The valley of horses_ a novel - Jean M. Auel [256]
“Racer!” he said. “What do you think of naming him Racer?” He had used the word so often in reference to the colt that it fit him.
“I like it. It’s a good name. But if it is to be his, he should be named properly.”
“How do you name a horse properly?”
“I’m not sure if it is proper for a horse, but I named Whinney the way children of the Clan are named. I’ll show you.”
With the horses following them, she led him to a draw on the steppes that had once been a riverbed, but had been dry for so long that it was partially filled in. One side had eroded to show the horizontal layers of strata. To Jondalar’s surprise, she loosened a layer of red ochre with a stick and gathered up the deep brownish red earth in both hands. Back at the stream, she mixed the red earth with water to a muddy paste.
“Creb mixed the red color with cave bear grease, but I don’t have any, and I think plain mud is better for a horse. It dries and brushes off. It’s the naming that counts. You’ll have to hold his head.”
Jondalar beckoned. The colt was full of lively antics but understood the gesture. He stood still while the man put an arm around his neck and scratched. Ayla made some movements in the Old Language requesting the attention of the spirits. She did not want to make it too serious. She still wasn’t sure if spirits were offended by the naming of a horse, though naming Whinney had produced no ill effects. Then she picked up a handful of red mud.
“The name of this male horse is Racer,” she said, making the gestures at the same time. Then she smeared the wet red earth down his face, from the tuft of white hair on his forehead to the end of his rather long nose.
It was done quickly, before the colt could wriggle out of Jondalar’s grasp. He pranced away, tossing his head, trying to rid himself of the unaccustomed wetness, then butted up against Jondalar, leaving a red streak on his bare chest.
“I think he just named me,” the man said, smiling. Then, true to his name, Racer sped down the field. Jondalar brushed at the reddish smear on his chest. “Why did you use this? The red earth?”
“It is special … holy … for spirits,” she said.
“Sacred? We call it sacred. The blood of the Mother.”
“The blood, yes. Creb … the Mog-ur rubbed a salve of red earth and cave bear grease on Iza’s body after her spirit left. He called it the blood of birth, so Iza could be born into the next world.” The memory still brought her pain.
Jondalar’s eyes widened. “Flatheads … I mean, your Clan uses the sacred earth to send a spirit to the next world? Are you sure?”
“No one is buried properly without it.”
“Ayla, we use the red earth. It is the blood of the Mother. It is put on the body and the grave so she will take the spirit back into Her womb to be born again.” A look of pain came into his eyes. “Thonolan had no red earth.”
“I had none for him, Jondalar, and I couldn’t take the time to get it. I had to get you back here, or I would have needed to make a second grave. I did ask my totem, and the spirit of Ursus, the Great Cave Bear, to help him find his way.”
“You buried him?! His body was not left to scavengers?”
“I put his body next to the wall and loosened a rock so the gravel and stones covered him. But I had no red earth.”
Jondalar found the idea of flathead burials the hardest to comprehend. Animals did not bury their dead. Only humans thought about where they came from, and where they were going after this life. Could her Clan spirits guide Thonolan on his way?
“It is more than my brother would have had if you hadn’t been there, Ayla. And I have so much more—I have my life.”
26
“Ayla, I can’t remember when I’ve tasted anything this good. Where did you learn to cook like this?” Jondalar said, reaching for another piece of the rich, delicately seasoned ptarmigan.
“Iza taught me. Where else would I have learned? This was Creb’s favorite dish.” Ayla didn’t know why, but his question irritated her a little. Why shouldn’t she know how to cook? “A medicine