The valley of horses_ a novel - Jean M. Auel [172]
The sky that had been so clear in the morning was now a curdled mass of ominous clouds. The high pressure that had been holding off winter had yielded, and the cold front that had been waiting rushed in. Wind was flattening the dry grass and whipping bits of it around in the air. Temperature was falling fast. She could smell snow on its way, and she was a long distance from the cave. She looked around, took her bearings, and started off at a run. It was going to be a race to see if she could get back before the storm struck.
She didn’t have a chance. She was more than half a day’s brisk walk from the valley, and winter had been held back too long. By the time she reached the dry stream, big, wet snowfiakes were falling. They became penetrating needles of ice as the wind picked up again, then turned to the drier siftings of a full-blown blizzard. Drifts were building on the solid base of wet snow. Swirling winds, still fighting crosscurrents of shifting air streams, buffeted her first from one direction and then another.
She knew her only hope was to keep going, but she wasn’t sure if she was still going the right way. The shape of landmarks was obscured. She stopped, trying to get a sense of her location, and trying to control her rising panic. How stupid she had been to leave without her fur. She could have taken her tent in her carrying basket; then, at least, she’d have shelter. Her ears were freezing, her feet were numb, her teeth were chattering. She was cold. She could hear the wind whistling.
She listened again. That wasn’t wind, was it? There it was again. She cupped her hands around her mouth and whistled as loud as she could, and listened.
The high-pitched screaming whinny of a horse sounded closer. She whistled once more, and when the shape of the yellow horse loomed like a wraith out of the storm, Ayla ran to her with tears freezing her face.
“Whinney, Whinney, oh, Whinney.” She cried the horse’s name over and over again, wrapping her arms around the sturdy neck and burying her face in the shaggy winter coat. Then she climbed up on the horse’s back and bent low over her neck for as much warmth as she could get.
The horse followed her own instincts and headed for the cave. It was the place she had been going. The unexpected death of the stallion had disrupted the herd. The lead mare was holding them together, knowing another stallion would eventually be found. She might have kept the yellow horse as well—if it hadn’t been for the familiar whistle, and memories of the woman and security. For the mare not raised in a herd, the lead horse had less influence. When the storm broke, Whinney remembered a cave that was shelter from fierce winds and blinding snows and the affection of a woman.
Ayla was shivering so hard by the time they finally reached the cave that she could hardly start a fire. When she did, she didn’t huddle near it. Instead, she grabbed up her sleeping furs, brought them to Whinney’s side of the cave, and curled up next to the warm horse.
But she could hardly appreciate the return of her beloved friend for the next few days. She woke up with a fever and a deep hacking cough. She lived on hot medicinal teas, when she could remember to get up and make them. Whinney had saved her life, but the horse could do nothing to help her overcome pneumonia.
She was weak and delirious most of the time, but the moment of confrontation when Baby returned to the cave brought her out of it. He had leaped down from the steppes above, but was stopped as he entered by Whinney’s ringing challenge. The scream of fright and defense pierced Ayla’s stupor. She saw the horse with her ears laid back in anger and then pitching forward in fear, prancing nervously, and the cave lion poised to spring with bared teeth and a low growl in his throat. She leaped out of bed and ran between predator and prey.
“Stop it, Baby! It frightens Whinney. You should be glad she’s back.” Ayla turned then to the horse. “Whinney! It’s only Baby. You don’t have to be afraid of him. Both