The valley of horses_ a novel - Jean M. Auel [228]
By the time it was dark, he was definitely worried. The colt needed Whinney, and Ayla should be back. He stood out on the far side of the ledge watching for her, then decided to build a fire, thinking she might see it in case she had lost her way. She wouldn’t lose her way, he said to himself, but he made the fire anyway.
It was late when she finally returned. He heard Whinney and started down the path to meet them, but the colt was ahead of him. Ayla dismounted on the beach, dragged a carcass off the travois, adjusted the poles to accommodate the narrow trail, and led the mare up as Jondalar reached the bottom and stepped aside. She came back with a stick from the fire for a torch. Jondalar took it while Ayla loaded a second carcass back on the travois. He hobbled over to help, but she had moved it already. Watching her handle the dead weight of the deer gave him an appreciation of her strength, and an insight into how she had acquired it. The horse and travois were useful, perhaps even indispensable, but she was still only one person.
The colt was eagerly searching for his dam’s teat, but Ayla pushed him aside until they reached the cave.
“You right, Jondalar,” she said as he reached the ledge. “Big, big fire. I not see before so big fire. Far away. Many, many animals.”
Something in her voice made him look closer. She was exhausted, and the carnage she had seen had left its imprint in the strained hollowness of her eyes. Her hands were black, her face and wrap were smudged with soot and blood. She unfastened the harness and travois, then put an arm around Whinney’s neck and leaned her forehead against the mare in weariness. The horse was standing with her head down and front legs spraddled while her colt eased the fullness of her udders. She looked as tired.
“That fire must have been far away. It’s late. Have you been riding all day?” Jondalar asked.
She pulled her head up and turned to him. For a moment, she had forgotten he was there. “Yes, all day,” she said, then took a deep breath. She couldn’t give in to her fatigue yet, she had too much to do. “Many animal die. Many come take meat. Wolf. Hyena. Lion. Other I not see before. Big teeth.” She demonstrated an open mouth and her two index fingers hanging down like elongated canines.
“You saw a dirk-toothed tiger! I didn’t know they were real! One old man used to tell stories to the youngsters at Summer Meetings about seeing one when he was young, but not everyone believed him. You really saw one?” He was wishing he could have been with her.
She nodded and shivered, tightening her shoulders and shutting her eyes. “Make Whinney fright. Stalk. Sling make go. Whinney, I run.”
Jondalar’s eyes opened wide at her halting recitation of the incident. “You drove off a dirk-toothed tiger with your sling? Good Mother, Ayla!”
“Much meat. Tiger … not need Whinney. Sling make go.” She wanted to say more, to describe the incident, to express her fear, to share it with him, but she didn’t have the means. She was too tired to visualize the motions and then try to think how the words fit in.
No wonder she’s exhausted, Jondalar thought. Maybe I shouldn’t have suggested checking the fire, but she did get two deer. That took nerve, though, facing down a dirk-toothed tiger. She is quite a woman.
Ayla looked at her hands, then headed down the path to the beach again. She took the torch which Jondalar had left stuck in the ground, carried it to the stream, and held it up to look around. Pulling up a stalk of pigweed, she crushed the leaves and roots in her hand, wet the mixture, and added a bit of sand. Then she scoured her hands, cleaned the travel grime off her face, and went back up.
Jondalar had started cooking rocks heating, and she was grateful. A cup of hot tea was just what she wanted. She had left food behind for him and hoped he wasn’t expecting her to cook. She couldn’t worry about meals now. She had two deer to skin and cut up into pieces for drying.
She had searched for animals that were