The valley of horses_ a novel - Jean M. Auel [233]
He found a stick to loosen the soil and covered the essence of his Pleasures with the earth of the Mother. Zelandoni had told him it was a waste of the Mother’s Gift to spill it, but if it was necessary, it should be given back to Her, spilled on the ground and covered. Zelandoni was right, he thought. It was a waste, and there had been no pleasure in it.
He walked alongside the stream, embarrassed to come out in the open. He saw her waiting by the large boulder with her arm around the colt and her forehead pressed on Whinney’s neck. She looked so vulnerable, clinging to the animals for support and comfort. She should be leaning on him for support, he thought, he should be comforting her. He was sure he had caused her distress, and he felt ashamed, as though he had committed some reprehensible act. With reluctance, he came out of the woods.
“There are times when a man can’t wait to make his stream,” he lied, with a weak smile.
Ayla was surprised. Why should he make words that were not true? She knew what he had done. He had relieved himself.
A man of the Clan would have asked for the leader’s mate before he would have relieved himself. If he couldn’t control his need, even she, as ugly as she was, would have been signaled, if there was no other woman. No adult male would relieve himself. Only adolescents, who had reached physical maturity but had not yet made their first kill, would consider it. But Jondalar had preferred to take care of himself rather than signal her. She was beyond hurt; she was humiliated.
She ignored his words and avoided a direct look. “If you want to ride Whinney, I’ll hold her while you get up on the rock and put your leg over. I will tell Whinney you want to ride. Maybe she will let you.”
That was the reason they had stopped picking, he recalled. What had happened to his enthusiasm? How could so much change in the course of walking from one end of the field to the other? Trying to give the impression that everything was normal, he climbed up on the seatlike indentation of the large boulder while Ayla guided the horse closer, but he avoided eye contact, too.
“How do you make her go where you want?” he asked.
Ayla had to consider the question. “I do not make her go, she wants to go where I want to go.”
“But how does she know where you want to go?”
“I don’t know …” She didn’t; she hadn’t thought about it.
Jondalar decided he didn’t care. He was willing to go wherever the horse would take him, if she was willing to take him at all. He put a hand on her withers to steady himself, then gingerly straddled the horse.
Whinney cocked her ears back. She knew it wasn’t Ayla, and the load was heavier and lacked the immediate sense of guidance, the muscle tension of Ayla’s thighs and legs. But Ayla was close, holding her head, and the man was familiar. The mare pranced with uncertainty but settled down after a few moments.
“What do I do now?” Jondalar asked, seated on the small horse with his long legs dangling on either side—not quite knowing what to do with his hands.
Ayla patted the horse with familiar reassurance, then addressed her in a language that was part gesture, part clipped Clan words, and part Zelandonii. “Jondalar would like you to give him a ride, Whinney.”
Her voice had the urging-forward tone, and her hand exerted gentle pressure; cue enough to the animal so attuned to the woman’s directions. Whinney started forward.
“If you need to hold on, put your arms around her neck,” Ayla advised.
Whinney was used to carrying a person on her back. She didn’t jump or buck, but without guidance, she moved with hesitancy. Jondalar leaned forward to pat her neck, as much to reassure himself as the horse, but the movement had a similarity to Ayla’s direction to move faster. The unexpected forward jolt caused the man to follow Ayla’s advice. He wrapped his