The valley of horses_ a novel - Jean M. Auel [46]
She ran her hands through thick blond hair that fell in waves well below her shoulders. “I’m going to wash my hair this morning,” she motioned to no one in particular. Just around the bend she had found soaproot growing, and went to pull some roots. As she strolled back looking over the stream, she noticed the large rock jutting out of the shallows with smooth saucer-shaped depressions in it. She picked up a round stone and waded out to the rock. She rinsed the roots, scooped water into a depression, and pounded the soaproot to release the rich sudsy saponin. When she had worked up the foam, she wetted her hair, rubbed it in, then washed the rest of her body and dove into the water to rinse.
A large section of the jutting wall had broken off at some time in the past. Ayla climbed out on the portion that was underwater and walked across the surface that rose above the water to a place warming in the sun. A waist-deep channel on the shoreward side made the rock an island, partly shaded by an overhanging willow whose exposed roots clutched at the stream like bony fingers. She broke a twig off a small bush whose roots had found purchase in a crack, peeled it with her teeth, and used it to pull snarls out of her hair while it dried in the sun.
She was staring dreamily into the water, humming under her breath, when a flicker of movement caught her eye. Suddenly alert, she looked into the water at the silvery shape of a large trout resting beneath the roots. I haven’t had fish since I left the cave, she thought, recalling she hadn’t had breakfast either.
Slipping silently into the water off the far side of the rock, she swam downstream a ways, then waded toward the shallows. She put her hand in the water, letting her fingers dangle, and slowly, with infinite patience, she moved back upstream. As she approached the tree, she saw the trout with its head into the current, undulating slightly to maintain itself in its place under the root.
Ayla’s eyes glistened with excitement, but she was even more cautious, placing each foot securely as she neared the fish. She moved her hand up from behind until it was just below the trout, then touched it lightly, feeling for the open gill-covers. Suddenly, she grasped the fish and, in one sure movement, lifted it out of the water and threw it on the bank. The trout flopped and struggled for a few moments, then lay still.
She smiled, pleased with herself. It had been difficult learning how to tickle a fish out of the water when she was a child, and she still felt almost as proud as she had the first time she succeeded. She would watch the spot, knowing it would be used by a succession of tenants. This one was big enough for more than breakfast, she thought, as she retrieved her catch—anticipating the taste of fresh trout baked on hot stones.
As her breakfast cooked, Ayla busied herself making a basket of beargrass she had picked the day before. It was a simple, utilitarian basket, but with small variations in the weaving she created a change in texture to please herself, giving it a subtle design. She worked quickly, but with such skill that the basket would be watertight. By adding hot rocks, it could be used for a cooking utensil, but that was not the purpose she had in mind for it. She was making a storage container, thinking about everything she had to do to make herself secure for the cold season ahead.
The currants I picked yesterday will be dry in a few days, she estimated, glancing at the round red berries spread out on grass mats on her front porch. By then, more will be ripe. There will be a lot of blueberries, but I won’t get much out of that scrawny little apple tree. The cherry tree is full, but they’re almost too ripe. If I’m going to get some, I’d better do it today. Sunflower seeds will