The valley of horses_ a novel - Jean M. Auel [263]
She got up quietly and found the clothes she had cut off him that first night, and she brought them closer to the fireplace. They were still stiff with dried blood, but if she soaked it out, she could see how they were made. The shirt, with the fascinating design, could be salvaged, she thought, if she replaced the arm sections. The trousers would have to be remade from new material, but she could save some of the parka. The foot coverings were undamaged; they only needed new thongs.
She leaned close to the red coals, examining the seams. Small holes had been poked through the skins along the edges, then pulled together with sinew and thin leather strips. She had looked at them before, the night she had cut them off. She wasn’t sure if she could reproduce them, but she could try.
Jondalar stirred, and she held her breath. She didn’t want him to see her with his clothes; she didn’t want him to know until they were ready. He settled down again, making the heavy breathing sounds of deep sleep. She bundled up the clothes once more and put them under her sleeping fur. Later, she could go through her pile of finished skins and furs and select the ones to use.
As faint light began to filter in through the cave openings, a slight change in his movements and breathing signaled to Ayla that he would wake soon. She added wood to the fire along with heating stones, then set out the pot-basket. The waterbag was nearly empty, and tea was better made with fresh water. Whinney and her colt were standing on their side of the cave, and Ayla stopped on her way out when the mare blew softly.
“I have a wonderful idea,” she said to the horse in silent sign language, smiling. “I’m going to make Jondalar some clothes, his kind of clothes. Do you think he’ll like that?” Then her smile left her. She put an arm around Whinney’s neck, the other around Racer, and leaned her forehead on the mare. Then he’ll leave me, she thought. She could not force him to stay. She could only help him leave.
She walked down the path by the first light of dawn, trying to forget her bleak future without Jondalar, and trying to draw some comfort from the thought that the clothes she would make would be close to him. She slipped out of her wrap for a brisk morning swim, then found a twig of the right size and filled the waterbag.
I’ll try something different this morning, she thought: sweet grass and chamomile. She peeled the twig, put it beside the cup, and started the tea steeping. The raspberries are ripe. I think I’ll pick some.
She set the hot tea out for Jondalar, selected a picking basket, and went back out. Whinney and Racer followed her out and grazed in the field near the patch of raspberries. She also dug up wild carrots, small and pale yellow, and white, starchy groundnuts that were good raw, though she liked them better cooked.
When she returned, Jondalar was outside on the sunny ledge. She waved when she washed the roots, then brought them up and added them to a broth she had started using dry meat. She tasted it, sprinkled in some dried herbs, and divided the raspberries into two portions, then poured herself a cup of cool tea.
“Chamomile,” Jondalar said, “and I don’t know what else.”
“I don’t know what you call it, something like grass that is sweet. I’ll show you the plant sometime.” She noticed his toolmaking implements were out, along with several of the blades he had made the previous time.
“I thought I’d start early,” he said, seeing her interest. “There are certain tools I need to make first.”
“It is time to go hunting. Dried meat is so lean. The animals will have some fat built up this late in the season. I’m hungry for a fresh roast with rich drippings.”
He smiled. “You make it sound delicious just talking about it. I meant it,