, she remembered that she had planned to make some new sharp knives. Knives dulled with use – tiny spalls breaking off along the cutting edge. It was usually easier to make new ones and then turn the old into some other tool, such as a scraper.

The dull knife pushed her beyond her limit. She hacked at the hide while tears of weariness and defeat filled her eyes and spilled over.

"Ayla, what's wrong?" Jondalar asked.

She only hacked more violently at the deer. She couldn't explain. He took the dull knife out of her hand and pulled her up. "You're tired. Why don't you go lie down and rest for a while?"

She shook her head, though she desperately wanted to do as he said. "Skin deer, dry meat. No wait, hyena come."

He didn't bother to suggest they bring the deer in; she wasn't thinking clearly. "I'll watch it," he said. "You need some rest. Go in and lie down, Ayla."

Gratitude filled her. He would watch it! She hadn't thought to ask him; she wasn't used to having someone else to help. She stumbled into the cave, shaking with relief, and fell onto her furs. She wanted to tell Jondalar how grateful she was, and she felt tears rise again, knowing that her attempt would be ineffectual. She couldn't talk!

Jondalar came in and went out of the cave several times during the night, occasionally standing and watching the sleeping woman, his brow furrowed with concern. She was restless, Sailing her arms and mumbling unintelligibly in her dreams.

Ayla was walking through fog, crying for help. A tall woman, shrouded in mist, her face indistinct, held out her arms. "I said I'd be careful, Mother, but where did you go?" Ayla muttered. "Why didn't you come when I called you. I called and called, but you never came. Where have you been? Mother? Mother! Don't go away again! Stay here! Mother, wait for me! Don't leave me!"

The vision of the tall woman faded, and the mists cleared. In her place stood another woman, stocky and short. Her strong muscular legs were slightly bowed with an outward curvature, but she walked straight and upright. Her nose was large and aquiline, with a high prominent bridge, and her jaw, jutting forward, was chinless. Her forehead was low and sloped back, but her head was very large, her neck short and thick. Heavy brow ridges shaded large brown intelligent eyes that were filled with love and sorrow.

She beckoned. "Iza!" Ayla cried out to her. "Iza, help me! Please help me!" But Iza only looked at her quizzically. "Iza, don't you hear me? Why can't you understand?"

"No one can understand you if you don't talk properly," said another voice. She saw a man using a staff to help him walk. He was old and lame. One arm had been amputated at the elbow. The left side of his face was hideously scarred, and his left eye was missing, but his good right eye held strength, wisdom, and compassion. "You must learn to talk, Ayla" Creb said with his one-handed gestures, but she could hear him. He spoke with Jondalar's voice.

"How can I talk? I can't remember! Help me, Creb!"

"Your totem is the Cave Lion, Ayla," the old Mog-ur said.

With a tawny flash, the feline sprang for the aurochs and wrestled the huge reddish brown wild cow to the ground bawling in terror. Ayla gasped, and the dirk-toothed tiger snarled at her, fangs and muzzle dripping blood. He came for her, his long sharp fangs growing longer, and sharper. She was in a tiny cave trying to squeeze herself into the solid rock at her back. A cave lion roared.

"No! No!" she cried.

A gigantic paw with claws outstretched reached in and raked her left thigh with four parallel gashes.

"No! No!" she called out. "I can't! I can't!" The mist swirled around her. "I can't remember!"

The tall woman held out her arms. "I'll help you…"

For an instant the mist cleared, and Ayla saw a face not unlike her own. An aching nausea shook her, and a sour stench of wetness and rot issued from a crack opening in the ground.

"Mother! Motherrr!"

"Ayla! Ayla! What's wrong?" Jondalar shook her. He had been out on the ledge when he heard her scream in an unfamiliar language. He hobbled in faster than he thought he could move.

She sat up and he took her in his arms. "Oh, Jondalar! It was my dream, my nightmare," she sobbed.

"It's all right, Ayla. It's all right now."

"It was an earthquake. That's what happened. She was killed in an earthquake."

"Who was killed in an earthquake?"

"My mother. And Creb, too, later. Oh, Jondalar, I hate earthquakes!" She shuddered in his arms.

Jondalar took her by both shoulders and pushed her back so he could look at her. "Tell me about your dream, Ayla," he said.

"I've had those dreams as long as I can remember – they always come back. In one, I am in a small cave, and a claw reaches in. I think that is how my totem marked me. The other I could never remember, but I always woke up shaking and sick. Except this time. I saw her, Jondalar. I saw my mother!"

"Ayla, do you hear yourself?"

"What do you mean?"

"You're talking, Ayla. You're talking!"

Ayla had known how to speak once, and, though the language was not the same, she had learned the feel, the rhythm, the sense of spoken language. She had forgotten how to speak verbally because her survival depended upon another mode of communication, and because she wanted to forget the tragedy that had left her alone. Though it wasn't a conscious effort, she had been hearing and memorizing more than the vocabulary of Jondalar's language. The syntax, grammar, stress, were part of the sounds she heard when he spoke.

Like a child first learning to speak, she was born with the aptitude and the desire, and she needed only the constant exposure. But her motivation was stronger than a child's, and her memory more developed. She learned faster. Though she could not reproduce some of his tones and inflections exactly, she had become a native speaker of his language.

"I am! I can! Jondalar, I can think in words!"

They both noticed then that he was holding her, and both became self-conscious about it. He let his arms drop.

"Is it morning already?" Ayla said, noticing the light streaming in through the cave opening and the smoke hole above it. She threw back the covers. "I didn't know I would sleep so long. Great Mother! I've got to start that meat drying." She had picked up his epithets as well. He smiled. It was rather awe-inspiring to hear her suddenly speaking, but hearing his phrases coming out of her mouth, spoken with her unique accent, was funny.

She hurried to the entrance, then stopped cold when she looked out. She rubbed her eyes and looked again. Lines of meat cut in neat little tongue-shaped pieces were strung out from one end to the other of the stone porch, with several small fires spaced in the midst of them. Could she still be dreaming? Had all the women of the clan suddenly appeared to help her?

"There is some meat from a haunch I spitted at that fireplace, if you're hungry," Jondalar said, with assumed casualness, and a big smug smile.

"You? You did that?"

"Yes. I did it." His grin was even wider. Her reaction to his little surprise was better than he'd hoped. Maybe he wasn't quite up to hunting yet, but at least he could skin the animals she brought and start the meat drying, especially since he had just made new knives.

"But… you're a man!" she said, stunned.

Jondalar's little surprise was more staggering than he knew. It was only by drawing on their memories that members of the Clan acquired the knowledge and skills to survive. For them, instinct had evolved so that they could remember the skills of their forebears and pass them down to their progeny, stored in the backs of their brains. The tasks that men and women performed had been differentiated for so many generations that Clan members had sex-differentiated memories. One sex was unable to perform the functions of the other; they did not have the memories for it.

A man of the Clan could have hunted or found deer and brought them back. He could even have skinned them, though somewhat less efficiently than a woman. If pressed, he might have hacked out some hunks. But he would never have considered cutting up the meat to start it drying, and, even if he had, he wouldn't have known how to begin. He could certainly not have produced the neat, properly shaped pieces that would dry uniformly that Ayla saw in front of her eyes.

"Isn't a man allowed to cut up a little meat?" Jondalar asked. He knew some people had different customs concerning woman's work and man's work, but he had only meant to help her. He didn't think she would be offended.

"In the Clan, woman cannot hunt, and men cannot… make food," she tried to explain.

"But you hunt."

His statement gave her an unexpected jolt. She had forgotten she shared with him the differences between the Clan and the Others.

"I… I am not a Clan woman," she said, disconcerted. "I…" She didn't know how to explain. "I'm like you, Jondalar. One of the Others."