The Valley Of Horses

27

Ayla crouched low and looked through a screen of tall golden grass, bent with the weight of ripened seed heads, concentrating on the contours of the animal. She held a spear, poised for flight, in her right hand, and another ready in her left. A strand of long blond hair, escaped from a tightly plaited braid, whipped across her face. She shifted the long shaft slightly, searching for the balance point, then, squinting, gripped it and took aim. Bounding forward, she hurled the spear.

"Oh, Jondalar! I'll never get any accuracy with this spear!" Ayla said, exasperated. She marched toward a tree, padded with a grass-stuffed hide, and retrieved the still-quivering spear from the rump of a bison Jondalar had drawn with a piece of charcoal.

"You're too hard on yourself, Ayla," Jondalar said, beaming with pride. "You are much better than you think you are. You are learning very fast, but then I've seldom seen such determination. You practice every spare moment. I think that may be your problem right now. You're trying too hard. You need to relax."

"The way I learned to use a sling was to practice."

"You didn't gain your skill with that weapon overnight, did you?"

"No. It took several years. But I don't want to wait years before I can hunt with this spear."

"You won't. You could probably hunt right now and manage to bring something down. You don't have the thrust and speed you're used to, Ayla, but you never will. You have to find your new range. If you want to keep practicing, why don't you switch to your sling for a while."

"I don't need to practice with the sling."

"But you need to relax, and I think it would help you loosen up. Give it a try."

She did feel her tension dissipate with the familiar feel of the leather strap in her hands, and the rhythm and movement of handling the sling. She enjoyed the warm satisfaction of skilled expertise, though it had been a struggle to learn. She could hit anything she aimed for, particularly practice targets that did not move. The man's obvious admiration encouraged her to put on a demonstration showing off her ability.

She picked up a few handfuls of pebbles from the edge of the stream, then walked across to the far side of the field to display her true range. She exhibited her rapid-fire double-stone technique, and then showed how quickly she could follow through with an additional two stones.

Jondalar joined in, setting up targets that tested her accuracy. He set up four stones in a row on the large boulder; she knocked them off with four rapid casts. He threw two stones into the air one after the other; she hit them in mid-flight. Then he did something that surprised her. He stood in the middle of the field, balanced a rock on each shoulder, and looked at her with a grin on his face. He knew that she hurled a stone from her sling with such force that it could, at the least, be painful – fatal if it happened to hit a vulnerable spot. This test showed his trust in her, but more, it tested her confidence in her skill.

He heard the whistling of wind and the dull clink of stone hitting stone as first one, and then, an instant later, the other stone was knocked away. He didn't get away with nothing to show for his dangerous trick. A tiny chip flew off one stone and embedded itself in his neck. He didn't flinch, but a small trickle of blood, which smeared when he picked the stone sliver out, gave him away.

"Jondalar! You're hurt!" Ayla exclaimed when she saw him.

"Just a chip, it's nothing. But you are good with that sling, woman. I've never seen anyone handle a weapon like that."

Ayla had never seen anyone look at her the way he did. His eyes sparkled with respect and admiration; his voice was husky with warm praise. She blushed, filled with such a flood of emotion that it brought tears for lack of any other outlet.

"If you could throw a spear like that…" He stopped and closed his eyes, straining to see something with his mind's eye. "Ayla, can I use your sling?"

"Do you want to learn to use a sling?" she asked, giving it to him.

"Not exactly."

He picked up a spear, one of several on the ground, and tried to fit the butt end into the pocket of the sling, worn to the shape of the round stones it usually held. But he was not familiar enough with the techniques of handling a sling, and, after a few clumsy attempts, he gave it back, along with the spear.

"Do you think you could throw this spear with your sling?"

She saw what he was trying, and she managed an unwieldy arrangement – the butt of the spear stretching out the sling, while she held the ends of it and the shaft of the spear at the same time. She could not reach a good balance – had little force and less control over the long missile when it left her hand – but she did succeed in casting it.

"It would need to be longer, or the spear shorter," he said, trying to visualize something he had never seen. "And the sling is too flexible. The spear needs more support. Something to rest on… maybe wood or bone… with a backstop so it won't slide off. Ayla! I'm not sure, but I think it might work. I think I could make a… spear thrower!"

Ayla watched Jondalar constructing and experimenting, fascinated as much by the concept of making something from an idea as by the process of making it. The culture in which she was raised was not given to such innovation, and she didn't realize that she had invented hunting methods and a travois from a similar wellspring of creativity.

He used materials to suit his needs and adapted tools to new requirements. He asked her advice, drawing from her years of experience with her hurling weapon, but it soon became apparent that the contrivance he was making, though its impetus had come from her sling, was a new and unique device.

Once he had the basic principles worked out, he devoted time to modifications to improve the performance of the spear, and she was no more experienced with the finer points of hurling a spear than he was with the operation of a sling. Jondalar warned her, with a gleam of delight, that once he had good working models, they would both need to practice.

Ayla decided to let him use the tools he knew best to finish the two working models. She wanted to experiment with another of his tools. She had not progressed very far in making the clothes for him. They were together so much that the only time she could find was early morning or the middle of the night when he was sleeping.

While he was finishing and refining, she brought his old clothing and her new materials out to the ledge. In the daylight, she could see how the original pieces were stitched together. She found the process so interesting, and the garments so intriguing, that she thought she would make an adaptation of them to fit herself. She didn't try to match the elaborate beading and quillwork of the shirt, but she studied it carefully, thinking it might be a good challenge to attempt during the next long quiet winter.

From her vantage, she could watch Jondalar on the beach and in the field, and put her project away before he returned to the cave. But on the day he ran up the path, proudly displaying two finished spear throwers, Ayla barely had time to crumple the garment she was working on into an inconspicuous pile of leather. He was too full of his accomplishment to see anything else.

"What do you think, Ayla? Will it work?"

She took one from him. It was a simple, though ingenious, device: a flat narrow wooden platform, about half as long as the spear, with a groove in the middle where the spear rested, and a backstop carved into a hook-shape. Two leather-thong loops for the fingers were fastened on either side near the front of the spear thrower.

The thrower was held first in a horizontal position, with two fingers through the front loops, holding the thrower and the spear, which was resting in the long groove, butt against the backstop. When hurling, holding the front end by the loops caused the back end to flip up, in effect increasing the length of the throwing arm. The additional leverage added to the speed and force with which the spear left the hand.

"I think, Jondalar, it's time to start practicing."

Practicing filled their days. The padded leather around the target tree fell apart from constant puncturings, and a second one was put up. This time Jondalar drew the outline of a deer. Minor adaptations suggested themselves as they both gained in proficiency. Each of them borrowed from the techniques of the weapon with which he or she was most familiar. His strong overhand casts tended to have more lift; hers, angling more to the side, had a flatter trajectory. And each made a few adjustments on the thrower to suit his or her individual style.

A friendly competition developed between them. Ayla tried but could not match Jondalar's mighty thrusts which give him greater range; Jondalar could not match Ayla's deadly accuracy. They were both astounded by the tremendous advantage of the new weapon. With it, Jondalar could hurl a spear more than twice as far, with greater force and perfect control, once a measure of skill was achieved. But one aspect of the practice sessions with Jondalar had greater effect on Ayla than the weapon itself.

She had always practiced and hunted alone. First playing in secret, fearful of being found out. Then practicing in earnest, but no less secretly. When she was allowed to hunt, it was only grudgingly. No one ever hunted with her. No one ever encouraged her when she missed, or shared a triumph when her aim was true. No one discussed with her the best way to use a weapon, advised her of alternate approaches, or listened with respect and interest to a suggestion of hers. And no one had ever teased, or joked, or laughed with her. Ayla had never experienced the camaraderie, the friendship, the fun, of a companion.

Yet, with all the easing of tensions practicing brought about, a distance remained between them that they could not seem to close. When their talk was about such safe subjects as hunting or weapons, their conversations were animated; but the introduction of any personal element caused uncomfortable silences and halting courteous evasions. An accidental touch was like a jolting shock from which they both sprang apart, followed always by stiff formality and lingering afterthoughts.

"Tomorrow!" Jondalar said, retrieving a twanging spear. Some of the hay stuffing came with it through a much enlarged and ragged hole in the leather.

"Tomorrow what?" Ayla asked.

"Tomorrow we go hunting. We've played long enough. We're not going to learn any more, dulling points on a tree. It's time to get serious."

"Tomorrow," Ayla agreed.

They picked up several spears and started walking back. "You know the area around here, Ayla. Where should we go?"

"I know the steppes to the east best, but maybe I should scout it first. I could go on Whinney." She looked up to check the placement of the sun. "It's still early."

"Good idea. You and that horse are better than a handful of foot scouts."

"Will you hold Racer back? I'll feel better if I know he's not following."

"What about tomorrow when we go hunting?"

"We'll have to take him with us. We need Whinney to bring the meat back. Whinney is always a little bothered by a kill, but she's used to it. She will stay where I want her to, but if her colt gets excited and runs, and maybe gets caught in a stampede… I don't know."

"Don't worry about it now. I'll try to think of something."

Ayla's piercing whistle brought the mare and the colt. While Jondalar put an arm around Racer's neck, scratched his itchy places, and talked to him, Ayla mounted Whinney and urged her to a gallop. The young one was comfortable with the man. After the woman and the mare were well gone, Jondalar picked up the armload of spears and both throwers.

"Well, Racer, shall we go to the cave to wait for them?"

He laid the spears down outside the entrance to the small break in the canyon wall, then went in. He was restless and didn't quite know what to do with himself. He stirred the fire, brought the coals together, and added a few sticks, then went out to the front edge of the shelf and looked down the valley. The colt's muzzle reached for his hand, and he absently caressed the shaggy young horse. As he pulled his fingers through the animal's thickening coat, he thought of winter.

He tried to think of something else. The warm summer days had an unending quality, one so like the next that time seemed held in suspension. Decisions were easy to put off. Tomorrow was soon enough to think about the coming cold… to think about leaving. He noticed the simple breechclout he wore.

"I don't grow a winter coat like you, little fellow. I ought to make myself something warm soon. I gave that sewing awl to Ayla and never made another one. Maybe that's what I should do – make a few more tools. And I need to think of a way to keep you from getting hurt."

He went back into the cave, stepped over his sleeping furs, and cast a longing look at Ayla's side of the fireplace. He rummaged through the storage area for some thong or heavy cordage and found some skins that had been rolled up and put away. That woman certainly knows how to finish skins, he thought, feeling the velvety soft texture. Maybe she'd let me use some of these. I hate to ask her, though.

If those spear throwers work, I should get enough hides to make something to wear. Maybe I could carve a charm on them for good luck. It wouldn't hurt. Here's a coil of thong. Maybe I can make something for Racer out of this. He's such a runner – wait until he's a stallion. Would a stallion let someone ride on his back? Could I make him go where I wanted him to?

You'll never know. You won't be here when he's a stallion. You're leaving.

Jondalar picked up the coiled thong, stopped off to get his bundle of flint-knapping tools, and went down the path to the beach. The stream looked inviting, and he felt hot and sweaty. He took off his breechclout and waded in, then started pulling upstream, against the current. He usually turned back when he reached the narrow gorge. This time he decided to explore further. He made it past the first rapids and around the last bend, and saw a roaring wall of white water. Then he headed back.

The swim invigorated him, and the feeling that he had made a discovery encouraged a desire for change. He pulled his hair back, squeezed it out, and then his beard. You've worn this all summer, Jondalar, and it's almost over. Don't you think it's time?

First I'll shave, then make something to keep Racer out of the way. I don't want to just put a rope around his neck. Then I'll make an awl, and a burin or two so I can carve a charm on the throwers. And I think I'll make the meal tonight. A man could forget how around Ayla. I may not be up to her standards, but I think I can still put a meal together. Mother knows, I did it often enough on the Journey.

What kind of carvings should I put on the spear throwers? A donii would bring the best luck, but I gave mine to Noria. I wonder if she ever had a baby with blue eyes? That certainly is a strange idea Ayla has, about a man making a baby start. Who would have thought that was what that old Haduma wanted. First Rites. Ayla's never had First Rites. She's been through so much, and she's a wonder with that sling. Not bad with a spear thrower either. I think I'll put a bison on hers. Will they really work? Wish I had a donii. Maybe I could make one…

Jondalar started watching for Ayla from the ledge as the evening sky darkened. When the valley became a black bottomless pit, he built a fire on the ledge so she could find her way, and he kept thinking he heard her coming up the path. Finally he made a torch and headed down. He followed the edge of the stream around the jutting wall, and he would have gone farther if he hadn't heard the pounding of hooves approaching.

"Ayla! What took you so long?"

She was taken aback by his peremptory tone. "I've been scouting for herds. You know that."

"But it's after dark!"

"I know. It was almost dark before I started back. I think I've found the place, a herd of bison southeast…"

"It was nearly dark and you were still chasing bison! You can't see a bison in the dark!"

Ayla couldn't understand why he was so excited, or his demanding questions. "I wasn't looking at bison in the dark, and why do you want to stand here talking?"

With a high-pitched nicker, the colt appeared in the circle of light from the torch and butted up against his dam. Whinney responded, and before Ayla could dismount, the young horse was nuzzling under the mare's hind legs. It occurred to Jondalar then that he had been acting as if he had some right to question Ayla, and he turned away from the torchlight, grateful for the dark that hid his red face. He followed behind while she plodded up the path, so embarrassed that he didn't notice her weary exhaustion.

She grabbed a sleeping fur and, wrapping it around her, hunkered near the fire. "I forgot how cold it gets at night," she said. "I should have taken a warm wrap, but I didn't think I'd be gone this long."

Jondalar saw her shiver and was more chagrined. "You're cold. Let me get you something hot to drink." He poured some hot broth into a cup for her.

Ayla hadn't been paying very close attention to him either – she had been too eager to get to the fire, but when she looked up to take the cup, she nearly dropped it.

"What happened to your face?" she said with equal parts of shock and concern.

"What do you mean?" he asked, worried.

"Your beard… it's gone!"

The shock which had mirrored hers gave way to a smile. "I shaved it off."

"Shaved?"

"Cut it off. Close to the skin. I usually do it in summer. It gets itchy when I'm hot and sweaty."

Ayla couldn't resist. She reached for his face to feel the smoothness of his cheek, then, rubbing against the grain, an incipient roughness; scratchy, like a lion's tongue. She recalled he had no beard when she first found him, but after it grew in she forgot about it. He seemed so young without a beard, appealing in a childlike way, but not as a man. She wasn't accustomed to full-grown men without beards. She ran her finger along his strong jaw and the slight cleft of his firm chin.

Her touch held him motionless. He couldn't pull away. He felt the light tracery of her fingertips with every nerve. Though she had intended no erotic implications, just gentle curiosity, his response was from a deeper source. The insistent, straining throbbing in his groin was so immediate, so powerful, that it caught him by surprise.

The way his eyes looked at her compelled a rush of desire to know him as a man, in spite of his almost too youthful appearance. He moved to reach for her hand, to hold it to his face, but with an effort, she pulled it away, picked up the cup, and drank without tasting. It was more than being self-conscious about touching him. She had a sudden vivid memory of the last time they had sat face to face near the fire and that look had come into his eyes. And this time she had been touching him. She was afraid to look at him, afraid she'd see that horrible, degrading look again. But her fingertips remembered his smooth-rough face, and tingled.

Jondalar was distressed at his instant, almost violent reaction to her gentle touch. He couldn't keep his eyes away from her though she avoided his look. Looking down like that, she seemed so shy, so fragile, yet he knew the strength at her core. He thought of her as a beautiful blade of flint, perfect as it fell from the stone, its thin edges delicate and translucent, yet so hard and sharp that it could cut the toughest leather in one clean stroke.

O Mother, she is so beautiful, he thought. O Doni, Great Earth Mother, I want that woman. I want her so much…

Suddenly he jumped up. He couldn't stand just looking at her. Then he remembered the meal he had made. Here she is, cold and tired, and I'm just sitting. He went to get the mammoth-hipbone platter she used.

Ayla heard him get up. He had jumped up so abruptly, she was convinced he had suddenly been overcome with revulsion again. She started shaking, and clenched her teeth trying to stop. She could not face that again. She wanted to tell him to leave so she would not have to see him, to see his eyes naming her… abomination. She sensed, though her eyes were closed, when he was in front of her again, and she held her breath.

"Ayla?" He could see her shivering, even with the fire and her fur wrap. "I thought it might be late when you got back, so I went ahead and made something for us to eat. Would you like some? If you're not too tired?"

Had she heard him right? She opened her eyes, slowly. He was holding a platter. He put it down in front of her, then pulled up a mat and sat down beside her. There was a hare, spitted and roasted, some boiled roots in a broth of dried meat he had already given her, and even some blueberries.

"You… cooked this… for me?" Ayla said, incredulous.

"I know it's not as good as you would make, but I hope it's all right. I thought it might be bad luck to use the spear thrower yet, so I just used a spear. It takes a different casting technique, and I wasn't sure if all that practice with the thrower would spoil my aim, but I guess you don't forget. Go ahead, eat."

Men of the Clan did not cook. They could not – they had no memories for it. She knew Jondalar was more versatile in his abilities, but it never occurred to her that he would cook; not when there was a woman around. Even more than that he could, and that he did, was that he had thought of it in the first place. In the Clan, even after she was allowed to hunt, she was still expected to perform her usual tasks. It was so unexpected, so… considerate. Her fears had been entirely unfounded, and she didn't know what to say. She picked up a leg he had cut off and took a bite.

"Is it all right?" he asked, a bit anxious.

"It's wonderful," she said with her mouth full.

It was fine, but it wouldn't have mattered if it had been burned crisp – it would have been delicious to her. She had a feeling she was going to cry. He scooped out a ladleful of long thin roots. She picked one up and took a bite. "Is this clover root? It's good."

"Yes," he said, pleased with himself. "They are better with some oil to dip them in. It's one of those foods women usually make for the men for special feasts because it's a favorite. I saw the clover upstream and thought you might like it." It had been a good idea to make a meal, he thought, enjoying her surprise.

"It's a lot of work to dig them. There's not much to each one, but I didn't know they'd be so good. I only use the roots for medicine, as part of a tonic in the spring."

"We usually eat them in spring. It's one of the first fresh foods."

They heard a clatter of hooves on the stone ledge and turned as Whinney and Racer came in. After a while, Ayla got up and settled them in. It was a nightly ritual that consisted of greetings, shared affection, fresh hay, grain, water, and, particularly after a long ride, a rubdown with absorbent leather and a currying with a teasel. Ayla noticed the fresh hay, grain, and water had already been put out.

"You remembered the horses, too," she said when she sat down to finish her blueberries. Even if she hadn't been hungry she would have eaten them.

He smiled. "I didn't have much to do. Oh, I have something to show you." He got up and returned with the two spear throwers. "I hope you don't mind, it's for luck."

"Jondalar!" She was almost afraid to touch hers. "Did you make this?" Her voice was full of awe. She had been surprised when he drew the shape of an animal on the target, but this was so much more. "It's… like you took the totem, the spirit of the bison, and put him there."

The man was grinning. She made surprises so much fun. His spear thrower had a giant deer with huge palmate antlers, and she marveled at it as well. "It is supposed to capture the spirit of the animal, so it will be drawn to the weapon. I'm not really a very good carver, you should see the work of some, and that of the sculptors, and gravers, and the artists who paint the sacred walls."

"I'm sure you have put powerful magic in these. I did not see deer, but a herd of bison is southeast. I think they are beginning to move together. Will a bison be drawn to a weapon that has a deer on it? I can go out again tomorrow and look for deer."

"This will work for bison. Yours will be luckier, though. I'm glad I put a bison on yours."

Ayla didn't know what to say. He was a man, and had given her more hunting luck than himself, and he was glad.

"I was going to make a donii for luck, too, but I didn't have time to finish it."

"Jondalar, I am confused. What is 'donii'? Is it your Earth Mother?"

"The Great Earth Mother is Doni, but She takes other forms and they are all donii. A donii is usually Her spirit form, when She rides on the wind, or sends Herself into dreams – men often dream of Her as a beautiful woman. A donii is also the carved figure of a woman – usually a bountiful mother – because women are Her blessed. She made them in Her likeness, to create life as She created all life. She rests most easily in the likeness of a mother. A donii is usually sent to guide a man to Her spirit world – some say women don't need a guide, they know the way. And some women claim they can change themselves into a donii when they want – not always to a man's benefit. The Sharamudoi who live west of here say the Mother can take the form of a bird."

Ayla nodded. "In the Clan, only the Ancient Ones are female spirits."

"What about your totems?" he asked.

"The protective totem spirits are all male, for both men and women, but women's totems are usually the smaller animals. Ursus, the Great Cave Bear, is the great protector of all the Clan – everyone's totem. Ursus was Creb's personal totem. He was chosen, just as the Cave Lion chose me. You can see my mark." She showed him the four parallel scars on her left thigh, where she had been clawed by a cave lion when she was five.

"I had no idea fl… your Clan understood the spirit world at all, Ayla. It is still hard to believe – I do believe you – but it's hard for me to comprehend that the people you talk about are the same ones I've always thought of as flatheads."

Ayla put her head down, then looked up. Her eyes were serious, and concerned. "I think the Cave Lion has chosen you, Jondalar. I think he is your totem now. Creb told me a powerful totem is not easy to live with. He gave up an eye in his testing, but he gained great power. Next to Ursus, the Cave Lion is the most powerful totem, and it has not been easy. His tests have been difficult, but once I understood the reason, I have never been sorry. I think you should know, in case he is your totem now." She looked down, hoping she hadn't said too much.

"They meant very much to you, your Clan, didn't they?"

"I wanted to be a woman of the Clan, but I could not. I could not make myself be one. I am not like them. I am of the Others. Creb knew it, and Iza told me to leave and find my own kind. I didn't want to go, but I had to leave and I can never go back. I am cursed with death. I am dead."

Jondalar wasn't sure what she meant, but a chin raised his small hairs when she said it. She drew a deep breath before she continued.

"I did not remember the woman I was born to, or my life before the Clan. I tried, but I could not imagine a man of the Others, a man like me. Now, when I try to imagine others, I can only see you. You are the first of my own kind I have ever seen, Jondalar. No matter what happens, I will never forget you." Ayla stopped, feeling she had said too much. She got up. "If we are going hunting in the morning, I think we should get some sleep."

Jondalar knew she had been raised by flatheads and lived alone in the valley after she left them, but until she said it, he didn't fully understand that he was the first. It disturbed him to think he represented all his people, and he wasn't proud of the way he had done it. Yet, he knew how everyone felt about flatheads. If he had just told her, would it have made the same impression? Would she have really known what to expect?

He went to bed with unsettled, ambivalent feelings. He stared at the fire after he lay down, thinking. Suddenly he felt a distorting sensation, and something like vertigo without the dizziness. He saw a woman as though reflected in a pond into which a stone had dropped; a wavering image from which ripples spread out in larger and larger circles. He did not want the woman to forget him – to be remembered by her was significant.

He sensed a divergence, a path splitting, a choice, and he had no one to guide him. A current of warm air raised the hair on the back of his neck. He knew She was leaving him. He had never consciously felt Her presence, but he knew when She was gone, and the void She left behind ached. It was the beginning of an ending: the ending of the ice, the end of an age, the end of the time when Her nourishment provided. The Earth Mother was leaving Her children to find their own way, to carve out their own lives, to pay the consequences of their own actions – to come of age. Not in his lifetime, not in many lifetimes to come, but the first inexorable step had been taken. She had passed on Her parting Gift, Her Gift of Knowledge.

Jondalar felt an eerie keening wail, and he knew he heard the Mother cry.

Like a thong stretched taut and released, reality snapped back into place. But it had been stretched too far and could not fit back into its original dimension. He felt that something was out of place. He looked across the fire at Ayla and saw tears flowing down her face.

"What's wrong, Ayla?"

"I don't know."

"Are you sure she can take both of us?"

"No, I'm not sure," Ayla said, leading Whinney, loaded with her carrying baskets. Racer trailed behind, led by a rope that was tied to a sort of halter made of leather thongs. It gave him freedom to graze and to move his head, and it would not tighten up around his neck and choke him. The halter had bothered the colt at first, but he was getting used to it.

"If we can both ride, traveling will be faster. If she doesn't like it, she will let me know. Then we can ride her in turns, or both walk."

When they reached the large boulder in the meadow, Ayla climbed on the horse, moved up a bit, and held the mare steady while Jondalar mounted her. Whinney flicked her ears back. She felt the extra weight and wasn't accustomed to it, but she was a sturdy rugged horse and she started out at Ayla's urging. The woman kept her to a steady pace and was sensitive to the horse's change in gait that signaled it was time to stop and rest.

The second time they started out, Jondalar was more relaxed and then wished he was still nervous. Without the tense worry, he became entirely aware of the woman riding in front of him. He could feel her back pressing up against him, her thighs against his, and Ayla became sensitive to more than the horse. A hot, hard pressure had risen behind her, over which Jondalar had no control, and every movement of the horse jogged them together. She wished it would go away – and yet she didn't.

Jondalar was beginning to feel a pain he had not experienced before. He had never forced himself to hold in his aroused desire so much. From the first days of manhood, there had always been some means for release, but there was no other woman here except Ayla. He refused to bring it about himself again and just tried to bear it.

"Ayla," his voice was strained, "I think… I think it's time to rest," he blurted out.

She stopped the horse and got off as quickly as she could. "It's not far," she said. "We can walk the rest of the way."

"Yes, it will give Whinney a rest."

Ayla didn't argue, although she knew that was not why she was walking. They walked three abreast, with the horse between them, talking over her back. Even then, Ayla could hardly keep her mind on landmarks and directions, and Jondalar walked with aching loins, grateful for the screen the horse provided.

As they came in sight of a herd of bison, the anticipation of actually hunting with the spear thrower began to drain off a measure of their stifled ardor, though they took care not to stand too close together, and preferred to keep one or the other of the horses between them.

The bison were milling around a small stream. The herd was larger than when Ayla had first seen it. Several other small groupings had joined it and more would follow. Eventually, tens of thousands of densely packed, shaggy, brownish black animals would crowd across acres of rolling hills and river valleys; a lowing, thundering, living carpet. Within that throng, any one individual animal had little significance; their survival strategy depended on numbers.

Even the smaller number that had accumulated near the stream had subjugated their prickly individualities to the herding instinct. Later, survival would demand splintering again into small family herds to disperse and search for fodder during the lean seasons.

Ayla took Whinney to the edge of the stream near a tenacious wind-bent pine. In the sign language of the Clan, she told the horse to stay nearby, and, seeing the mare herd her young one close to her, Ayla knew she need not have worried about Racer. Whinney was entirely capable of guiding her foal away from danger. But Jondalar had gone to some trouble to find a solution to a problem she had envisaged, and she was curious to see how it would work.

The woman and man each took a spear thrower and a holder of long spears, and proceeded on foot toward the herd. Hard hooves had broken down the dry crust of the steppes and kicked up a haze of dust that settled in a fine coating on the dark shaggy fur. The movement of the herd was marked by the choking dust, the way smoke from a smoldering prairie fire showed the course of the blaze – and a similar devastation was left in the wake.

Jondalar and Ayla circled to get downwind of the slowly moving herd, squinting to pick out individual animals as the wind, laden with the hot rangy odor of bison, blew fine grit in their faces. Bawling calves straggled after cows, and butting yearlings tested the patience of hump-backed bulls.

One old bull, rolling in a dust wallow, heaved up to regain his feet. His massive head hung low as though weighted down by the enormous black horns. Jondalar's six feet six inches topped the height of the bison at his humped shoulders – but not by much. The animal's powerful, thickly furred front quarters tapered to low, lean hindquarters. The huge old beast, probably just past his prime, was too tough and stringy for their needs, but they knew he could be formidable when he stopped to eye them suspiciously. They waked until he moved on.

As they moved in closer, the rumbling background noise of the herd increased and disintegrated into various pitches of bawling and lowing. Jondalar pointed out a young female. The heifer was nearly full grown, ready to bear young, and fattened from summer grazing. Ayla nodded agreement. They fitted the spears into their spear throwers and Jondalar signaled his intention to circle to the other side of the young cow.

By some unknown instinct, or perhaps because she had seen the man moving, the animal sensed she had been marked as prey. Nervously, she edged closer to the main body of the herd. Several others were moving to close around her, and Jondalar's attention was distracted by them. Ayla was sure they were going to lose the cow. Jondalar's back was toward her, she couldn't signal, and the heifer was moving out of range. She couldn't shout; even if he could hear her, it might warn the bison.

She made a decision and took aim. He glanced back as she was ready to hurl, took in the situation, and readied his thrower. The fast-moving heifer was stirring up the other animals, as were they. The man and woman had thought the cloud of dust would be sufficient cover, but the bison were used to it. The young cow had almost reached the safety of the crowd, with others moving in.

Jondalar dashed toward her and heaved his spear. Ayla's followed an instant later, finding its mark in the shaggy neck of the bison after his tore into her soft underbelly. The bison's momentum carried her forward, then her pace slowed. She wavered, staggered, and slumped to her knees, cracking Jondalar's spear as she collapsed on it. The herd smelled blood. A few sniffed at the downed heifer, lowing uneasily. Others picked up their dirge, jostling and eddying, the air rampant with tension.

Ayla and Jondalar ran toward the kill from opposite directions. Suddenly he started shouting and waving his arms at her. She shook her head, not understanding his signals.

A young bull, who had been playing at butting, had finally elicited a response from the old patriarch and dodged away, running into a nervous cow. The young male moved back, indecisive and agitated, but his evasive action was cut off by the big bull. He didn't know which way to turn until his attention was caught by a moving bipedal figure. He lowered his head and ran toward it.

"Ayla! Look out!" Jondalar shouted, running toward her. He had a spear in his hand and pointed it.

Ayla turned and saw the young bull coming at her. Her first thought was her sling, an almost instinctive reaction. It had always been her immediate means of defense. But she dismissed it quickly and slapped a spear into her thrower.

Jondalar launched his spear by hand a moment before her, but the spear thrower imparted greater speed. Jondalar's weapon found a flank, which turned the bison momentarily. When he looked, Ayla's spear, still quivering, was lodged in the young bull's eye; the animal was dead before he fell.

The running, shouting, and new source of blood smell started the aimlessly milling animals in a concerted direction – away from the disturbing activity. The last stragglers bypassed their fallen members to join the herd in a ground-shaking stampede. The rumble could still be heard after the dust settled.

The man and woman were struck dumb for a moment as they stood looking at the two dead bison on the empty plain.

"It's over," Ayla said, stunned. "Just like that."

"Why didn't you run?" Jondalar shouted, giving into his fear for her now that it was over. He strode toward her. "You could've been killed!"

"I couldn't turn my back on a charging bull," Ayla countered. "He would have gored me for sure." She looked again at the bison. "No, I think your spear would have stopped him… but I didn't know that. I never hunted with anyone before. I always had to watch out for myself. If I didn't, no one would have."

Her words jogged a final piece into place, and suddenly a picture came together of what her life must have been. He saw her in a new way. This woman, he thought, this gentle, caring, loving woman, has survived more than anyone would believe. No, she could not run away, not from anything, not even from you. Whenever you let yourself go, Jondalar, and lost control, people backed off. But at your worst, she stood her ground.

"Ayla, you beautiful, wild, wonderful woman, look what a hunter you are!" He smiled. "Look what we've done! Two of them. How are we going to get them both back?"

As the full significance of their achievement filled her, she smiled, with satisfaction, triumph, and joy. It made Jondalar aware that he had not seen that smile often enough. She was beautiful, but when she smiled like that, she glowed, as though a fire was lit from within. A laugh rose up in him unexpectedly – uninhibited and infectious. She joined him; she couldn't help it. It was their shout of victory, of success.

"Look what a hunter you are, Jondalar," she said.

"It's the spear throwers – they made the difference. We walked into this herd, and before they knew what happened… two of them! Think what that can mean!"

She knew what it would mean to her. With the new weapon she would always be able to hunt for herself. Summer. Winter. No pit traps to dig. She could travel and hunt. The spear thrower had all the advantages of her sling, and so many more.

"I know what it means. You said you would show me a better way to hunt, an easier way. You did, more than I imagined. I don't know how to tell you… I am so…"

There was only one way she knew to express her gratitude, the way she had learned in the Clan. She sat at his feet and bowed her head. Perhaps he would not tap her shoulder to give her permission to tell him, in the proper way, but she had to try.

"What are you doing?" he said, reaching down to urge her up. "Don't sit there like that, Ayla."

"When a woman of the Clan wants to tell a man something important, this is how she asks for his attention," she said, looking up. "It is important for me to tell you how much this means, how grateful I am for the weapon. And for teaching me your words, for everything."

"Please, Ayla, get up," he said, lifting her to her feet. "I didn't give this weapon to you, you gave it to me. If I hadn't seen you use your sling, I would not have thought of it. I am grateful to you, for more than this weapon."

He was holding her arms, feeling her body close to his. She was looking into his eyes, unable and unwilling to turn her eyes aside. He bent closer and put his mouth on hers.

Her eyes opened wide in surprise. It was so unexpected. Not only his action, but her reaction, the jolt that flushed through her, when she felt his mouth on hers. She did not know how to respond.

And, finally, he understood. He wouldn't push her beyond that gentle kiss – not yet.

"What is that mouth on mouth?"

"It's a kiss, Ayla. It's your first kiss, isn't it? I keep forgetting, but it's very hard to look at you and… Ayla, sometimes I am a very stupid man."

"Why do you say that? You are not stupid."

"I am stupid. I can't believe how stupid I have been." He let go of her. "But right now, I think we'd better find a way to get those bison back to the cave, because if I stay here standing next to you like this, I'll never be able to do it right for you. The way it should be done for your first time.

"The way what should be done?" she said, not really wanting him to move away.

"First Rites, Ayla. If you will allow me."