The Plains of Passage - Jean M. Auel [112]
“You would have thought they’d had enough of water today,” Ayla said, moving up beside Jondalar.
He turned, the smile from watching the horses still on his face. “They do love to roll in the water, not to mention the mud or dust. I didn’t know horses liked to roll so much.”
“You know how much they like to be scratched. I think it’s their way of scratching themselves,” the woman commented. “Sometimes they scratch each other, and they tell each other where they want to be scratched.”
“How can they tell each other that, Ayla? Sometimes I think you imagine that horses are people.”
“No, horses are not people. They are themselves, but watch them some time, when they stand head to tail. One will scratch the other with teeth, and then wait to be scratched back at the same place,” Ayla said. “Maybe I’ll give Whinney a good combing with the dry teasel later. It must get hot and itchy under the leather straps all day. Sometimes I think we should leave the bowl boat behind … but it has been useful.”
“I’m hot and itchy. I think I’m going to take a swim, too. This time without clothes,” Jondalar said.
“I will, too, but first I want to unpack. Those clothes that got wet are still damp. I want to hang them over those bushes so they will dry.” She took a damp bundle out of one of her baskets and began draping the clothing across the branches of an alder bush. “I’m not sorry the clothes got wet,” Ayla said, arranging a loincloth. “I found some soap-root and washed mine while I was waiting for you.”
Jondalar shook out one garment, helping her to hang up the clothes, and discovered it was his tunic. He held it up to show her. “I thought you said you washed your clothes while you were waiting for me,” he said.
“I washed yours after you changed. Too much sweat makes the leather rot, and they were getting badly stained,” she explained.
He didn’t recall worrying too much about sweat or stains when he had traveled with his brother, but he was rather pleased that Ayla did.
By the time they were ready to go into the river, Whinney was coming out. She stood on the bank with her legs spread apart, then started shaking her head. The vigorous shake worked back along her body all the way to her tail. Jondalar held up his arms to ward off the spray. Ayla, laughing, ran into the water and, with both hands, rapidly scooped out more water to splash at the man as he was wading in. As soon as he was knee deep, he returned the favor. Racer, who had finished his bath and was standing nearby, received a share of the dousing and backed away, then he headed for the shore. He liked water, but under conditions of his own choosing.
After they tired of playing and swimming, Ayla began to notice the possibilities for their evening meal. Growing out of the water were spearhead-shaped leaves and white three-petaled flowers that darkened to purple at the center, and she knew the starchy tuber of the plant was filling and good. She dug some out of the muddy bottom with her toes; the stems were fragile and broke off too easily to pull them out. As Ayla waded back to the shore, she also gathered water plantain to cook, and tangy watercress to eat raw. A regular pattern of small wide leaves growing out from a center that was floating on the surface drew her attention.
“Jondalar, be careful not to step on those water chestnuts,” she said, pointing out the spiky seeds littering the sandy shore.
He picked one up to look more closely. Its four barbs were arranged in such a way that while one always caught the ground, the others pointed upward. He shook his head, then threw it down. Ayla bent to pick it up again, along with several others.
“These are not so good to step on,” she said in answer to his quizzical look, “but they are good to eat.”
On the shore, in the shade beside the water, she saw a familiar tall plant with blue-green leaves and