The valley of horses_ a novel - Jean M. Auel [229]
The dull knife pushed her beyond her limit. She hacked at the hide while tears of weariness and defeat filled her eyes and spilled over.
“Ayla, what’s wrong?” Jondalar asked.
She only hacked more violently at the deer. She couldn’t explain. He took the dull knife out of her hand and pulled her up. “You’re tired. Why don’t you go lie down and rest for a while?”
She shook her head, though she desperately wanted to do as he said. “Skin deer, dry meat. No wait, hyena come.”
He didn’t bother to suggest they bring the deer in; she wasn’t thinking clearly. “I’ll watch it,” he said. “You need some rest. Go in and lie down, Ayla.”
Gratitude filled her. He would watch it! She hadn’t thought to ask him; she wasn’t used to having someone else to help. She stumbled into the cave, shaking with relief, and fell onto her furs. She wanted to tell Jondalar how grateful she was, and she felt tears rise again, knowing that her attempt would be ineffectual. She couldn’t talk!
Jondalar came in and went out of the cave several times during the night, occasionally standing and watching the sleeping woman, his brow furrowed with concern. She was restless, flailing her arms and mumbling unintelligibly in her dreams.
Ayla was walking through fog, crying for help. A tall woman, shrouded in mist, her face indistinct, held out her arms. “I said I’d be careful, Mother, but where did you go?” Ayla muttered. “Why didn’t you come when I called you. I called and called, but you never came. Where have you been? Mother? Mother! Don’t go away again! Stay here! Mother, wait for me! Don’t leave me!”
The vision of the tall woman faded, and the mists cleared. In her place stood another woman, stocky and short. Her strong muscular legs were slightly bowed with an outward curvature, but she walked straight and upright. Her nose was large and aquiline, with a high prominent bridge, and her jaw, jutting forward, was chinless. Her forehead was low and sloped back, but her head was very large, her neck short and thick. Heavy brow ridges shaded large brown intelligent eyes that were filled with love and sorrow.
She beckoned. “Iza!” Ayla cried out to her. “Iza, help me! Please help me!” But Iza only looked at her quizzically. “Iza, don’t you hear me? Why can’t you understand?”
“No one can understand you if you don’t talk properly,” said another voice. She saw a man using a staff to help him walk. He was old and lame. One arm had been amputated at the elbow. The left side of his face was hideously scarred, and his left eye was missing, but his good right eye held strength, wisdom, and compassion. “You must learn to talk, Ayla,” Creb said with his one-handed gestures, but she could hear him. He spoke with Jondalar’s voice.
“How can I talk? I can’t remember! Help me, Creb!”
“Your totem is the Cave Lion, Ayla,” the old Mog-ur said.
With a tawny flash, the feline sprang for the aurochs and wrestled the huge reddish brown wild cow to the ground bawling in terror. Ayla gasped, and the dirk-toothed tiger snarled at her, fangs and muzzle dripping blood. He came for her, his long sharp fangs growing longer, and sharper. She was in a tiny cave trying to squeeze herself into the solid rock at her back. A cave lion roared.
“No! No!” she cried.
A gigantic paw with claws outstretched reached in and raked her left thigh with four parallel gashes.
“No! No!” she called out. “I can’t! I can’t!” The mist swirled around her. “I can’t remember!”
The tall woman held out her arms. “I’ll help you …”
For an instant the mist cleared, and Ayla saw a face not unlike her own. An aching nausea shook her, and a sour stench of wetness and rot issued from a crack opening in the ground.
“Mother! Motherrr!”
“Ayla! Ayla! What’s wrong?” Jondalar shook her. He had been out on the