The Plains of Passage - Jean M. Auel [52]
When they reached the river, Ayla and Jondalar stopped and studied the waterway and the surrounding area to determine the best place to cross. The river was deep and the current swift, and large jagged boulders created rapids in places. They checked the conditions both upstream and downstream, but the nature of the river seemed consistent for some distance. Finally they decided to try to cross at a place that seemed relatively free of rocks.
They both dismounted, tied the side pack baskets to the backs of their horses, and placed inside the foot-coverings and the warm outerwear they had donned in the chill of the morning. Jondalar removed his sleeveless shirt, and Ayla considered stripping entirely so she wouldn’t have to worry about drying her clothes, but a check of the water temperature with her foot changed her mind. She was used to cold water, but this fast-moving stream felt as icy as the water she had left out the night before and found in the morning with a thin frozen film on top. Even wet, the soft buckskin-leather tunic and leggings would provide some warmth.
Both the horses were agitated, moving back from the wet edge with prancing steps, whickering, neighing, and tossing their heads. Ayla put the halter with the lead rope on Whinney to help guide the horse across the water. Then, sensing the mare’s growing unease, the young woman hugged the shaggy neck and talked to her with the comforting private language she had invented when they were together in the valley.
She had developed it unconsciously, building on the complex signs, but primarily on the few words that were part of the language of the Clan, and she had added the repetitive nonsense sounds she and her son had begun to use, to which she had assigned meaning. It also included horse sounds, which she had gained a sense of and learned to mimic, an occasional lion grunt, and even a few bird whistles.
Jondalar turned to listen. Though he was accustomed to her speaking to the horse that way, he had no idea what she was saying. She had an uncanny ability to reproduce the sounds the animals made—she had learned their language when she lived alone, before he had taught her to speak verbally again—and he thought the language had a strange, otherworldly quality.
Racer shifted his feet and tossed his head, squealing anxiously. Jondalar spoke to him in soft tones while he stroked and scratched him. Ayla watched, noticing how the tall man’s wonderfully sensitive hands had an almost instant calming effect on the skittish young horse. It pleased her to see the closeness that had developed between them. Then her thoughts turned for a moment to the way his hands could make her feel, and she flushed slightly. He didn’t calm her.
The horses were not the only nervous animals. Wolf knew what was coming and was not anticipating the cold swim. Whining and pacing up and down the bank, he finally sat down and pointed his nose up, voicing his complaint in a mournful howl.
“Come here, Wolf,” Ayla said, stooping down to hug the young animal. “Are you a little frightened, too?”
“Is he going to give us problems again, crossing this river?” Jondalar said, still feeling annoyed at the wolf for