The valley of horses_ a novel - Jean M. Auel [73]
What did I expect? she thought. Then she banged them together again, with more force, striking sharply, and watched a spark fly. Suddenly, an idea that had been tenuously forming sprang into her mind full blown. A strange, exciting idea, and a little frightening, too.
She put the two stones down carefully on the leather lap cover, on top of the mammoth foot bone, then gathered together the materials to build a fire. When she was ready, she picked up the stones, held them close to the tinder, and struck them together. A spark flew and then died on the cold stones. She changed the angle, tried again, but the force was less. She struck harder and watched a spark land squarely in the middle of the tinder. It singed a few strands and died, but the wisp of smoke was encouraging. The next time she struck the stones, the wind gusted, and the smoldering tinder flared before it went out.
Of course! I have to blow on it. She changed her position so she could blow on the incipient flame, and made another spark with the stones. It was a strong, bright, long-burning spark, and it landed right. She was close enough to feel the heat as she blew the smoldering tinder into flame. She fed it shavings, and slivers, and, almost before she knew it, she had a fire.
It was ridiculously easy. She couldn’t believe how easy. She had to prove it to herself again. She gathered together more tinder, more shavings, more kindling, and then she had a second fire, and then a third, and a fourth. She felt an excitement that was part fear, part awe, part joy of discovery, and a large dose of sheer wonder, as she stood back and gazed at four separate fires, each made from the firestone.
Whinney trotted back around the wall, drawn by the smell of smoke. Fire, once so fearful, smelled of safety now.
“Whinney!” Ayla called, running to the little horse. She had to tell someone, to share her discovery, even if just with a horse. “Look!” she motioned. “Look at those fires! They were made with stones, Whinney. Stones!” The sun broke through the clouds, and suddenly the whole beach seemed to glitter.
I was wrong when I thought there was nothing special about those stones. I should have known; my totem gave one to me. Look at them. Now that I know, I can see the fire that lives inside. She grew thoughtful then. But why me? Why was I shown? My Cave Lion gave one to me once to tell me Durc would live. What is he telling me now?
She remembered the strange premonition she’d had after her fire died and, standing in the midst of four fires, she shivered, feeling it again. Then, suddenly, she felt an overwhelming sense of relief, though she didn’t even know she had been worried.
8
“Hello! Hello!” Jondalar waved as he called out, running to the river’s edge.
He felt an overwhelming sense of relief. He had all but given up, but the sound of another human voice filled him with a fresh surge of hope. It didn’t occur to him that they might be unfriendly; nothing could be worse than the utter helplessness he had felt. And they didn’t seem unfriendly.
The man who had called to him held up a coil of rope, attached at one end to the strange enormous water bird. Jondalar could see that it was not a living creature, but some kind of craft. The man threw the rope at him. Jondalar dropped it and splashed in after it. A couple of other people, hauling on another rope, scrambled out and waded through water swirling up to their thighs. One of them, smiling when he saw Jondalar’s expression—which managed to combine hope, relief, and perplexity over what to do with the wet rope in his hands—took the hawser from him. He hauled the craft in closer, then tied the rope to a tree and went to check on the other line snubbed to a jutting end of a broken branch of a large tree that lay half submerged in the river.
Another occupant of the watercraft hoisted himself over the side and jumped on the log to test its stability.