The valley of horses_ a novel - Jean M. Auel [200]
Jondalar was at a loss. Nothing he had said evoked any response from her at all He wondered if she was unable to hear, then remembered how quickly she had turned to look at him the first time he spoke. What a strange woman, he thought, feeling uncomfortable. I wonder where the rest of her people are. He glanced around the small cave, saw the hay-colored foal and her bay colt, and was struck by another thought. What was that horse doing in a cave? And why did it allow a woman to midwife? He’d never seen a horse give birth before, not even out on the plains. Did the woman have some kind of special powers?
This whole thing was beginning to have the unreal quality of a dream, yet he didn’t think he was sleeping. Maybe it’s worse. Maybe she’s a donii who’s come for you, Jondalar, he thought with a shudder, not at all sure she was a benevolent spirit … if she was a spirit. He was relieved when she moved, if rather hesitantly, toward the fire.
Her manner was diffident. She moved as though she did not want him to see her; she reminded him of … something. Her clothing was rather odd, too. It seemed to be nothing more than a leather hide wrapped around her and tied with a thong. Where had he seen something like that before? He couldn’t recall.
She had done something interesting with her hair. It was separated into orderly sections all over her head and braided. He had seen braided hair before, though never worn in a style quite like hers. It was not unattractive but unusual. He had thought she was rather pretty the first time he had looked at her. She’d seemed young—there was an innocence in her eyes—but as closely as he could tell with such a shapeless wrap, she had a mature woman’s body. She seemed to be avoiding his inquiring gaze. Why? he wondered. He was beginning to be intrigued—she was a strange enigma.
He didn’t notice he was hungry until he smelled the rich broth she brought him. He tried to sit up, and the deep pain in his right leg made him aware that he had other injuries as well. He hurt, all over. Then, for the first time, he wondered where he was and how he had gotten there. Suddenly he remembered Thonolan going into the canyon … the roar … and the most gigantic cave lion he had ever seen.
“Thonolan!” he cried, looking around the cave in panic. “Where’s Thonolan?” There was no one else in the cave except the woman. His stomach churned. He knew, but he did not want to believe. Maybe Thonolan was in some other cave nearby. Maybe someone else was taking care of him. “Where’s my brother? Where’s Thonolan?!”
That word sounded familiar to Ayla. It was the one he had repeated so often when he called out with alarm from the depths of his dreams. She guessed he was asking for his companion, and she put her head down to show respect for the young man who was dead.
“Where’s my brother, woman?” Jondalar shouted, grabbing her arms and shaking her. “Where is Thonolan?”
Ayla was shocked by his outburst. The loudness of his voice, the anger, the frustration, the uncontrolled emotions she could hear in his tone and see in his actions, all disturbed her. Men of the Clan would never have displayed their emotions so openly. They might feel as strongly, but manliness was measured by self-control.
There was grief in his eyes, though, and she could read from the tension in his shoulders and the tightening of his jaw that he was fighting the truth he knew but did not want to accept. The people she had grown up among communicated by more than simple hand signs and gestures. Stance, posture, expression, all gave shades of meaning that were part of the vocabulary. The flexion of a muscle could reveal a nuance. Ayla was accustomed to reading the language of the body, and the loss of a loved one was a universal