The valley of horses_ a novel - Jean M. Auel [258]
“Did you make all this?”
“Yes,” she replied, sorting through the stacks.
“It must have taken days … moons … seasons. How long did it take?”
Ayla tried to think of a way to tell him. “Seasons, many seasons. Most were made during the cold seasons. I had nothing else to do. Are any of these the right size?”
He looked over the containers she had spread out and picked up several, more to examine the workmanship than to select one. It was hard to believe. No matter how skilled she was, or how fast she worked, the finely woven baskets and smoothly finished bowls had taken time to make. How long had she been here? Alone.
“This one will be fine,” he said, selecting a large trough-shaped wooden bowl with high sides. Ayla piled everything back neatly while he held the lamp. She could not have been much more than a girl when she arrived, he thought. She’s not very old—or is she? It was hard to judge. She had an ageless quality, a certain ingenuousness, that was at odds with her full, ripe woman’s body. She had given birth; she was every bit a woman. I wonder how old she is?
They walked down the path. Jondalar filled the bowl with water and inspected the legbones he had found in her midden. “This one has a crack I didn’t notice before,” he mentioned, showing her the bone before he discarded it. He placed the rest in the water. As they went back up to the cave, he tried to estimate Ayla’s age. She can’t be too young—she’s too skilled a healer. Yet can she be as old as I am?
“Ayla, how long have you been here?” he asked as they started into the cave, unable to contain his curiosity.
She halted, not sure how to respond, or if she could make him understand. Her counting sticks came to mind, but although Creb had shown her how to make the marks, she wasn’t supposed to know. Jondalar might disapprove. But he’s leaving, she thought.
She got out a bundle of the sticks she had marked every day, untied it and laid them out.
“What are these?” he asked.
“You want to know how long I’ve been here. I don’t know how to tell you, but since I found this valley I have cut a mark on a stick every night. I have been here as many nights as there are marks on my sticks.”
“Do you know how many marks there are?”
She remembered the frustration she had felt when she had tried to make some meaning of her marked sticks before. “As many as there are,” she said.
Jondalar picked up one of the sticks, intrigued. She did not know the counting words, but she had some sense of them. Not even everyone in his Cave could comprehend them. The powerful magic of their meaning was not given to everyone to know. Zelandoni had explained some to him. He didn’t know all the magic they contained, but he knew more than most who were not of the calling. Where had Ayla learned to mark the sticks? How could someone raised by flatheads have any understanding of counting words?
“How did you learn to do this?”
“Creb showed me. Long ago. When I was a little girl.”
“Creb—the man whose hearth you lived at? He knew what they meant? He wasn’t just making marks?”
“Creb was … Mog-ur … holy man. The clan looked to him to know the proper time for certain ceremonies, like naming days or Clan Gatherings. This was how he knew. I don’t think he believed I would understand—it is difficult even for mog-urs. He did it so I wouldn’t ask so many questions. Afterward, he told me not to mention it again. He caught me once, when I was older, marking the days of the moon’s cycle and was very angry.”
“This … Mog-ur.” Jondalar had difficulty with the pronunciation. “He was someone holy, sacred, like a zelandoni?”
“I don’t know. You say zelandoni when you mean healer. Mog-ur was not a healer. Iza knew the plants and herbs—she was medicine woman. Mog-ur knew spirits.