“Ayla, come on,” Jondalar said. “We’ve got to find some shelter and get out of this rain. You’re cold. We’re both cold, and wet.”
She stared for a moment longer, then shuddered. “We were down there.” She looked up at him. “Jondalar, we would have died if we’d been caught in that.”
“But we got out in time. Now we need to find shelter. If we don’t find someplace to warm up, it won’t matter that we got out of the valley.”
He picked up Racer’s lead rope and started toward the brush. Ayla signaled Whinney and followed, with Wolf at her side. When they reached the ditch, they noticed that the low bushes led to a thicker stand of higher brush, almost low trees, farther back from the valley on the steppes, and they headed for that.
They pushed their way into the center of the dense growth of sallow. The ground around the slender, many-stemmed bases of the silvery green willow brush was wet, and rain still filtered in through the narrow leaves, but not quite as hard. They cleared woody stems out of a small pocket, then removed the pack baskets from the horses. Jondalar pulled out the heavy bundle of wet tent and shook it out. Ayla grabbed the poles and set them around the inside of the brush pocket, then helped spread the skins of the tent, still tied to the ground cover, over
them. It was a haphazard construction, but for now they just wanted shelter from the rain.
They brought their pack baskets and other things into the makeshift shelter, tore leaves off the trees to line the wet ground, and spread out their damp sleeping furs. Then they took off their outer clothes, helped each other wring out the soaked leather, and draped them on branches. Finally, shivering hard, they huddled down and pulled their sleeping furs around them. Wolf came in and shook himself vigorously, spraying water, but everything was so wet that it hardly mattered. The steppe horses, with their thick shaggy coats, much preferred cold, dry winter to the drenching summer storm, but they were used to living outside. They stood close together beside the stand of brushy growth and let the rain pour over them.
Within the damp shelter, too wet to even consider a fire, Ayla and Jondalar, wrapped in heavy furs, cuddled close together. Wolf curled up on top of their sleeping furs, pressing close to them, and finally, their combined body heat warmed them. The woman and man dozed a bit, though neither of them slept much. Near dawn the rain slacked off, and their sleep deepened.
Ayla listened, smiling to herself, before opening her eyes. Within the medley of birdsong that had awakened her, she could distinguish the sharp elaborate call notes of a pipet. Then she heard a melodious warble that seemed to be getting louder, but when she tried to find the source of the trilling song, she had to look carefully to see the drab, brown, inconspicuous little skylark just landing. Ayla rolled on her side to watch him.
The skylark walked along the ground easily and quickly, well-balanced by its large hind claws, then bobbed its crested head and came up with a caterpillar in its beak. With quick, jerky steps, it rushed toward a bare scrape in the ground near the stems of a sallow bush, where a camouflaged cluster of newly hatched fluffy chicks suddenly sprang to life, each open mouth begging to be filled with the delectable morsel. Soon a second bird, similar in markings though slightly more drab, and nearly invisible against the dun earth of the steppes, appeared with a winged insect. While she stuffed it into an open mouth, the first bird leaped into the air and climbed in circles until he was almost lost from view. But his presence was not lost. He had disappeared into a spiral of incredibly glorious song.
Ayla softly whistled the musical call, replicating the sounds with such precision that the mother bird stopped pecking at the ground in search of food and turned in her direction. Ayla whistled again, wishing she had some grain to offer, as she had done when she lived in her valley
and first began imitating bird calls. After she had gained skill, they came when she called, whether she offered grain or not, and became company for her during those lonely days. The mother skylark approached, looking for the bird that was invading the territory of her nest, but when she found no other skylarks, she went back to feeding her young.
Whistled repetitive phrases, more mellow and ending with a chuckling sound, perked Ayla’s interest even more. Sandgrouse were big enough to make a decent meal, and so were those cooing turtledoves, she thought, looking around to see if she could spot the buxom birds that resembled the brown sandgrouse in general size and shape. In the low branches, she saw a simple twig nest with three white eggs in it before she saw the plump pigeon with its small head and bill and short legs. Its soft, dense plumage was a pale brown, almost pinkish, and its strongly patterned back and wings, which somewhat resembled the shell of a turtle, glistened with iridescent patches.
Jondalar rolled over, and Ayla turned to watch the man lying beside her, breathing with the deep rhythms of sleep. Then she became aware of her need to get up and relieve herself. She was afraid that if she moved he would wake up, and she hated to disturb him, but the more she tried to forget about it, the more urgent her need became. Maybe if she moved slowly, she thought, trying to ease out of the warm, slightly damp furs wrapped around them. He snorted and snuffled and rolled over as she extricated herself, but it was when he reached for her and found her missing that he woke up.
“Ayla? Oh, there you are,” he mumbled.
“Go back to sleep, Jondalar. You don’t have to get up yet,” she said as she crawled out of their nest in the brush.
It was a bright, fresh morning, the sky a clear sparkling blue without a hint of a cloud in sight. Wolf was gone, probably hunting or exploring, Ayla thought. The horses had moved off, too; she saw them grazing near the edge of the valley. Though the sun was still low, steam was already rising from the wet ground, and Ayla felt the humidity as she hunkered down to pass her water. Then she noticed the red stains on the inside of her legs. Her moon time, she thought. She’d been expecting it; she’d have to wash herself and her undergarment, but first she needed the mouflon wool.
The runoff ditch was only half-full, but the streamlet flowing through it was clear. She leaned over and rinsed her hands, drank several cupped handfuls of the cool running liquid, and then hurried back to their sleeping place. Jondalar was up, and he smiled when she made her way into their shelter within the sallow brush to get one of her pack baskets. She pulled it out in the open and began rummaging through it.
Jondalar brought both of his baskets out with him, then went back for the rest of their things. He wanted to see how much damage had been done by the soaking rains. Wolf came loping back just then and went straight to Ayla.
“You’re looking satisfied with yourself,” she said, roughing up his neck fur, so thick and full it was almost a mane. When she stopped, he jumped up on her, putting his muddy paws on her chest, nearly at the level of her shoulders. He caught her by surprise, almost knocking her down, but she recovered her balance.
“Wolf! Look at all this mud,” she said, as he reached to lick her throat and face, and then, with a low rumbling growl, he opened his mouth and took her jaw in his teeth. But for all his impressive canine armaments, his action was as restrained and gentle as if he’d been handling a new puppy. No tooth broke skin; they hardly made an impression on it. She buried both her hands in his ruff again, pushed his head back, and looked at the devotion in his wolfish eyes with as much affection as he showed her. Then she grabbed his jaw with her teeth, and gave him the same kind of growling, gentle love-bite back.
“Now, get down, Wolf. Look at the mess you’ve made of me! I’m going to have to wash this, too.” She brushed off the loose, sleeveless leather tunic she wore over the short leggings that had been used as undergarments.
“If I didn’t know better, Ayla, I could almost be frightened for you when he does that,” Jondalar said. “He’s gotten so big, and he is a hunter. He could kill someone.”
“You don’t have to worry about Wolf when he does that. That’s the way wolves greet each other and show their love. I think he’s glad we woke up in time to get out of the valley, too.”
“Have you looked down there?”
“Not yet … Wolf, get away from there,” she said, pushing him away when he began to sniff between her legs. “It’s my moon time.” She looked aside and flushed slightly. “I came to get my wool, and I haven’t had the chance to look.”
While Ayla attended to her personal needs, washing herself and her clothes in the little stream, tying on the straps that held the wool in place, and getting something else to wear, Jondalar walked toward the edge of the valley to pass his water and looked down. There was no sign of a campsite, or of any place there could be one. The natural basin of the valley was partially filled with water, and the logs and trees and other floating debris were bobbing and dipping as the agitated water continued to rise. The small river that fed it was still blocked at the outlet, and still creating backwash, though it was not sloshing with the sweeping back-and-forth movement of the night before.
Ayla quietly moved beside Jondalar, who had been staring intently at the valley and thinking. He looked up when he felt her presence.
“This valley must get narrow downstream, and something must be blocking the river,” he said, “probably rocks or a mudslide. It’s holding the water in. Maybe that’s why it was so green down there, it may have done it before.”
“The flash flood alone would have washed us away if it had caught us,” Ayla said. “My valley used to flood every spring, and that was bad enough, but this…” She could find no words to express her thought, and she unconsciously finished her sentence with the motions of Clan sign language that to her conveyed more strongly and precisely her feelings of dismay and relief.
Jondalar understood. He, too, was at a loss for words and shared her feelings. They both stood silently watching the movement below; then Ayla noticed his forehead knotting with concentration and concern. Finally he spoke.
“If the mudslide, or whatever it is, gives away too quickly, that water washing downstream will be very dangerous. I hope there are no people that way,” he said.
“It won’t be any more dangerous than it was last night,” Ayla said. “Will it?”
“Last night it was raining, so people might expect something like a flood, but if this breaks through, without the warning of a rainstorm, it would catch people by surprise, and that would be devastating,” he explained.
Ayla nodded, then said, “But if people are using this river, wouldn’t they notice that it had stopped flowing and try to find out why?”
He turned to face her. “But what about us, Ayla? We’re traveling, and we wouldn’t have any way of knowing that a river had stopped running. We could be downstream of something like this sometime, and we wouldn’t have any warning.”
Ayla turned back to look at the water in the valley and didn’t answer immediately. “You’re right, Jondalar,” she said then. “We could get caught in another flash flood without warning. Or the lightning could have hit us instead of that tree. Or an earthquake could open up a crack in the ground and take everyone except a little girl, leaving her alone in the world. Or someone could get sick, or be born with a weakness or a deformity. The Mamut said no one can know when the Mother will decide to call one of Her children back to Her. There’s nothing to be gained by worrying about things like that. We can’t do anything about them. That’s for Her to decide.”
Jondalar listened, still frowning with worry; then he relaxed and put his arms around her. “I worry too much. Thonolan used to tell me that.
I just started thinking about what would happen if we were downstream of that valley, and remembered last night. And then I thought about losing you, and…” He tightened his arms around her. “Ayla, I don’t know what I would do if I ever lost you,” he said, with sudden fervor, holding her to him. “I’m not sure I’d want to go on living.”
She felt a tinge of worry at his strong reaction. “I hope you would go on living, Jondalar, and find someone else to love. If anything ever happened to you, a piece of me, of my spirit, would be gone with you, because I love you, but I would go on living, and a piece of your spirit would always be living with me.”
“It wouldn’t be easy to find someone else to love. I didn’t think I’d ever find you. I don’t know if I’d even want to look,” Jondalar said.
They started back, walking together. Ayla was quiet for a while, thinking, then said, “I wonder if that’s what happens when you love someone, and that person loves you back? I wonder if you exchange pieces of each other’s spirit. Maybe that’s why it hurts so much to lose someone you love.” She paused, then continued. “It’s like the men of the Clan. They are hunting brothers, and they exchange a piece of each other’s spirit, particularly when one saves the other’s life. It’s not easy to go on living when a piece of your spirit is missing, and each hunter knows a piece of himself will go to the next world if the other goes, so he will watch and protect his brother, do almost anything to save his life.” She stopped and looked up at him. “Do you think we have exchanged pieces of our spirits, Jondalar? We are hunting partners, aren’t we?”
“And you once saved my life, but you are much more than a hunting brother,” he said, smiling at the idea. “I love you. I understand now why Thonolan didn’t want to go on living when Jetamio died. Sometimes I think he was searching for a way into the next world, so he could find them, Jetamio and the baby who was never born.”
“But if anything ever happened to me, I wouldn’t want you to follow me to any spirit world. I’d want you to stay right here, and find someone else,” Ayla said, with conviction. She didn’t like all his talk about next worlds. She wasn’t sure what some other world after this one would be like, or even, deep in her heart, if one really existed. What she did know was that to get to any next world, you had to die in this one, and she didn’t want to hear about Jondalar dying, either before or after she did.
Thinking about worlds of the spirit led to other random thoughts. “Maybe that’s what happens when you get old,” she said. “If you exchange pieces of your spirit with people you love, after you’ve lost a lot of them, so many pieces of your spirit have gone with them to the next world that there’s not enough left to keep you alive in this world. It’s
like a hole inside of you that keeps getting bigger, so you want to go to the next world where most of your spirit and your loved ones are.”