Ayla jumped up and went to Whinney, who was by then lying on her side. A membrane-encased head of a foal began to emerge. For the second time she played midwife to the mare. Before the hindquarters were fully out, the wet newborn foal was trying to stand. Whinney looked back to see what she had done and nickered softly at her new baby. Still on the ground, the baby started squirming toward Whinney’s head, stopping for a moment to try to nurse before either was on their feet. When she reached her dam, the mare immediately started washing her with her tongue. Within moments the tiny horse was trying to stand. She fell over on her nose, but by the second try she was on her feet, only several moments after foaling. A very strong little horse, Ayla thought.
As soon as the baby was standing, Whinney got up, and the moment she was on her feet, the foal was nuzzling her, again trying to nurse, ducking under at first, not quite able to find the right place. After a second pass under her hind legs, Whinney gave the baby a little nip to point the foal in the right direction. That was all it took. Whinney had been perfectly
capable, without any assistance, to give birth to her spindly-legged foal.
The people had watched silently, seeing for the first time the knowledge that the Great Earth Mother had given to Her wild creatures about how to take care of their newborn. The only way the young of Whinney’s species could survive, and most of the other animals that grazed the vast steppes in great numbers, was for the young to be able to stand on their own legs, and to run nearly as fast as an adult shortly after birth. Without that, they would have been such easy prey to predators, they could not have lived. With her baby nursing, Whinney seemed content.
The birth of the horse was rare entertainment for the people who were watching, and a story that would be told and retold in the future by everyone who had witnessed it. Several people had questions and comments for Ayla once both horses were comfortable and Ayla returned.
“I didn’t realize that the babies of horses can walk almost from the time they are born. It takes at least a year for a human baby to walk. Do they grow faster, too?”
“Yes,” Ayla replied. “Racer was born the day after I found Jondalar. He’s a full-grown stallion now and he only counts three years of life.”
“You are going to have to think of a name for the young one, Ayla,” Jondalar said.
“Yes, but I will have to think about it,” Ayla said.
Jondalar was quick to catch her implication. It was true that the hay-colored mare had given birth to a horse of a different color. It was also true that among the horses on the eastern steppes, near the region of the Mamutoi, there were some that were shades of dark brown, like Racer. He wasn’t sure what color the little filly would be, but it didn’t seem that she would have her mother’s coloring.
Wolf found them shortly after. As though he instinctively knew to approach the new family carefully, he first went to Whinney. Despite her instincts, she had learned that this was not a carnivore to be feared. Ayla joined them, and after she
satisfied herself that this wolf was the exception, especially since the woman was around, she allowed him to sniff her new baby and let the baby learn his smell.
The young horse was a gray filly. “I think I’m going to call her Gray,” she said to Jondalar, “and she should be Jonayla’s horse. But we’ll have to teach them both.” He grinned with delight at the prospect.
The next day, when they were back at the horse area on the ledge, Racer welcomed his new little sister with avid curiosity, but under the strict supervision of Whinney. Ayla happened to be looking toward the dwelling area when she saw Zelandoni coming. She was surprised to see the donier coming to see the new foal, she seldom made any special effort to see the animals. Other people had found occasions to take peeks and Ayla asked that they not go too close at first, but the donier got a personal introduction to Gray.
“Jonokol has told me he will be leaving the Ninth Cave when we go to the Summer Meeting,” the donier announced after she had examined the foal.
“Well, you expected it,” Ayla said, feeling edgy.
“Have you decided yet if you are going to be my new acolyte?” she asked directly, not hesitating.
Ayla looked down, then back at the woman.
Zelandoni waited, then looked into Ayla’s eyes. “I think you have no choice. You know you will feel the call one day, perhaps sooner than you think. I would hate to see your potential destroyed, even if you were able to survive it without support and training.”
Ayla struggled to break away from the commanding stare. Then, from the depths of her being, or the pathways in her brain, she found a resource. She felt a power rising within her, and knew that she was no longer constrained by the donier, but instead felt that she had dominion over the One Who Was First, and held her gaze. It gave her a sense of something indescribable, a feeling of strength, of mastery, of authority, that she had never consciously felt before.
When she released the woman, Zelandoni glanced away
for an instant. When she looked back, the feeling of tremendous power that had held her was gone, but Ayla was looking at her with a knowing smile. The infant in her arms began to move as though something was bothering her, and Ayla’s attention went back to her child.
Zelandoni was shaken, but she controlled it quickly. She turned to leave, but turned back and studied Ayla again, not with the gaze that engendered the contest of wills, but with a straightforward, piercing look “Tell me now you are not Zelandoni, Ayla,” she said quietly.
Ayla flushed and glanced around with uncertainty, as though trying to find some escape. When she looked back at the large woman, Zelandoni was the commanding presence she had always known.
“I will tell Jondalar,” she said, then quickly looked down at the baby.
The Mother’s Song
Out of the darkness, the chaos of time,
The whirlwind gave birth to the Mother sublime.
She woke to Herself knowing life had great worth,
The dark empty void grieved the Great Mother Earth.
The Mother was lonely. She was the only.
From the dust of Her birth She created the other,
A pale shining friend, a companion, a brother.
They grew up together, learned to love and to care,
And when She was ready, they decided to pair.
Around Her he’d hover. Her pale shining lover.
She was happy at first with Her one counterpart.
Then the Mother grew restless, unsure in Her heart.
She loved Her fair friend, Her dear complement,
But something was missing, Her love was unspent.
She was the Mother. She needed another.
She dared the great void, the chaos, the dark,
To find the cold home of the life-giving spark.
The whirlwind was fearsome, the darkness complete.
Chaos was freezing, and reached out for Her heat.
The Mother was brave. The danger was grave.
She drew from cold chaos the creative source,
Then conceiving within, She fled with life-force.
She grew with the life that She carried inside.
And gave of Herself with love and with pride.
The Mother was bearing. Her life She was sharing.
The dark empty void and the vast barren Earth,
With anticipation, awaited the birth.
Life drank from Her blood, it breathed from Her
bones.
It split Her skin open and sundered Her stones.
The Mother was giving. Another was living.
Her gushing birth waters filled rivers and seas,
And flooded the land, giving rise to the trees.
From each precious drop new grass and leaves grew,
And lush verdant plants made all the Earth new.
Her waters were flowing. New green was growing.
In violent labor spewing fire and strife,
She struggled in pain to give birth to new life.
Her dried clotted blood turned to red-ochred soil,
But the radiant child made it all worth the toil.
The Mother’s great joy. A bright shining boy.
Mountains rose up spouting flames from their crests,
She nurtured Her son from Her mountainous breasts.
He suckled so hard, the sparks flew so high,
The Mother’s hot milk laid a path through the sky.
His life had begun. She nourished Her son.
He laughed and he played, and he grew big and bright.
He lit up the darkness, the Mother’s delight.
She lavished Her love, he grew bright and strong,
But soon he matured, not a child for long.
Her son was near grown. His mind was his own.
She took from the source for the life She’d begun.
Now the cold empty void was enticing Her son.
The Mother gave love, but the youth longed for more,
For knowledge, excitement, to travel, explore.
Chaos was Her foe. But Her son yearned to go.
He stole from Her side as the Great Mother slept,
While out of the dark swirling void chaos crept.
With tempting inducements the darkness beguiled,
Deceived by the whirlwind, chaos captured Her child.
The dark took Her son. The young brilliant one.
The Mother’s bright child, at first overjoyed,
Was soon overwhelmed by the bleak frigid void.
Her unwary offspring, consumed with remorse,
Could not escape the mysterious force.
Chaos would not free. Her rash progeny.
But just as the dark pulled him into the cold,
The Mother woke up, reached out and caught hold.
To help Her recover Her radiant son,
The Mother appealed to the pale shining one.
The Mother held tight. And kept him in sight.
She welcomed him back, Her lover of old,
With heartache and sorrow, Her story She told.
Her dear friend agreed to join in the fight,
To rescue Her child from his perilous plight.
She told of her grief. And the dark swirling thief.
The Mother was tired, She had to recover,
She loosened Her hold to Her luminous lover.
While She was sleeping, he fought the cold force,
And for a time drove it back to the source.
His spirit was strong. The encounter too long.
Her fair shining friend struggled hard, gave his best,
The conflict was bitter, the struggle hard pressed.
His vigilance waned as he closed his great eye,
Then darkness crept close, stole his light from the sky.
Her pale friend was tiring. His light was expiring.
When darkness was total, She woke with a cry.
The tenebrious void hid the light from the sky.
She joined in the conflict, was quick to defend,
And drove the dark shadow away from Her friend.
But the pale face of night. Let Her son out of sight.
Trapped by the whirlwind, Her bright fiery son,
Gave no warmth to the Earth, cold chaos had won.
The fertile green life was now ice and snow,
And a sharp piercing wind continued to blow.
The Earth was bereft. No green plants were left.
The Mother was weary, grieving and worn,
But She reached out again for the life She had borne.
She couldn’t give up, She needed to strive,
For the glorious light of Her son to survive.
She continued the fight. To bring back the light.
And Her luminous friend was prepared to contest,
The thief who held captive the child of Her breast.
Together they fought for the son She adored.
Their efforts succeeded, his light was restored.
His energy burned. His brilliance returned.
But the bleak frigid dark craved his bright glowing heat.
The Mother defended and would not retreat.
The whirlwind pulled hard, She refused to let go,
She fought to a draw with Her dark swirling foe.
She held darkness at bay. But Her son was away.
When She fought the whirlwind and made chaos flee,
The light from Her son glowed with vitality.
When the Mother grew tired, the bleak void held sway,
And darkness returned at the end of the day.
She felt warmth from Her son. But neither had
won.
The Great Mother lived with the pain in Her heart,
That She and Her son were forever apart.
She ached for the child that had been denied,
So She quickened once more from the life-force inside.
She was not reconciled. To the loss of Her child.
When She was ready, Her waters of birth,
Brought back the green life to the cold barren Earth.
And the tears of Her loss, abundantly spilled,
Made dew drops that sparkled and rainbows that
thrilled.
Birth waters brought green. But Her tears could be
seen.
With a thunderous roar Her stones split asunder,
And from the great cave that opened deep under,
She birthed once again from Her cavernous room,
And brought forth the Children of Earth from Her
womb.
From the Mother forlorn, more children were born.
Each child was different, some were large and some small,
Some could walk and some fly, some could swim and some crawl.
But each form was perfect, each spirit complete,
Each one was a model whose shape could repeat.
The Mother was willing. The green earth was
filling.
All the birds and the fish and the animals born,
Would not leave the Mother, this time, to mourn.
Each kind would live near the place of its birth,
And share the expanse of the Great Mother Earth.
Close to Her they would stay. They could not run
away.
They all were Her children, they filled Her with pride,
But they used up the life-force She carried inside.
She had enough left for a last innovation,
A child who’d remember Who made the creation.
A child who’d respect. And learn to protect.
First Woman was born full-grown and alive,
And given the Gifts she would need to survive.
Life was the First Gift, and like Mother Earth,
She woke to herself knowing life had great worth.
First Woman defined. The first of her kind.
Next was the Gift of Perception, of learning,
The desire to know, the Gift of Discerning,
First Woman was given the knowledge within,
That would help her to live, and pass on to her kin.
First Woman would know. How to learn, how to
grow.
Her life-force near gone, The Mother was spent,
To pass on Life’s Spirit had been Her intent.
She caused all of Her children to create life anew,
And Woman was blessed to bring forth life, too.
But Woman was lonely. She was the only.