The valley of horses_ a novel - Jean M. Auel [66]
I was going to look for red ochre, she thought, but this might do as well. Closing her eyes, Ayla tried to remember what Creb had done when he named her son. She could see his ravaged old face, with a flap of skin covering the place where an eye should have been, his large nose, his overhanging brow ridges and low sloping forehead. His beard had gotten thin and scraggly, and his hairline had receded, but she remembered him the way he had looked that day. Not young, but at the peak of his power. She had loved that magnificent, craggy old face.
Suddenly all her emotions came flooding back. Her fear that she would lose her son and her utter joy at the sight of a bowl of red ochre paste. She swallowed hard several times, but the lump in her throat would not go down, and she wiped a tear away, not knowing she left a smudge of brown in its place. The little horse leaned against her, nuzzling for affection, almost as though she sensed Ayla’s need. The woman knelt down and hugged the animal, resting her forehead against the sturdy neck of the little filly.
This is supposed to be your naming ceremony, she thought, gaining control of herself. The mud had squeezed out between her fingers. She scooped up another handful, then reached toward the sky with the other hand, as Creb had always done with his abbreviated one-handed gestures, calling for the spirits to attend. Then she hesitated, not sure if she should invoke the Clan spirits at the naming of a horse—they might not approve. She dipped her fingers into the mud in her hand and made a streak down the foal’s face, from her forehead to the end of her nose, as Creb had drawn a line with the paste of red ochre from the place where Durc’s brow ridges met to the tip of his rather small nose.
“Whinney,” she said aloud, and finished with the formal language. “This girl’s … this female horse’s name is Whinney.”
The horse shook her head, trying to rid herself of the wet mud on her face, making Ayla laugh. “It will dry up and wear off soon, Whinney.”
She washed her hands, adjusted the basketful of grain on her back, and walked slowly to the cave. The naming ceremony had reminded her too much of her solitary existence. Whinney was a warm living creature and eased her loneliness, but by the time Ayla reached the rocky beach, tears had come unbidden, unnoticed.
She coaxed and guided the young horse up the steep path to her cave, which roused her out of her grief somewhat. “Come on, Whinney, you can do it. I know you’re not an ibex or a saiga antelope, but it only takes getting used to.”
They reached the top of the wall that was the front extension of her cave and went in. Ayla rekindled the banked fire and started some grain cooking. The young filly was now eating grass and grain and didn’t need specially prepared food, but Ayla made mashes for her because Whinney liked them.
She took a brace of rabbits, caught earlier in the day, outside to skin them while it was still light, brought them in to cook, and rolled up the skins until she was ready to process them. She had accumulated a large supply of animal skins: rabbits, hares, hamsters, whatever she caught. She wasn’t sure how she was going to use them, but she carefully cured and saved them all. During the winter she might think of a use for them. If it got cold enough, she’d just pile them around her.
Winter was on her mind as the days grew shorter and the temperature fell. She didn’t know how long or harsh it would be, which worried her. A sudden attack of anxiety sent her checking her stores, though she knew exactly what she had. She looked through baskets and bark containers of dried meat, fruits and vegetables, seeds, nuts, and grains. In the dark corner farthest from the entrance, she examined piles of whole, sound roots and fruits to make sure no signs of rot had appeared.
Along the rear wall were stacks of wood, dried horse dung from the field, and mounds of dry grass. More baskets of grain, for Whinney, were stashed in the opposite corner.
Ayla walked back to the hearth