The valley of horses_ a novel - Jean M. Auel [155]
Whinney had had a pairing season the previous spring, but at the time, though she heard a stallion neighing on the steppes above, Whinney couldn’t get up to him. The young mare’s need seemed stronger this time, too. Ayla didn’t remember so much swelling and squealing. Whinney submitted to the young woman’s pats and hugs; then the horse dropped her head and squealed again.
Suddenly, Ayla’s stomach churned into a knot of anxiety. She leaned against the horse, the way Whinney sometimes did against her when she was upset or frightened. Whinney was going to leave her! It was so unexpected. Ayla hadn’t had time to prepare for it, though she should have. She’d been thinking about Baby’s future, and her own. Instead, Whinney’s pairing season had come. The filly needed a stallion, a mate.
With great reluctance, Ayla walked out of the cave and signaled Whinney to follow. When they reached the rocky beach below, Ayla mounted. Baby got up to follow them, but Ayla motioned “Stop.” She did not want the cave lion with her now. She was not going hunting, but Baby might not know that. Ayla had to stop the lion once more, with firm determination, before he stayed behind watching them go.
It was warm, and damply cool at the same time, on the steppes. The sun, about midway to noon, blazed out of a pale blue sky with a veiled halo; the blue seemed faded, bleached by the intensity of the glare. Melting snow steamed to a fine mist that did not limit visibility but softened sharp angles, and fog clinging to cool shadows flattened contours. Perspective was lost and the entire view was foreshortened—lending an immediacy to the landscape, a sense of present tense, here and now, as though no other time and place ever existed. Distant objects seemed only a few paces away, yet took forever to reach.
Ayla didn’t guide the horse. She let Whinney take her, only subliminally noticing landmarks and direction. She didn’t care where she was going, didn’t know her tears were adding their salty moisture to the ambient dampness. She sat loosely, jouncing, her thoughts turned inward. She recalled the first time she saw the valley and the herd of horses in the meadow. She thought about her decision to stay, her need to hunt. She remembered leading Whinney to the safety of her fire and her cave. She should have known it couldn’t last, that someday Whinney would return to her own kind, just as she herself needed to do.
A change in the horse’s pace jogged her attention. Whinney had found what she was looking for. A small band of horses was ahead.
The sun had melted the snow covering a low hill and exposed tiny green shoots poking above the ground. The animals, hungry for a change from the straw of last year’s forage, were nibbling the succulent new growth. Whinney stopped when the other horses looked up at her. Ayla heard the neigh of a stallion. Off to the side, on a knoll she hadn’t noticed before, she saw him. He was dark reddish brown with a black mane, tail, and lower legs. She had never seen a horse so deeply colored. Most of them were shades of gray brown, or beige dun, or, like Whinney, the yellow color of ripe hay.
The stallion screamed, lifted his head, and curled back his upper lip. He reared and galloped toward them, then stopped short a few paces away, pawing the ground. His neck was arched, his tail was raised, and his erection was magnificent.
Whinney nickered in reply, and Ayla slid off her back. She gave the horse a hug, then backed away. Whinney turned her head to look at the young woman who had taken care of her since she was a foal.
“Go to him, Whinney,” she said. “You’ve found your mate, go to him.”
Whinney tossed her head and neighed softly,