The valley of horses_ a novel - Jean M. Auel [247]
It wasn’t until he drank the last of the tea that he felt himself flush and his complacency slip away. This was not like every other day. His actions of the day before had seen to that. He was about to throw the twig away, then noticed it and held it up, twirling it between his thumb and forefinger, thinking about its implications.
It had been easy to fall into the habit of letting her take care of him; she did it with such subtle grace. He never had to ask, she anticipated his wishes. The twig was a good example. Obviously, she had gotten up before him, gone down to get one, peeled it, and put it there for him. When had she started doing it? He recalled that when he was first able to walk down, he had found one for himself one morning. The next morning, when a twig was beside his cup, he had been very grateful. He still had difficulty with the steep path, then.
And the hot tea. No matter what time he woke up, hot tea was ready. How did she know when to start it? The first time she had brought him a cup in the morning, he had been warm in his appreciation. When was the last time he thanked her? How many other thoughtful acts had she done for him so unobtrusively? She never makes an issue of it. Marthona is like that, he thought, so gracious with her gifts and her time that no one ever feels obligated. Whenever he offered to help, Ayla seemed surprised, and was so grateful—as though she genuinely expected nothing in return for everything she had done for him.
“I gave her worse than nothing,” he said aloud. “And even after yesterday …” He held up the twig, gave it a twirl, and pitched it over the edge.
He noticed Whinney and the colt in the field, racing around in a large circle, full of high spirits, and he felt a twinge of excitement at seeing the running horses. “Look at him go! That colt can really run! In a sprint, I think he could outrace his dam!”
“In a sprint, young stallions often do, but not in the long run,” Ayla said, appearing at the top of the path. Jondalar spun around, his eyes glowing and his smile full of pride for the colt. His enthusiasm was hard to resist; she smiled in spite of her misgivings. She had hoped the man would develop an affection for the young horse—not that it mattered anymore.
“I was wondering where you were,” he said. He felt awkward in her presence and his smile faded.
“I started a fire in the roasting pit earlier, for the ptarmigan. I went to see if it was ready.” He doesn’t seem very happy to see me, she thought, turning to go into the cave. Her smile vanished, too.
“Ayla,” he called, hurrying after her. When she turned back, he didn’t know what to say. “I … uh … I was wondering … uh … I’d like to make some tools. If you don’t mind, that is. I don’t want to use up your flint.”
“I do not mind. Every year the floods take some away and bring more,” she said.
“Must be washing down from a chalk deposit upstream. If I knew it wasn’t far, I’d get some from the source. It’s so much better when it’s freshly mined. Dalanar mines his from a deposit near his Cave, and everyone knows the quality of Lanzadonii flint.”
The enthusiasm returned to his eyes, as it always did when he talked about his craft. Droog was like that, Ayla thought. He loved toolmaking, and everything connected with it. She smiled to herself remembering the time Droog discovered Aga’s young son, the one born after they were mated, pounding rocks together. Droog was so proud, he even gave him a hammerstone. He liked teaching the skill; he didn’t even mind showing me, though I was a girl.
Jondalar noticed her inward look and the hint of a smile. “What are you thinking about, Ayla?” he asked.
“Droog. He was a toolmaker. He used to let me watch him if I was very quiet and didn’t disturb his