The valley of horses_ a novel - Jean M. Auel [49]
When she finished, it was late. She was tired, and glad of it. It would bring sleep more easily. Nights were the worst time. Ayla banked her fire, walked to the opening, gazed out at the star-spattered sky, and tried to think of some reason to delay going to bed. She had dug a shallow trench, filled it with dry grass, and covered it with her fur. She walked toward it with slow steps. She lowered herself onto it and stared at the faint glow of the fire, listening to the silence.
There were no rustlings of people preparing for bed, no sounds of coupling from nearby hearths, no grunting or snoring; none of the many small sounds of people, not a single breath of life—except her own. She reached for the cloak she had used to carry her son on her hip, bunched it up and pressed it to her breast, and rocked back and forth crooning under her breath while tears rolled down her face. Finally she lay down, curled herself around the empty cloak, and cried herself to sleep.
When Ayla went outside the next morning to relieve herself, there was blood on her leg. She rummaged through her small pile of belongings for the absorbent straps and her special waist thong. They were stiff and shiny despite washings, and they should have been buried the last time she used them. She wished she had some mouflon wool to pack in them. Then she spied the rabbit fur. I wanted to save that rabbit skin for winter, but I can get more rabbits, she thought.
She cut the small skin into strips before she went down for her morning swim. I should have known it was coming, I could have planned for it. Now I won’t be able to do anything except …
Suddenly she laughed. The women’s curse doesn’t matter here. There are no men I have to avoid looking at, no men whose food I can’t cook or gather. I’m the only one I have to worry about.
Still, I should have expected it, but the days have gone by so fast. I didn’t think it was time yet. How long have I been in this valley? She tried to remember, but the days seemed to fade into each other. She frowned. I ought to know how many days I’ve been here—it might be later in the season than I thought. She felt a moment of panic. It’s not that bad, she reminded herself. The snow won’t fall before the fruits ripen and the leaves drop, but I should know. I should keep track of the days.
She recalled when, long ago, Creb had shown her how to cut a groove in a stick to mark the passage of time. He had been surprised when she caught on so quickly; he had only explained it to still her constant questions. He shouldn’t have been showing a girl sacrosanct knowledge reserved for holy men and their acolytes, and he had cautioned her not to mention it. She remembered, as well, his anger another time when he caught her making a stick to count the days between full moons.
“Creb, if you’re watching me from the spirit world, don’t be angry,” she said with the silent sign language. “You must know why I need to do it.”
She found a long smooth stick and made a notch in it with her flint knife. Then she thought a while and added two more. She fit her first three fingers over the notches and held them up. I think it’s been more days than that, but I’m sure of that many. I’ll mark it again tonight, and every night. She studied the stick again. I think I’ll put a little extra nick above this one, to mark the day I started bleeding.
The moon went through half its phases after she made the spears, but she still didn’t know how she was going to hunt the large animal she needed. She was sitting at the opening of her cave looking at the wall across and the night sky. The summer was waxing into full heat and she was savoring the cool evening breeze. She had just completed a new summer outfit. Her full wrap was often too hot to wear, and although she went naked near the cave, she needed the pouches and folds of a wrap to hold things when she went very far from it. After she had become a woman, she liked to wear a leather band wrapped tightly around her full breasts when she went hunting. It was more comfortable to