The valley of horses_ a novel - Jean M. Auel [68]
“It should be enough,” Ayla motioned to the horse. She was developing a habit of talking to her, and the young horse was beginning to respond to certain signals. “I hope I gathered enough for you. I wish I knew how long the winters are here.” She was feeling rather edgy and a little depressed. If it hadn’t been dark, she would have gone for a brisk walk. Or better, a long run.
When the horse started chewing on her basket, Ayla brought her an armload of fresh hay. “Here, Whinney, chew on this. You’re not supposed to eat your food dish!” Ayla felt like paying special attention to her young companion with petting and scratching. When she stopped, the foal nuzzled her hand and presented a flank that was in need of more attention.
“You must be very itchy.” Ayla smiled and began scratching again. “Wait, I have an idea.” She went back to the place where her miscellaneous materials were assembled and found a bundle of dried teasel. When the flower of the plant dried, it left an elongated egg-shaped spiny brush. She snapped one from its stem, and with it gently scratched the spot on Whinney’s flank. One spot led to another and before she stopped, she had brushed and curried Whinney’s entire shaggy coat, much to the young animal’s evident delight.
Then she wrapped her arms around Whinney’s neck and lay down on the fresh hay beside the warm young animal.
Ayla woke up with a start. She stayed very still with her eyes open wide, filled with forboding. Something was wrong. She felt a cold draft, then caught her breath. What was that snuffling noise? She wasn’t sure if she had heard it, over the sound of the horse’s breath and heartbeat. Did it come from the back of the cave? It was so dark, she couldn’t see.
It was so dark.… That was it! There was no warm red glow from the banked fire in the hearth. And her orientation to the cave wasn’t right. The wall was on the wrong side, and the draft … There it was again! The snuffling and coughing! What am I doing in Whinney’s place? I must have fallen asleep and forgotten to bank the fire. Now it’s out. I haven’t lost my fire since I found this valley.
Ayla shuddered and suddenly felt the hairs on the back of her neck rise. She had no word, no gesture, no concept for the presentiment that washed over her, but she felt it. The muscles of her back tightened. Something was going to happen. Something to do with fire. She knew it, as certainly as she knew she breathed.
She’d had these feelings occasionally, ever since the night she had followed Creb and the mog-urs into the small room deep in the cave of the clan that hosted the Gathering. Creb had discovered her, not because he saw her, but because he felt her. And she had felt him, inside her brain in some strange way. Then she had seen things she couldn’t explain. Afterward, sometimes, she knew things. She knew when Broud was staring at her, though her back was turned. She knew the malignant hatred he felt for her in his heart. And she knew, before the earthquake, that there would be death and destruction in the clan’s cave.
But she had not felt anything so strongly before. A deep sense of anxiety, fear—not about the fire, she realized, and not for herself. For someone she loved.
She got up, silently, and felt her way to the hearth, hoping there might be a small ember that could be rekindled. It was cold. Suddenly she had an urgent need to relieve herself, found the wall and followed it toward the entrance. A cold gust whipped her hair back from her face and rattled the dead coals in the fireplace, blowing up a cloud of ashes. She shivered.
As she stepped out, a strong wind buffeted her. She leaned into it and hugged the wall as she walked to the end of the stone ledge opposite the path, where she dumped her refuse.
No stars graced the sky, but the overcast cloud layer diffused the moonlight to a uniform glow, making the black outside less complete than the black