The valley of horses_ a novel - Jean M. Auel [269]
The thrower was held first in a horizontal position, with two fingers through the front loops, holding the thrower and the spear, which was resting in the long groove, butt against the backstop. When hurling, holding the front end by the loops caused the back end to flip up, in effect increasing the length of the throwing arm. The additional leverage added to the speed and force with which the spear left the hand.
“I think, Jondalar, it’s time to start practicing.”
Practicing filled their days. The padded leather around the target tree fell apart from constant puncturings, and a second one was put up. This time Jondalar drew the outline of a deer. Minor adaptations suggested themselves as they both gained in proficiency. Each of them borrowed from the techniques of the weapon with which he or she was most familiar. His strong overhand casts tended to have more lift; hers, angling more to the side, had a flatter trajectory. And each made a few adjustments on the thrower to suit his or her individual style.
A friendly competition developed between them. Ayla tried but could not match Jondalar’s mighty thrusts which gave him greater range; Jondalar could not match Ayla’s deadly accuracy. They were both astounded by the tremendous advantage of the new weapon. With it, Jondalar could hurl a spear more than twice as far, with greater force and perfect control, once a measure of skill was achieved. But one aspect of the practice sessions with Jondalar had greater effect on Ayla than the weapon itself.
She had always practiced and hunted alone. First playing in secret, fearful of being found out. Then practicing in earnest, but no less secretly. When she was allowed to hunt, it was only grudgingly. No one ever hunted with her. No one ever encouraged her when she missed, or shared a triumph when her aim was true. No one discussed with her the best way to use a weapon, advised her of alternate approaches, or listened with respect and interest to a suggestion of hers. And no one had ever teased, or joked, or laughed with her. Ayla had never experienced the camaraderie, the friendship, the fun, of a companion.
Yet, with all the easing of tensions practicing brought about, a distance remained between them that they could not seem to close. When their talk was about such safe subjects as hunting or weapons, their conversations were animated; but the introduction of any personal element caused uncomfortable silences and halting courteous evasions. An accidental touch was like a jolting shock from which they both sprang apart, followed always by stiff formality and lingering afterthoughts.
“Tomorrow!” Jondalar said, retrieving a twanging spear. Some of the hay stuffing came with it through a much enlarged and ragged hole in the leather.
“Tomorrow what?” Ayla asked.
“Tomorrow we go hunting. We’ve played long enough. We’re not going to learn any more, dulling points on a tree. It’s time to get serious.”
“Tomorrow,” Ayla agreed.
They picked up several spears and started walking back. “You know the area around here, Ayla. Where should we go?”
“I know the steppes to the east best, but maybe I should scout it first. I could go on Whinney.” She looked up to check the placement of the sun. “It’s still early.”
“Good idea. You and that horse are better than a handful of foot scouts.”
“Will you hold Racer back? I’ll feel better if I know he’s not following.”
“What about tomorrow when we go hunting?”
“We’ll have to take him with us. We need Whinney to bring the meat back. Whinney is always a little bothered by a kill, but she’s used to it. She will stay where I want her to, but if her colt gets excited and runs, and maybe gets caught in a stampede … I don’t know.”
“Don’t worry about it now. I’ll try to think of something.”
Ayla’s piercing whistle brought the mare and the colt. While Jondalar put an arm around Racer’s neck, scratched his itchy places, and talked to him, Ayla mounted Whinney and urged her to a gallop. The young one was comfortable with the man.