The valley of horses_ a novel - Jean M. Auel [45]
“You don’t fall in love at all, Jondalar.”
Jondalar started walking faster. “What do you mean? I’ve loved a lot of women.”
“Loved them, yes. That’s not the same thing.”
“How would you know? Have you ever been in love?”
“A few times. Maybe it hasn’t lasted, but I know the difference. Look, Brother, I don’t want to pry, but I worry about you, especially when you get moody. And you don’t have to run. I’ll shut up if you want me to.”
Jondalar slowed down. “So, maybe you’re right. Maybe I’ve never fallen in love. Maybe it’s not in me to fall in love.”
“What’s missing? What don’t the women you know have?”
“If I knew, don’t you think …” he began angrily. Then he paused. “I don’t know, Thonolan. I guess I want it all. I want a woman like she is at First Rites—I think I fall in love with every woman then, at least for that night. But I want a woman, not a girl. I want her honestly eager and willing without any pretenses, but I don’t want to have to be so careful with her. I want her to have spirit, to know her own mind. I want her young and old, naïve and wise, all at the same time.”
“That’s a lot to want, Brother.”
“Well, you asked.” They walked in silence for a while.
“How old would you say Zelandoni is?” Thonolan asked. “A little younger than Mother, maybe?”
Jondalar stiffened. “Why?”
“They say she was really beautiful when she was younger, even just a few years ago. Some of the older men say no one could compare to her, not even come close. It’s hard for me to tell, but they say she’s young to be First among Those Who Serve the Mother. Tell me something, Big Brother. What they say about you and Zelandoni, is it true?”
Jondalar stopped and slowly turned to face his brother. “Tell me, what do they say about me and Zelandoni?” he asked through gritted teeth.
“Sorry. I just went too far. Forget I asked.”
5
Ayla walked out of the cave and onto the stone ledge in front of it, rubbing her eyes and stretching. The sun was still low in the east and she shaded her eyes as she looked to see where the horses were. Checking the horses when she awoke in the morning had already become a habit, though she had been there only a few days. It made her solitary existence a little more bearable to think she was sharing the valley with other living creatures.
She was becoming aware of their patterns of movement, where they went for water in the morning, the shade trees they favored in the afternoon, and she was noticing individuals. There was the yearling colt whose gray coat was so light that it was almost white, except where it shaded darker along the characteristic stripe down the spine and the dark gray lower legs and stiff standing mane. And there was the dun mare with her hay-colored foal, whose coat matched the stallion’s. And then the proud leader himself, whose place would someday be taken by one of those yearlings he barely tolerated, or perhaps one of next year’s brood, or the next. The light yellow stallion, with the deep brown feral stripe, mane, and lower legs, was in his prime, and his bearing showed it.
“Good morning, horse clan,” Ayla signaled, making the gesture commonly used for any greeting purpose, with a slight nuance which shaded it to a morning greeting. “I slept late this morning. You’ve already had your morning drink—I think I’ll get mine.”
She ran lightly down to the stream, familiar enough with the steep path to be sure-footed on it. She took a drink, then doffed her wrap for her morning swim It was the same wrap, but she had washed it and worked it with her scrapers to soften the leather again. Her own natural preference for order and cleanliness had been reinforced