The valley of horses_ a novel - Jean M. Auel [208]
The cup itself was deep, with a flaring lip, symmetrical, and finished to a fine smoothness. Even the inside showed no gouging ridges. A gnarled piece of wood was hard to work; this cup must have taken many days to make. The closer he looked, the more he realized the cup was unquestionably a fine piece of workmanship, deceiving in its simplicity. Marthona would like this, he thought, remembering his mother’s ability to arrange even the most utilitarian implements and storage containers in a pleasing way. She had a knack for seeing beauty in simple objects.
He looked up when Ayla brought in a load of wood and shook his head at her primitive leather wrap. Then he noticed the pad on which he was lying. Like her wrap, it was just the hide, not cut to shape, wrapped around fresh hay and tucked under in a shallow trench. He pulled out an end to examine it closer. The very outside edge was a bit stiff, and a few deer hairs still clung, but it was very pliable and velvety soft. Both the inner grain and the tough outer grain along with the fur had been scraped off, which helped to account for the supple texture. But her furs impressed him more. It was one thing to stretch and pull a skin with the grain removed to make it flexible. It was far more difficult with furs since only the inner grain was removed. Furs usually tended to be stiff er, yet the ones on the bed were as pliant as the skins.
There was a familiarity to the feel of them, but he could not think why.
No carvings or decorations on implements, he was thinking, but made with the finest workmanship. Skins and furs cured with great skill and care—yet no clothing was cut or shaped to fit, sewn or laced together, and no item was beaded, or quilled, or dyed, or decorated in any way. Yet she had fitted and sewn his leg together. They were peculiar inconsistencies, and the woman was a mystery.
Jondalar had been watching Ayla as she prepared to make a fire, but he really had not been paying attention. He’d seen fire made many times. He had wondered in passing why she didn’t just bring in a coal from the fire she used to cook his meal, and then he supposed it had gone out. He saw, without seeing, the woman gather together quick-starting tinder, pick up a couple of stones, strike them together, and blow a flame to life. It was done so quickly that the fire was burning well before it occurred to him what she had done.
“Great Mother! How did you get that fire started so fast?” He vaguely recalled thinking she had made a very quick fire in the middle of the night, but he had passed that off as a misimpression.
Ayla turned at his outburst with a quizzical look.
“How did you start that fire?” he asked again, sitting forward. “Oh, Doni! She doesn’t understand a word I’m saying.” He threw his hands up in exasperation. “Do you even know what you’ve done? Come here, Ayla,” he said, beckoning to her.
She went to him immediately; it was the first time she had seen him use a hand motion in any purposeful way. He was greatly concerned about something, and she frowned, concentrating on his words, wishing she could understand.
“How did you make that fire?” he asked again, saying the words slowly and carefully as though, somehow, that would enable her to understand—and flung his arm toward the fire.
“Fy … ?” She made a tentative attempt to repeat his last word. Something was important. She was shaking with concentration, trying to will herself to understand him.
“Fire! Fire! Yes, fire,” he shouted, gesticulating toward the flames. “Do you have any idea what it could mean to make a fire that fast?”
“Fyr … ?”
“Yes, like that over there,” he said, jabbing his finger in the air at the fireplace. “How did you make it?