The valley of horses_ a novel - Jean M. Auel [164]
The young male’s anger at the scavenging animal gave Jondalar a sudden insight. Could the fish be a possible reason for the flathead to give him aid? Did he want some fish?
The flathead reached into a fold of the skin wrapped around him, took out a flake of flint with a sharp edge, and made a pass at the sturgeon as though to cut it. Then he made motions indicating some for him and some for the tall man, then waited. It was so clear. There was no doubt in Jondalar’s mind that the youngster wanted a share of the fish. A flood of questions filled him.
Where did the flathead get the tool? He wanted a closer look, but he knew it didn’t have the refinement of one of his—it had been made on a thicker flake, not a thin blade—but it was a perfectly serviceable sharp knife. It had been made by someone, crafted with purposeful design. But more than the tool, there were questions that disturbed him. The youngster had not talked, but he had most certainly communicated. Jondalar wondered if he could have made his wishes known as directly and easily.
The flathead was waiting expectantly, and Jondalar nodded, not sure if the motion would be understood. But his meaning had been communicated in more than gesture. Without hesitation, the young male set to work on the fish.
As the Zelandonii watched, a turmoil erupted that shook deeply held convictions. What was an animal? An animal might scurry in to take a bite of that fish. A more intelligent animal might consider a man dangerous and wait until he left, or died. An animal would not perceive that a man suffering from exposure needed warmth; would not have a fire and lead him to it; would not ask for a share of his food. That was human behavior; more, it was humane.
His structure of beliefs—fed to him with his mother’s milk and bred into his bones—was teetering. Flatheads were animals. Everyone said flatheads were animals. Wasn’t it obvious? They couldn’t talk. Is that all? Is that the difference?
Jondalar wouldn’t have cared if he had taken the whole fish, but he was curious. How much would the flathead take? It needed to be cut anyway, it was too heavy to move. Four men would have trouble lifting it.
Suddenly the flathead didn’t matter. His heart raced. Had he heard something?
“Jondalar! Jondalar!”
The flathead looked startled, but Jondalar was pushing through trees on the bank to get a clear view of the river.
“Here! Here I am, Thonolan!” His brother had come looking for him. He saw a boatload of people in the middle of the river and hailed them again. They saw him, waved back, and rowed toward him.
A straining grunt brought his attention back to the flathead. He saw, on the beach, that the sturgeon had been split in half lengthwise, from the backbone to the belly, and the young male had moved half the huge fish to a large leather hide spread out beside it. While the tall man watched, the young flathead gathered up the ends of the hide and slung the entire load on his back. Then, with the half of the head and tail sticking out the top of the huge sack, he disappeared into the woods.
“Wait!” Jondalar called, running after him. He caught up as they reached the glade. The female, with a large basket on her back, slid into the shadows as he approached. There was no evidence that the glade had been used, not even a trace of the fire. If he hadn’t felt its heat, he would have doubted it had ever been there.
He took the wolf fur from his shoulders and held it out. At a grunt from the male, she took it, then both moved silently into the woods and were gone.
Jondalar felt chilled in his damp clothes as he walked back to the river. He reached it as the