The Plains of Passage - Jean M. Auel [143]
“Ayla, see the one near the tall bush? On the edge of the herd?” The woman nodded. “He seems to be in a good position to break away from the others. Let’s try for him.”
They talked over their strategy, then separated. Wolf watched the woman on the horse closely and, at her signal, sprang forward toward the deer she indicated. Ayla, on the mare, was close on his heels. Jondalar was coming around from the other side, spear and thrower ready.
The deer sensed danger, and so did the rest of the herd. They were bounding away in all directions. The one they had chosen leaped away from the attacking wolf and the charging woman, straight at the man on the stallion. He came so close that Racer shied back.
Jondalar had been ready with his spear, but the stallion’s quick move spoiled his aim and distracted him. The stag changed direction, trying to get away from the horse and human blocking his way, only to find a huge wolf in his path. In fear, the deer leaped to the side, away from the snarling predator, and dashed between Ayla and Jondalar.
As the deer made another bound, Ayla shifted weight as she took aim. Whinney, understanding the signal, pounded after him. Jondalar recovered his balance and hurled his spear at the fleeing stag, just as Ayla loosed hers.
The proud antlers jerked once, and then again. Both spears landed with great force, almost simultaneously. The large stag tried to leap away again, but it was too late. The spears had found their mark. The red deer faltered, then fell in midstride.
The plains were empty. The herd had disappeared, but the hunters didn’t notice, as they jumped off their horses beside the stag. Jondalar took his bone-handled knife out of its sheath, grabbed the velveted antlers, pulled the head back, and slit the throat of the large ancient elk. They stood silently and watched the blood pool around the head of the stag. The dry earth absorbed it.
“When you return to the Great Earth Mother, give Her our thanks,” Jondalar said to the red deer lying dead upon the ground.
Ayla nodded agreement. She was accustomed to this ritual of his. Jondalar said similar words every time they killed an animal, even a small one, but she sensed it was never done by rote, just to be saying it. There was feeling and reverence in his words. His thanks were genuine.
The low, rolling plains gave way to steep hills, and birch trees appeared among the brush, then woods of hornbeam and beech with oak intermixed. At the lower elevations, the region resembled the wooded hills they had traveled beside near the delta of the Great Mother River. Climbing higher, they began to see fir and spruce and a few larch and pine among the huge deciduous trees.
They came to a clearing, an open, rounded knoll somewhat higher than the surrounding woodland. Jondalar halted to get his bearings, but Ayla was stopped by the view. They were higher in altitude than she realized. Toward the west, looking down over the tops of trees, she could see the Great Mother River in the distance, all her channels gathered together again, winding through a deep gorge of sheer rocky walls. She understood now why Jondalar had turned aside to find a way around.
“I’ve been on a boat in that passage,” he said. “It’s called the Gate.”
“The Gate? You mean like a gate you’d make for a surround? To close the opening and trap animals inside?” Ayla asked.
“I don’t know. I never asked, but maybe that is where the name came from. Although it’s more like the fence