The valley of horses_ a novel - Jean M. Auel [101]
The leaden sky dropped large liquid blobs into the black puddle that had once been a fireplace. Ayla watched them erupt into craters, then spread out in rings, and wished she were in her dry snug cave in the valley. A bone-chilling cold was seeping up through her heavy leather foot coverings in spite of the grease she had smeared on them and the sedge grass stuffed inside. The sodden quagmire dampened her enthusiasm for hunting.
She moved up on a hummock of higher ground when the overflowing puddles cut channels of muddy water to the river, carrying twigs, sticks, grass, and last season’s old leaves along. Why don’t I just go back, she thought, hauling the carrying baskets with her up the rise. She peeked under the lids; the rain was running off the woven cattail leaves and the contents were dry. It’s useless. I ought to load these on Whinney and go. I’ll never get a reindeer. One of them isn’t going to jump into that big hole because I want it to. Maybe I can get one of the old stragglers later. But their meat is tough and their hides are all scarred up.
Ayla heaved a sigh, then pulled the fur wrap and the old tent hide up around her. I’ve been planning and working so long, I can’t let a little rain stop me. Maybe I won’t get a deer; it wouldn’t be the first time a hunter returned empty-handed. Only one thing is sure—I’ll never get one if I don’t try.
She climbed up on a rock formation when the runoff threatened to undercut the hummock, and she squinted her eyes trying to peer through the rain to see if it was slackening. There was no shelter on the flat open prairie, no large trees or overhanging cliffs. Like the shaggy dripping horse beside her, Ayla stood in the middle of the downpour patiently waiting out the rain. She hoped the reindeer were waiting, too. She wasn’t ready for them. Her resolve faltered again around midmorning, but by then she just didn’t feel like moving.
With the usual erratic disposition of spring, the cloud cover broke about noon, and a brisk wind sent it streaming off. By afternoon, no trace of clouds could be seen, and the bright young colors of the seasons sparkled with fresh-washed brilliance in the full glory of the sun. The ground steamed in its enthusiasm to give back the moisture to the atmosphere. The dry wind that had driven off the clouds sucked it up greedily, as though it knew it would forfeit a share to the glacier.
Ayla’s determination returned, if not her confidence. She shook off the heavy, waterlogged aurochs hide and draped it over high brush, hoping this time it would dry a little. Her feet were damp, but not cold, so she ignored them—everything was damp—and went to the deer crossing. She couldn’t see her hole, and her heart sank. With a closer look, she saw an overflowing muddy pool clogged with leaves, sticks, and debris where her pit had been.
Setting her jaw, she returned for a water basket to bail out the hole. On her way back, she had to look carefully to see the hole from a distance. Then suddenly, she smiled. If I have to look for it, all covered up with leaves and sticks like that, maybe a reindeer running fast won’t see it either. But I can’t leave the water in it—I wonder if there’s some other way …
Willow switches would be long enough to go across. Why couldn’t I make a cover for the pit out of willow switches, and put leaves on it. It wouldn’t be strong enough to hold up a deer, but fine for leaves and twigs. Suddenly she laughed out loud. The horse neighed in response and went to her.
“Oh, Whinney! Maybe that rain wasn’t so bad after all.”
Ayla bailed out the pit trap, not even minding that it was a messy, dirty job. It was not as deep, but when she tried to dig it out, she found the water table was higher. It just filled up with more water. She noticed that the river was fuller when she looked at the muddy, churning stream. And, though she didn’t know it,