The valley of horses_ a novel - Jean M. Auel [234]
The horse broke into an all-out gallop straight across the field, with Jondalar hanging on to her neck for all he was worth, his long hair streaming behind him. He could feel the wind in his face, and, when he finally dared open his eyes a crack, he saw the land moving past at an alarming speed. It was frightening—and thrilling! He understood Ayla’s inability to describe the feeling. It was like sliding down an icy hill in winter, or the time he was pulled up the river by the big sturgeon, but more exciting. His eye was drawn by a blur of movement to his left. The bay colt was racing beside his mother, matching her pace.
He heard a distant whistle, sharp and piercing, and suddenly the horse wheeled around in a tight turn and galloped back.
“Sit up!” she called to Jondalar as they approached. When the horse slowed, nearing the woman, he sat up straighter. Whinney cantered to a halt beside the stone.
Jondalar was shaking a bit when he dismounted, but his eyes glistened with excitement. Ayla patted the mare’s sweaty flanks, then followed her more slowly when Whinney trotted toward the beach near the cave.
“Do you know that colt kept up with her the whole way? What a racer he is!”
From the way Jondalar used it, Ayla sensed there was more to the word than its meaning. “What is a ‘racer’?” she asked.
“At Summer Meetings there are contests—all kinds—but the most exciting are the Races, the running contests,” he explained. “The runners are called racers, and the word has come to mean anyone who strives to win, or tries to achieve some goal. It is a word of approval and encouragement-praise.”
“The colt is a racer; he likes to run.”
They continued walking in silence, which grew more painful with each step. “Why did you tell me to sit up?” Jondalar finally asked, trying to fill it. “I thought you said you didn’t know how you told Whinney what you wanted. She did slow down when I sat up.”
“I never thought about it before, but when I saw you corning, I suddenly thought, ‘sit up.’ I didn’t know how to tell you at first, but when you needed to slow down, I just knew.”
“You do give the horse signals, then. Some kind of signals. I wonder if the colt could learn signals,” he mused.
They reached the wall that extended out toward the water and rounded it to the spectacle of Whinney rolling in the mud at the edge of the stream to cool down, groaning with exquisite pleasure. Near her was the colt with his legs in the air. Jondalar, smiling, stopped to watch, but Ayla kept walking with her head down. He caught up with her as she started up the path.
“Ayla …” She turned around, and then he didn’t know what to say. “I … I, ahhh … I want to thank you.”
It was still a word she had some difficulty comprehending. There was no direct parallel in the Clan. The members of each small clan were so dependent on each other for survival, mutual assistance was a way of life. Thanks were no more offered than a baby would thank its mother for care, or a mother expect it. Special favors or gifts imposed obligations to return them in kind, and they were not always received with pleasure.
The closest anyone in the Clan came to thanks was a form of gratitude from someone of lower status to someone with more rank, usually a woman toward a man, for a special dispensation. It seemed to her that Jondalar was trying to say he was grateful to her for riding on Whinney.
“Jondalar, Whinney allowed you to sit on her back. Why do you thank me?”
“You helped me ride her, Ayla. And besides, I have so much more to thank you for. You’ve done so much for me, taken care of me.”
“Would the colt say thank you to Whinney for taking care of him? You were in need, I took care of you. Why … ‘thank you’?”
“But you saved my life.”
“I am a woman who heals, Jondalar.” She tried to think of a way to explain that when someone saved another’s life, a piece of the life spirit was claimed, and, therefore, the obligation of protecting that person in return; in effect, the two became