“Oh, they will be,” she said, looking at Jondalar with a serious expression, “but you’ve eaten them that way. You know how they taste.” Then she noticed his smile and realized he had been playing with her. She pulled her sling out of her waistband. “You make camp, I’ll hunt ptarmigan, and if you’ll help me dig the hole, I’ll even let you taste one,” she said, grinning as she urged Whinney on.
“Ayla!” Jondalar called before she got very far. “If you leave me the pole drag, I’ll have camp all set up for you, ‘Woman Who Hunts.’ ”
She looked startled. “I didn’t know you remembered what Brun named me when he allowed me to hunt,” she said, returning and stopping in front of him.
“I may not have your Clan’s memories, but I do remember some things, especially about the woman I love,” he said, and he watched her full, lovely smile make her even more beautiful. “Besides, if you help me decide where to set up, you’ll know where to come back and bring those birds.”
“If I didn’t see you, I would track you, but I will come and leave the drag. Whinney can’t turn very fast with it.”
They rode until they saw a likely place to make a camp, near a stream with a level area for the tent, a few trees, and, most important to Ayla, a rocky beach with stones that could be used for her ground oven.
“I might as well help set up camp, since I’m here,” Ayla said, dismounting.
“Go hunt your ptarmigan. Just tell me where you want me to start digging a hole,” Jondalar said.
Ayla paused, then nodded. The sooner the birds were killed, the sooner she could start cooking them, and they would take some time to cook, and maybe to hunt. She walked over the area and picked a spot that looked right for the ground oven. “Over here,” she said, “not too far from these stones.” She scanned the beach, deciding that she might as well pick out some nice round stones for her sling while she was there.
She signaled Wolf to come with her and backtracked along their trail, looking for the ptarmigan she had sighted. Once she started looking for the fat birds, she saw several species that resembled them. She was tempted first by the covey of gray partridges she saw pecking at the ripe seeds of ryegrass and einkorn wheat. She identified the surprisingly large number of young by their slightly less defined markings, not by their size. Though the middle-size stocky birds laid as many as twenty eggs in a clutch, they were usually subject to such heavy predation that not many survived to adulthood.
Gray partridges were also flavorful, but Ayla decided she would continue on, keeping their location in mind in case she didn’t find the ptarmigan she had a taste for. A flock, several family coveys, of smaller gregarious quails startled her as they took to wing. The rotund little birds were tasty, too, and if she had known how to use a throwing stick that could bring down several at one time, she might have tried for them.
Since she had decided to pass by the others, Ayla was glad to see the usually well camouflaged ptarmigan near the place she had seen them before. Though they still showed some patterning on their backs and wings, their predominantly white feathers made them stand out against the grayish ground and dark gold dry grass. The fat, stocky birds had already grown winter feathers on their legs, extending even to their feet for both warmth and for use as snowshoes. Though quail often traveled longer distances, both partridge and ptarmigan, the grouse that turned white in snow, normally stayed within a general area close to their birthplace, migrating only a short distance between winter and summer ranges.
In the way of that wintry world, which allowed close associations of living things whose habitats would at other times be far apart, each had its niche and both would stay on the central plains through the winter. While the partridge kept to the windblown open grassland, eating seeds and roosting at night in trees near rivers and highlands, the
ptarmigan would stay in the drifting snow, burrowing out snow caves to keep warm, and living on twigs, shoots, and buds of brush, often varieties containing strong oils that were distasteful or even poisonous to other animals.
Ayla signaled Wolf to stay while she picked out two stones from her pouch and readied her sling. From Whinney’s back, she sighted on one nearly white bird and hurled the first stone. Wolf, understanding her motion as a signal, dashed for another bird at the same time. With a burst of wings and loud squawks of protest, the rest of the covey of heavy birds took to the air, their large flight muscles beating strongly. Their normal camouflaged markings on the ground made a startling change in the air when erect plumage displayed distinct patterns, making it easier for others of their kind to follow and keep together in a flock.
After the impetus of the first surge of activity and sudden flash of feathers, the flight of the ptarmigan eased into a long glide. With a pressure and movement of her body that was second nature, Ayla signaled Whinney to follow the birds, while she prepared to throw a second stone. The young woman grabbed the sling on the downstroke, slid her hand down to the loose end, and, with a smooth practiced action that moved with the motion, she brought it back to her throwing hand and dropped the second stone in the pocket before she let go. Though she sometimes took an extra swing for the first cast, she seldom required the buildup of momentum for her second throw.
Her ability to cast stones so quickly was such a difficult skill that, had she asked, she would have been told it was impossible. But there was no one for her to ask, no one to tell her it couldn’t be done, so Ayla had taught herself the double-stone technique. Over the years she had perfected it, and she was very accurate with both stones. The bird she had aimed for on the ground never took flight. As the second bird came falling out of the sky, she quickly grabbed two more stones, but by then the flock was out of reach.
Wolf trotted up with a third in his mouth. Ayla slid off the mare and at her signal the wolf dropped the ptarmigan at her feet. Then he sat down, looking up at her, pleased with himself, a soft white feather clinging to the side of his mouth.
“That was good, Wolf,” she said, grabbing his winter-thickened ruff and touching her forehead to his. Then she turned to the horse. “This woman appreciates your help, Whinny,” she said in her special language that was partly Clan signs and soft horse nickers. The horse lifted her head, snorted, and stepped closer to the woman. Ayla held the mare’s head up and blew into her nostrils, exchanging scents of recognition and friendship.
She wrung the neck of one bird that wasn’t dead; then, using some tough grass, she tied the feathered feet of the birds together. She mounted the horse and draped them across the pack-saddle basket behind her. On her way back, she came upon the partridges again, and she couldn’t resist trying for a couple of them as well. With two more stones, she got two more birds, but she missed on her try for a third. Wolf got one, and this time she let him keep his.
She thought she would cook them all at once to compare both kinds of fowl. She would save the leftovers for the next day or two. Then she began to think about what she might stuff the cavities with. If they had been nesting, she would have used their own eggs, but she had used grains when she lived with the Mamutoi. It would take a long time to pick enough grains, though. Harvesting wild grains was a time-consuming process best done with a group of people. The big ground roots might be good, maybe with wild carrots and onions.
Thinking about the meal she was going to prepare, the young woman wasn’t paying much attention to her surroundings, but she could hardly help noticing when Whinney came to a complete halt. The mare tossed her head and neighed, then stood perfectly still, but Ayla could feel her tension. The horse was actually shaking, and the woman understood why.
A
yla sat on Whinney’s back staring ahead, feeling an unaccountable apprehension, a fear welling up inside that sent a chill up her spine. She closed her eyes and shook her head to dispel the sensation. After all, there was nothing to fear. Opening her eyes, she looked again at the large herd of horses in front of them. What was so fearsome about a herd of horses?
Most of the horses were looking in their direction, and Whinney’s attention was just as intensely focused on the other members of her species as they were on her. Ayla signaled Wolf to stay, noticing that he was very curious and overly eager to investigate. Horses, after all, were often prey to wolves, and the wild ones wouldn’t like it if he got too close.
As Ayla studied the herd more closely, not quite sure what they or Whinney would do, she realized that it was not one, but two different herds. Dominating the area were the mares with their young, and Ayla assumed that the one standing aggressively forward of the others was the lead mare. In the background was a smaller herd of bachelors. Suddenly she noticed one standing between them, and then she couldn’t help staring. It was the most unusual horse she had ever seen.
Most horses were variations of Whinney’s shade of dun yellow, some tending more to tans, some more pale. Racer’s dark brown coloring was unusual, she had never seen another horse as dark, but the coloring of the herd stallion was just as strange in the other direction. She had never seen a horse as light. The mature, well-formed stallion approaching warily was pure white!
Before he noticed Whinney, the white had been keeping the other males at bay, making it clear that, if they didn’t come too close, they might be tolerated since it was not the season for horses to mate, but he was the only one who had the right to mingle with the females. The sudden appearance of a strange female, however, piqued his interest, and it caught the attention of the rest of the horses as well.
Horses, by nature, were social animals. They liked to associate with other horses. Mares in particular tended to form permanent relationships. But unlike the pattern of most herding animals, where the
daughters remained with their mothers in close kinship groups, horses generally formed herds of unrelated mares. Young females usually left their natal group when they were fully mature, at about two years old. They did establish dominance hierarchies, which brought privileges and benefits to mares of high rank, and to their young—including first access to water and the best feeding areas—but their attachments were cemented by mutual grooming and other friendly activities.
Although they playfully sparred with each other when they were colts, it was not until the young male horses joined the mature stallions, at about four years old, that they began training in earnest for the day when they would fight for the right to mate. Although they groomed each other in the bachelor herd, vying for dominance was the major activity. Beginning with pushing and shoving, and ritualized defecating and sniffing, the contests escalated, especially during the spring rutting season, to rearing, biting necks, striking at knees, and kicking out hind legs toward faces, heads, and chests. It was only after several years in such associations that males were able to steal young females or displace an established herd male.
As an unattached female who had wandered into their range, Whinney was the object of intense interest on the part of both the female herd and the individual bachelors. Ayla decided she didn’t like the way the herd stallion was moving toward them, so proud and forceful, as though he was about to make a claim.
“You don’t have to stay any more, Wolf,” she said, giving him a sign that released him, and she watched while he stalked. To Wolf, it was a whole herd of Racers and Whinneys, and he wanted to play with them. Ayla was sure that his actions would not pose a serious threat to the horses. He could not bring down such a strong animal alone, anyway. That would have required a pack of wolves, and packs seldom attacked mature animals in the prime of health.
Ayla urged Whinney to start back to the camp. The mare hesitated for a moment, but her habit of obeying the woman was stronger than her interest in the other horses. She started walking, but slowly, and with continual hesitations. Then Wolf dashed into the herd. He was having fun chasing them, and Ayla was glad to see them scatter. It drew their attention away from her Whinney.
When Ayla arrived back at camp, everything was ready for her. Jondalar had just finished erecting the three poles to keep the food they carried out of the reach of most of the animals that might be interested in it. The tent was up, the hole was dug and lined with rocks, and he had even used some stones to make a boundary for the fireplace.
“Look at that island,” he told her as she dismounted. He pointed to a stretch of land, built of accumulated silt, in the middle of the river with
sedge, reeds, and several trees growing on it. “There’s a whole flock of storks over there, black ones and white ones. I watched them land,” he said with a pleased smile. “I kept wishing you would come. It was a sight worth seeing. They were diving and soaring, even flipping over. They just folded their wings and dropped from the sky to land; then when they were almost down, they opened their wings. It looked like they were heading south. They’ll probably leave in the morning.”
Ayla looked across the water at the large, long-billed, long-legged, stately birds. They were actively feeding, walking or running on the land or in the shallow water, snapping at anything that moved with their long, strong beaks, taking fish, lizards, frogs, insects, and earthworms. They even ate carrion, judging from the way they went after the remains of a bison washed up on the beach. The two species were quite similar in general shape, though different in coloring. The white storks had black-edged wings and there were more of them; the black storks had white underparts, and most of them were in the water after fish.
“We saw a big herd of horses on the way back,” Ayla said, reaching for the ptarmigan and partridges. “A lot of mares and young ones, but a male was close by. The herd stallion is white.”
“White?”
“As white as those white storks. He didn’t even have black legs,” she said, unfastening the thongs of the pack-saddle basket. “You’d never see him in snow.”