The valley of horses_ a novel - Jean M. Auel [64]
“What plan?”
“I’ll tell you about it when I get all the details worked out. Do you want something to eat? You haven’t eaten much.”
Thonolan knew his brother wouldn’t leave while he was alive. He was tired; he wanted to give up, let it end, and give Jondalar a chance. “I’m not hungry,” he said, then saw the hurt in his brother’s eyes. “I could use a drink of water, though.”
Jondalar poured out the last of the water and held Thonolan’s head while he drank. He shook the bag. “This is empty. I’ll get some more.”
He wanted an excuse to get out of the tent. Thonolan was giving up. Jondalar had been bluffing when he said he had a plan. He had given up hope—no wonder his brother thought it was hopeless. I have to find some way to get across that river and find help.
He walked up a slight rise that gave him a view upriver, over the trees, and stood watching a broken branch snagged by a jutting rock. He felt as trapped and helpless as that bare limb and, on impulse, walked to the water’s edge and freed it from the restraining stone. He watched the current carry it downstream, wondering how far it would go before it was snared by something else. He noticed another willow, and he peeled more inner bark with his knife. Thonolan might have a bad night again, not that the tea did much good.
Finally he turned away from the Sister and went back to the small creek that added its tiny fraction to the rampaging river. He filled the waterbag and started back. He wasn’t sure what made him look upstream—he couldn’t have heard anything above the sound of the rushing torrent—but when he did, he stared in open-mouthed disbelief.
Something was approaching from upriver, heading straight for the bank where he stood. A monstrous water bird, with a long curved neck supporting a fierce crested head and large unblinking eyes, was coming toward him. He saw movement on the creature’s back as it drew near, heads of other creatures. One of the smaller creatures waved.
“Ho-la!” a voice called out. Jondalar had never heard a more welcome sound.
7
Ayla wiped the back of her hand across her sweaty forehead and smiled at the little yellow horse who had nudged her, trying to insinuate her muzzle under the woman’s hand. The filly didn’t like to let Ayla out of her sight and followed her everywhere. Ayla didn’t mind, she wanted the company.
“Little horse, how much grain should I pick for you?” Ayla motioned. The small, hay-colored foal watched her motions closely. It made Ayla think of herself when she was a young girl just learning the sign language of the Clan. “Are you trying to learn to talk? Well, understand, anyway. You’d have trouble talking without hands, but you seem to be trying to understand me.”
Ayla’s speech incorporated a few sounds; her clan’s ordinary language wasn’t entirely silent, only the ancient formal language was. The filly’s ears perked up when she spoke a word out loud.
“You’re listening, aren’t you, little filly?” Ayla shook her head. “I keep calling you little filly, little horse. It doesn’t feel right. I think you need a name. Is that what you are listening for, the sound of your name? I wonder what your dam called you? I don’t think I could say it if I knew.”
The young horse was watching her intently, knowing Ayla was paying attention to her when she moved her hands in that way. She nickered when Ayla stopped.
“Are you answering me? Whiiinneeey!” Ayal tried to mimic her and made a fair approximation of a horse’s whinny. The young horse responded to the almost familiar sound with a toss of her head and an answering neigh.
“Is that your name?” Ayla motioned with a smile. The foal tossed her head again, bounded off a ways, then came back. The woman laughed. “All little horses must have the same name, then, or maybe I can’t tell the difference.” Ayla whinnied again and the horse whinnied back, and they played the game for a while. It made her think of the game of sounds she used to play with her son,