Marvelous aromas had been emanating from community cooking areas at the unoccupied far southwestern end of the abri all day, stimulating everyone’s appetite, and a number of people had been busy with last minute preparations before Joharran began to speak. After the introductions, as the throng pressed toward the far end, Jondalar and Ayla were urged ahead, although the crowd was careful to allow space around the wolf, who followed a step behind the woman.
The food was attractively arranged on platters and in bowls of shaped bone, woven grass and fiber, and carved wood and displayed on long, low tables made of blocks and slabs of limestone. Bent wood tongs, carved horn spoons, and large flint knives were conveniently nearby, ready to be used as serving implements. Most people brought their own eating dishes, though there were extras for those who needed them.
Ayla stopped to admire the display for a moment. There were whole roasted haunches of young reindeer, plump grouse, platters of trout and pike, and, even more prized during the early summer season, servings of still scarce vegetables: young roots, fresh greens, new shoots, and tightly coiled young ferns. Edible sweet milkweed flowers added a pleasing decoration to many of the dishes. There were also nuts and dried fruits from the previous autumn’s harvest, and containers of rich broth with chunks of reconstituted dried aurochs meat, roots, and mushrooms.
The thought struck Ayla that if they still had such prized food left after living through the rigors of the long winter, it spoke well, indeed, for their ability to organize the collection, preservation, storage, and distribution of adequate provisions to maintain the several Caves of Zelandonii throughout the cold season. The two hundred or so people of the Ninth Cave alone would have been too large a community for a less productive region to sustain year-round, but the exceptionally rich environment, as well as the large number of unusually convenient and serviceable natural shelters, encouraged the growing population of several Caves.
The home of the Ninth Cave of the Zelandonii was a high limestone cliff whose face was carved by weather and wear into an enormous, overhanging shelf that went from slightly south of due east to almost southwest in a long, shallow, south-facing curve that followed The River. The jutting overhang sheltered an area six hundred fifty feet in length and almost one hundred fifty feet in depth, offering nearly one hundred thousand square feet of covered living space. The stone floor of the abri beneath, layered with centuries of packed dirt and stone rubble, extended as a terrace or front porch somewhat beyond the edge of the huge rock ledge.
With so much space available, the members of the Ninth Cave did not fill up the entire protected area with living structures. No one made a purposeful decision to do so, but perhaps intuitively to lay claim and declare boundaries distinct from the adjacent area where the craftspeople of the vicinity tended to congregate, the residential dwellings of the Ninth Cave were clustered at the eastern end of the abri. Since they had plenty of room to spread out, the site immediately to the west of the dwellings was used for the community workplaces. Southwest of that, and continuing toward the end, was a large unoccupied space for children to play and for people to gather outside of their dwellings yet still be protected from inclement weather.
Though none of the others approached the size of the Ninth Cave, there were many other Zelandonii Caves along The River and its tributaries, most of them living, at least in winter, in similar sheltered limestone abris with capacious front porches of the same material. Though the people didn’t know it, and their descendants wouldn’t even think in such terms for many millennia, the location of the land of the Zelandonii was halfway between the North Pole and the equator. They didn’t need to know it to understand the benefits of their middle-latitude position. They had lived there for many generations and had learned from experience, passed down through example and lore, that the territory had advantages in all seasons, if one knew how to utilize them.
In summer, people tended to travel around the larger region that they thought of as Zelandonii land, usually living in the open in tents or lodges constructed of natural materials, especially when gathering together into larger groups and often when visiting or hunting or harvesting quantities of vegetable produce. But when they could, they were always happy to find a south-facing stone shelter to use temporarily, or to share the shelters of friends and kin, because of their distinct advantages.
Even during the Ice Age, when the leading edge of the nearest mass of ice was only a few hundred miles to the north, clear days could get quite hot at middle latitudes in the warm season. As the sun passed overhead, seeming to circle the great mother planet, it rode high in the southwest sky. The great protective overhanging cliff of the Ninth Cave, and others that faced south or southwest, cast a shadow beneath it in the heat of midday, offering a respite of enticing cool shade.
And when the weather began to chill, heralding the severe season of intense cold in periglacial territories, they welcomed their more permanent and protected homes. During the glacial winters, though sharp winds and temperatures well below freezing prevailed, the bitter cold days were often dry and clear. The shining orb hung low in the sky then, and the long rays of the afternoon sun could penetrate deep into a south-facing shelter to lay a kiss of solar warmth on the receptive stone. The great limestone abri cherished its precious gift, holding it until evening, when the nip of frost bit deeper, then it gave back its warmth to the protected space.
Proper clothing and fire were essential to survival on the northern continents when glaciers covered nearly a quarter of the earth’s surface, but in the land of the Zelandonii passive solar heat made a significant contribution toward warming their living space. The huge cliffs with their protective shelters were a significant reason the region was among the most heavily populated in all that cold ancient world.
Ayla smiled at the woman responsible for organizing the feast. “It looks so beautiful, Proleva. If the wonderful smells hadn’t made me so hungry, I would just like to look at it.”
Proleva smiled back, pleased.
“That is her specialty,” Marthona said. Ayla turned, somewhat surprised to see Jondalar’s mother; she had looked for her before she stepped down from the Speaking Stone but couldn’t find her. “No one can put together a feast or a gathering like Proleva. She’s a good cook, too, but it’s her skill at organizing the contributions of food and help from other people that makes her such an asset to Joharran and the Ninth Cave.”
“I learned from you, Marthona,” Proleva said, obviously delighted at the high praise from the mother of her mate.
“You have more than outdone me. I was never as good at making feasts as you have become,” Marthona said.
Ayla noticed the very specific reference to making feasts and recalled that Marthona’s “specialty” had not been organizing feasts and gatherings. Her organizing skills had been utilized as the leader of the Ninth Cave before Joharran.
“I hope you let me help you next time, Proleva,” Ayla said. “I would like to learn from you.”
“I’d be happy to have your help next time, but since this feast is for you, and people are waiting for you to start, can I serve you some of this young reindeer roast?”
“What about your wolf-animal?” Marthona asked. “Would he like some meat?”
“He would, but he doesn’t need tender young meat. He would probably be happy with a bone, if there is one with a little meat left on it that isn’t needed for soup,” Ayla said.
“There are several by the cooking fires over there,” Proleva said, “but do take a slice of this reindeer and some daylily buds for yourself first.”
Ayla held out her eating bowl to accept the piece of meat and ladle of hot green vegetables, then Proleva called another woman to come and serve the food and walked with Ayla toward the cooking hearths, staying on her left side, away from Wolf. She led them to the bones piled to one side of a large hearth and helped Ayla pick out a broken long bone with a shiny knob at one end. The marrow had been extracted, but pieces of brownish drying raw meat were still clinging to it.
“This will do fine,” Ayla said, while the wolf eyed her with tongue-lolling anticipation. “Would you like to give it to him, Proleva?”
Proleva frowned nervously. She didn’t want to be impolite to Ayla, especially after Marona’s trick, but she wasn’t eager to give a bone to a wolf.
“I would,” Marthona said, knowing it would make everyone less fearful to see her do it. “What should I do?”
“You can hold it out to him, or you can toss it to him,” Ayla said. She noticed that several people, including Jondalar, had joined them. He had an amused smile on his face.
Marthona took the bone and held it out toward the animal as he approached, then with a change of mind, she tossed it in the general direction of the wolf. He jumped up and grabbed it in the air with his teeth, a trick that drew appreciative comments, then he looked at Ayla expectantly.
“Take it over there, Wolf,” she said, signaling him as well, indicating the big charred stump at the edge of the terrace. The wolf carried the bone like a prized possession, settled himself near the stump, and began to gnaw on it.
When they went back to the serving tables, everyone wanted to give Ayla and Jondalar samples of special treats, which she noticed had a different variety of tastes from the ones she had known in her childhood. One thing she had learned on her travels, however, was that whatever foods the people of a region liked best, while they might be unusual, they generally tasted good.
A man, somewhat older than Jondalar, approached the group that surrounded Ayla. Though Ayla thought he appeared rather slovenly—his unwashed blond hair was dark with grease, and his clothing was grimy and needed repair—many people smiled at him, particularly the young men. He carried a container, similar to a waterbag, over his shoulder. It had been made from the nearly waterproof stomach of an animal and was full of liquid, which distended its shape.
By the size of it, Ayla guessed the container had probably come from the stomach of a horse; it did not appear to have the distinctive contours of a waterbag made from a ruminant with a multiple-chambered stomach. And by the smell, she knew it did not contain water. Rather, the odor reminded her of Talut’s bouza, the fermented drink that the headman of the Lion Camp made out of birch sap and other ingredients—which he liked to keep secret but usually included grains of some kind.
A young man who had been hovering near Ayla looked up and smiled broadly. “Laramar!” he said. “Have you brought some of your barma?”
Jondalar was glad to see him distracted. He didn’t know him, but had learned the man’s name was Charezal. He was a new member of the Ninth Cave who had come from a rather distant group of Zelandonii, and quite young. He probably hadn’t even met his first donii-woman when I left, Jondalar thought, but he had been fluttering around Ayla like a gnat.
“Yes. I thought I would make a contribution to the Welcome Feast for this young woman,” Laramar said, smiling at Ayla.
His smile seemed insincere, which aroused her Clan sensitivity. She paid closer attention to the language his body spoke and quickly decided this was not a man to be trusted.
“A contribution?” one of the women asked with a hint of sarcasm. Ayla thought it was Salova, the mate of Rushemar, one of the two men whom she regarded as Joharran’s seconds in command, as Grod had been Brun’s in the Clan. Leaders needed someone they could rely on, she had decided.
“I thought it was the least I could do,” Laramar said. “It isn’t often that a Cave can welcome someone from so far away.”
As he lifted the heavy bag from his shoulder and turned to put it down on a nearby stone table, Ayla overheard the woman mutter under her breath, “And even less often that Laramar contributes anything. I wonder what he wants.”
It seemed obvious to Ayla that she was not alone in mistrusting the man. Others did not trust him, either. It made her curious about him. People with cups in hand were already gathering around him, but he made a point of singling out Ayla and Jondalar.
“I think the returned traveler and the woman he brought with him should get the first drinks,” Laramar said.
“They can hardly refuse such a great honor,” Salova murmured.
Ayla barely heard the scornful comment and wondered if anyone else did. But the woman was right. They could not refuse. Ayla looked at Jondalar, who pointedly emptied the water from his cup and nodded toward the man. She emptied her cup as they walked up to Laramar.
“Thank you,” Jondalar said, smiling. Ayla thought his smile was as insincere as Laramar’s. “This is very thoughtful of you. Everyone knows your barma is the best, Laramar. Have you met Ayla yet?”
“Along with everyone else,” he said, “but I haven’t really been introduced.”
“Ayla, of the Mamutoi, this is Laramar of the Ninth Cave of the Zelandonii. It is true. No one makes barma better than his,” Jondalar said.
Ayla thought it seemed a rather limited formal introduction, but the man smiled at the praise. She handed Jondalar her cup to free both of her hands and held them out to the man. “In the name of the Great Earth Mother I greet you, Laramar of the Ninth Cave of the Zelandonii,” she said.
“And I welcome you,” he said, taking her hands, but holding them only briefly, almost as if he was embarrassed. “Rather than a formal one, let me offer you a better welcome.”
Laramar proceeded to open the container. First he unwrapped a waterproof piece of cleaned intestine from a pouring spout that had been made of a single vertebra from the backbone of an aurochs. Extraneous material around the tubular bone had been carved away and a groove cut around the outside. Then it had been inserted into a natural opening of the stomach and a strong cord tied around the skin that encircled the bone so that it was pulled into the groove, to hold it in place and make a watertight connection. Then he pulled out the stopper, a thin leather thong that had been knotted several times at one end until it was big enough to plug the central hole. It was much easier to control the flow of liquid from the flexible bag through the natural hole in the center of the solid section of spine.
Ayla had retrieved her cup from Jondalar and held it out. Laramar filled it somewhat more than half-full. Then he poured some for Jondalar. Ayla took a small sip. “This is good,” she said, smiling. “When I lived with the Mamutoi, the headman, Talut, used to make a drink similar to this out of birch sap and grains and other ingredients, but I must admit, this is better.”
Laramar looked around at the people nearby with a smirk of satisfaction.
“What is this made of?” Ayla asked, trying to get the taste.
“I don’t always make it the same way. It depends on what’s available. Sometimes I use birch sap and grains,” Laramar said, being evasive. “Can you guess what’s in it?”
She tasted again. It was harder to guess ingredients when they were fermented. “I think there are grains, perhaps birch sap or sap from some other tree, and maybe fruit, but something else, something sweet. I can’t tell the proportions, though, how much of each is used,” Ayla said.
“You have a good sense of taste,” he said, evidently impressed. “This batch does have fruit, apples that were left on a tree through a frost, which makes them a little more sweet, but the sweet you are tasting is honey.”
“Of course! Now that you mention it, I can taste honey,” Ayla said.
“I can’t always get honey, but when I can, it makes the barma better, and stronger,” Laramar said, this time with a smile that was genuine. There were not many with whom he could discuss the making of his brew.
Most people had a craft, something in which they developed the skill to excel. Laramar knew that he could make barma better than anyone. He considered it his craft, the one thing he could do well, but he felt that few gave him the credit he thought he deserved.
Many foods fermented naturally, some on the vine or tree on which they grew; even animals who ate them were sometimes affected. And many people made fermented beverages, at least occasionally, but they were inconsistent and their product often turned sour. Marthona was often cited for making an excellent wine, but it was considered by many a minor thing, and of course, it wasn’t her only skill.
Laramar could always be counted on to make a fermented brew that became alcoholic, not vinegary, and his was often very good. He knew that it wasn’t a minor thing, it took skill and knowledge to do it well, but most people cared only about his end product. It didn’t help that he was known to drink a lot of it himself and was often too “sick” in the mornings to go hunting or to participate in some cooperative, sometimes unpleasant, but usually necessary activity that needed to be done for the Cave.
Shortly after he poured the barma for the guests of honor, a woman appeared at Laramar’s side. A toddler was hanging on her leg that she seemed to be ignoring. She had a cup in her hand which she held toward Laramar. A flicker of displeasure danced across his features for a moment, but he held his expression carefully neutral as he poured her some barma.
“Aren’t you going to introduce her to your mate?” she said, obviously directing her question to Laramar, but looking at Ayla.
“Ayla, this is my mate, Tremeda, and the one hanging on her is her youngest boy,” Laramar said, complying with her request minimally, and somewhat reluctantly, Ayla thought.
“Tremeda, this is Ayla of the … Matumo.”
“In the name of the Mother, I greet you, Tremeda of …,” Ayla started, putting down her cup so she could use both hands in the formal greeting.
“I welcome you, Ayla,” Tremeda said, then took a drink, not bothering with trying to free her hands for greetings.
Two more children had crowded around her. The clothing on all the children was so ragged, stained, and dirty, it was hard to see the minor differences that Ayla had observed between young Zelandonii girls and boys, and Tremeda, herself, looked little better. Her hair was uncombed, her clothes stained and dirty. Ayla suspected that Tremeda indulged too heavily in her mate’s brew. The eldest of the children, a boy, Ayla thought, was looking at her with an unpleasant expression.
“Why does she talk so funny?” he said, looking up at his mother. “And why is she wearing boy’s underwear?”
“I don’t know. Why don’t you ask her?” Tremeda said, drinking the last of the liquid in her cup.
Ayla glanced at Laramar and noticed that he was fuming with anger. He looked ready to hit the youngster. Before he could, Ayla spoke to the boy. “The reason I have a different way of speaking is that I come from far away and grew up with people who don’t talk the same way as the Zelandonii. Jondalar taught me to speak your language after I was already grown. As for these clothes, they were given to me as a gift earlier today.”
The youngster seemed surprised that she had answered him, but he didn’t hesitate to ask another question. “Why would someone give you boys’ clothes?” the boy said.
“I don’t know,” she said. “Perhaps they meant it as a joke, but I rather like them. They are very comfortable. Don’t you think so?”
“I guess so. I never had any as good as those,” the boy said.
“Then perhaps we can make some for you. I’d be willing if you will help me,” Ayla said.
His eyes lit up. “Do you mean it?”
“Yes, I mean it. Will you tell me your name?”
“I’m Bologan,” he said.
Ayla held out both her hands. Bologan looked at her in surprise. He had not expected a full formal greeting and wasn’t sure what to do. He didn’t think he had a formal designation. He had never heard his mother or the man of his hearth greet anyone using their names and ties. Ayla reached down and took both his grimy hands in hers.
“I am Ayla of the Mamutoi, Member of the Lion Camp,” she began, and continued with her full formal designation. When he didn’t respond with his, she did it for him. “In the name of Mut, the Great Earth Mother, also known as Doni, I greet you, Bologan of the Ninth Cave of the Zelandonii; Son of Tremeda, Blessed of Doni, mated to Laramar, Maker of the Most Excellent Barma.”
The way she said it made it sound as if he really did have names and ties to be proud of, like everyone else. He looked up at his mother and her mate. Laramar was not angry anymore. They were smiling and seemed rather pleased at the way she had named them.
Ayla noticed Marthona and Salova had joined them. “I would like some of that Most Excellent Barma,” Salova said. Laramar seemed more than pleased to oblige.
“And me too,” Charezal said, getting his request in first as other people started crowding around Laramar, holding out their cups.
Ayla noticed that Tremeda got another cupful, too, before she moved off, followed by the children. Bologan looked at her as they were moving away. She smiled at him and was pleased to see him smile back.
“I think you’ve made a friend of that young man,” Marthona said.
“A rather rowdy young man,” Salova added. “Are you really going to make him some winter underwear?”
“Why not? I would like to learn how this is made,” Ayla said, indicating the clothing she had on. “I may have a son someday. And I might like to make another outfit for myself.”
“Make one for yourself! You mean you are going to wear that?” Salova said.
“With a few variations, like a slightly better-fitting top. Have you ever tried one on? It is very comfortable. And besides, it was given to me as a gift of welcome. I’m going to show how much I appreciate it,” Ayla said, a touch of her anger and pride showing.
Salova’s eyes opened wide as she looked at the stranger Jondalar had brought home, suddenly conscious of her unusual enunciation again. This woman is not someone to anger, she thought. Marona may have tried to embarrass Ayla, but Ayla has turned it back on her. Marona will be the one who ends up being humiliated. She’ll cringe every time she sees her wearing that outfit. I don’t think I would want Ayla mad at me!
“I’m sure Bologan could use something warm to wear this winter,” Marthona said. She had not missed a bit of the subtle communication between the two younger women. It’s probably just as well for Ayla to begin establishing her place right away, she thought. People need to know she cannot be taken advantage of easily. After all, she will be mating a man who was born and raised among the people who are the responsible leaders of the Zelandonii.
“He could use something to wear anytime,” Salova said. “Has he ever had anything decent? The only reason those children have anything at all is that people take pity on them and give them their castoffs. As much as he drinks, have you noticed that Laramar always manages to have enough barma to trade for whatever he wants, especially to make more barma, but not enough to feed his mate and her brood? And he’s never around when something needs to be done, like spreading rock powder on the trenches, or even to go hunting.
“And Tremeda doesn’t help,” Salova continued. “They are too much alike. She’s always too ‘sick’ to help with food gathering or community projects, though it doesn’t seem to bother her to ask for a share of someone else’s efforts to feed her ‘poor, hungry children.’ And who can refuse? They are indeed poorly dressed, seldom clean, and often hungry.”
After the meal, the gathering became more boisterous, especially after Laramar’s barma appeared. As darkness came on, the revelers moved to an area closer to the middle of the space under the huge rock shelf that roofed the entire settlement, and a large fire was lit barely under the edge of the overhead shelter. Even during the hottest days of summer, nighttime brought a penetrating chill, a reminder of the great masses of glacial ice to the north.
The bonfire threw heat back under the abri, and as the rock warmed, it added to the comfort of the surroundings. So did the friendly, if constantly changing, crowd gathered around the recently arrived couple. Ayla met so many people that, in spite of her exceptional memorizing skill, she wasn’t sure she would remember them all.
Wolf suddenly appeared again about the same time as Proleva, carrying a sleepy Jaradal, joined the group. The boy perked up and wanted to get down, much to his mother’s obvious dismay.
“Wolf won’t hurt him,” Ayla said.
“He’s very good with children, Proleva,” Jondalar added. “He was raised with the children of the Lion Camp, and was especially protective of one boy who was weak and sickly.”
The nervous mother stooped to let the boy down while keeping an arm around him. Ayla joined them, putting her arm around the animal, primarily to reassure the woman.
“Would you like to touch Wolf, Jaradal?” Ayla asked. He nodded his head up and down solemnly. She guided his hand toward Wolf’s head.
“He’s tickly!” Jaradal said with a smile.
“Yes, his fur is tickly. It tickles him, too. He’s shedding; that means some of his hair is coming out,” Ayla said.
“Does it hurt?” Jaradal asked.
“No. It just tickles. That’s why he especially likes to be scratched now.”
“Why is his hair coming out?”
“Because it’s getting warmer. In winter, when it’s cold, he grows a lot of hair to keep warm, but it’s too hot in summer,” Ayla explained.
“Why doesn’t he put a coat on when it’s cold?” Jaradal pressed.
The answer came from another source. “It’s hard for wolves to make coats, so the Mother makes one for them every winter,” Zelandoni said. She had joined the group shortly after Proleva. “In summer, when it gets warm, the Mother takes their coats off. When Wolf sheds his fur, it’s Doni’s way of taking off his coat, Jaradal.”
Ayla was surprised at the gentleness in the woman’s voice as she talked to the small boy, and the look of tenderness in her eyes. It made her wonder if Zelandoni had ever wanted children. With her knowledge of medicine, Ayla was sure the donier would know how to dislodge a pregnancy, but it was more difficult to know how to start one or to prevent a miscarriage. I wonder how she thinks new life starts, Ayla thought, or if she knows how to prevent it.
When Proleva picked up the boy to take him to their dwelling, Wolf started to follow. Ayla called him back. “I think you should go to Marthona’s dwelling, Wolf,” she said, giving him a “go home” signal. His home was anyplace that Ayla had laid her furs.
As the chill darkness overwhelmed the region beyond the palliative of firelight, many people left the main celebration area. Some, especially families with young children, retired to personal dwellings. Others, mostly young couples but older people as well and occasionally more than two, were in the shadows around the edges of the fire, involved with each other in more private ways, sometimes talking, sometimes embracing. It was not uncommon to share partners at such events, and as long as all the parties were agreeable, no ill will resulted.
The occasion reminded Ayla of a celebration to Honor the Mother, and if it honored Her to share Her Gift of Pleasure, She seemed to be well honored that evening. The Zelandonii were not so different from the Mamutoi, Ayla thought, or the Sharamudoi, or the Losadunai, and even the language was the same as the Lanzadonii.
Several men tried to entice the beautiful stranger into sharing the Great Mother’s pleasurable Gift. Ayla enjoyed the attention, but she made it plain that she had no desire for anyone except Jondalar.
He had mixed feelings about all the interest she was getting. He was pleased that she was so well received by his people, and proud that so many men admired the woman he had brought home, but he wished that they would not be so openly eager to take her to their furs—especially that stranger called Charezal—and he was glad that she showed no inclination for anyone else.
Jealousy was not well tolerated by the Zelandonii. It could lead to discord and strife, even fighting, and as a community, they valued harmony and cooperation above all else. In a land that was little more than a frozen waste for a large part of the year, willing mutual assistance was essential for survival. Most of their customs and practices were aimed at maintaining goodwill and discouraging anything, such as jealousy, that might jeopardize their amicable relations.
Jondalar knew he would have trouble hiding his jealousy if Ayla chose someone else. He did not want to share her with anyone. Perhaps, after they had been mated for many years and the comfort of habit occasionally gave way to the excitement of someone new, it would be different, but not yet, and in his heart he doubted if he could ever willingly share her.
Some people had started singing and dancing, and Ayla was trying to move in their direction, but everyone around her crowded in close, wanting to talk. One man in particular, who had been hovering around the edge of the group most of the evening, now seemed determined to speak to her. Ayla thought she had noticed someone unusual earlier, but when she tried to focus on him, someone else would ask her a question or make a comment that distracted her.
She looked up as a man handed her another cup of the barma. Though the drink reminded her of Talut’s bouza, this was stronger. She was feeling a bit giddy and decided it was time to stop. She was familiar with the effects such fermented drinks could have on her, and she did not want to get too “friendly” the first time she met Jondalar’s people.
She smiled at the man who had given her the cup in anticipation of politely refusing him, but the shock of seeing him froze the smile on her face for a moment. It quickly became an expression of genuine warmth and friendliness.
“I am Brukeval,” he said. He seemed hesitant and shy. “I’m a cousin of Jondalar.” His voice was quite low-pitched, but rich and resonant, very pleasing.
“Greetings! I am called Ayla of the Mamutoi,” she said, intrigued by more than his voice or demeanor.
He did not quite resemble the rest of the Zelandonii she had met. Rather than the usual blue or gray eyes, his large eyes were quite dark. Ayla thought they might be brown, but it was hard to be sure in firelight. More startling than his eyes, however, was his general appearance. He had a look that was familiar to her. His features had the cast of the Clan!
He’s a mixture, both Clan and Others. I’m sure of it, she thought. She studied him, but only with glances. He seemed to bring out her Clan woman training and she found herself being careful not to stare too directly. She didn’t think he was an equal mixture of half Clan, half Others, like Echozar, to whom Joplaya was Promised … or her own son.
The look of the Others was stronger in this man; his forehead was essentially high and straight, sloping back only a little, and when he turned she could see that while his head was long, the back of it was round and lacked the protruding bony occipital bun. But his browridges, which overhung his large deep-set eyes, were his most distinctive feature, not quite as imposing as men of the Clan, but definitely prominent. His nose was quite big, too, and though more finely modeled than Clan men, it had the same general shape.
She thought he probably had a receding chin. His dark brown beard made it hard to tell, but the beard itself made the man seem similar to the men she had known as a child. The first time Jondalar had shaved, which he usually did in summer, it had been a shock to her, and it had made him appear very young, preadolescent. She had never seen a grown man without a beard before that. This man was somewhat shorter than average, slightly shorter than her, though he was powerfully built, burly with heavy muscles and a deep barrel chest.
Brukeval had all the masculine qualities of the men she had grown up with, and she thought he was quite handsome in a comfortable way. She even felt a slight tingle of attraction. She was also feeling tipsy—definitely no more cups of barma for her.
Ayla’s warm smile communicated her feeling, but Brukeval thought there was an engaging shyness about her, too, in the way she glanced aside and looked down. He was not used to women reacting to him with such warmth, especially beautiful women who were with his tall, charismatic cousin.
“I thought you might want a cup of Laramar’s barma,” Brukeval said. “There have been so many people around you, all wanting to talk, but no one seemed to think you might be thirsty.”
“Thank you. I actually am thirsty, but I don’t dare have any more of that,” she said, indicating the cup. “I’ve already had so much, I’m dizzy.” Then she smiled, one of her full, glowing, irresistible smiles.
Brukeval was so entranced, he forgot to breathe for a moment. He’d been wanting to meet her all evening, but had been afraid to approach her. He had been casually spurned by beautiful women before. With her golden hair gleaming in the firelight, her firm and remarkably shapely body shown off becomingly by the soft clinging leather, and the slightly foreign features giving her an exotic appeal, he thought she was the most extraordinarily beautiful woman he had ever seen.
“Can I get you something else to drink?” Brukeval finally asked, smiling with a boyish eagerness to please. He hadn’t expected her to be so open and friendly to him.
“Go away, Brukeval. I was here first,” said Charezal, not entirely in fun. He had seen the way she smiled at Brukeval, and he had been trying all evening to entice Ayla away, or at least extract a promise that she would meet him some other time.
Few men would have been so persistent in trying to interest a woman chosen by Jondalar, but Charezal had moved to the Ninth Cave only the year before from a distant Cave. He was several years younger than Jondalar, had not even reached manhood by the time the man and his brother left on their Journey, and was not aware of the tall man’s reputation as someone who had an incomparable way with women. He had learned only that day that the leader had a brother. He had, however, heard rumors and gossip about Brukeval.
“You don’t think she’s going to be interested in someone whose mother was half flathead, do you?” Charezal said.
There was a gasp from the crowd and a sudden silence. No one had openly made such a reference to Brukeval in years. His face distorted with a venomous look of pure hatred as he glared at the young man in a barely controlled rage. Ayla was stunned to see the transformation. She had seen that kind of rage from a man of the Clan once before, and it frightened her.
But this was not the first time someone had poked fun at Brukeval like that. He had felt especially sensitive to Ayla’s predicament when she was laughed at for wearing the clothes Marona and her friends had given to her. Brukeval had been the butt of cruel jokes, too. He had wanted to run to her, protect her, as Jondalar did, and when he saw the way she stood up to their laughter, tears had come to his eyes. As he’d watched her walk so proudly and face them all down, he had lost his heart to her.
Later, though he ached to talk to her, he suffered agonies of indecision and hesitated to introduce himself. Women didn’t always respond favorably to him, and he would rather have admired her from a distance than see her look at him with the disdain some beautiful women did. But after watching her for some time, he finally decided to take a chance. And then, she had been so nice to him! She had seemed to welcome his presence. Her smile had been so warm and receptive, it made her even more beautiful.
In the silence after Charezal’s remark, Brukeval watched Jondalar move up behind Ayla, hovering protectively. He envied Jondalar. He had always envied Jondalar, who was even taller than most. Though he had never taken part in the sport of name-calling, and had in fact defended him more than once, he felt that Jondalar pitied him, and that was worse. Now Jondalar had come home with this beautiful woman that everyone admired. Why were some people so favored?
But his glare at Charezal had upset Ayla more than he could know. She hadn’t seen an expression like that since she left Brun’s clan; it reminded her of Broud, the son of Brun’s mate, who had often looked at her like that. Though Brukeval was not angry at her, she shuddered at the memory and wanted to get away.
She turned to Jondalar. “Let’s go. I’m tired,” she said under her breath in Mamutoi, and realized that she really was—exhausted, in fact. They had just completed a long, hard Journey, and so much had happened, it was hard to believe they had arrived only that day. There had been the anxiety of meeting Jondalar’s family and the sadness of telling them about Thonolan’s death; the unpleasantness of Marona’s joke as well as the excitement of meeting all the people of this large Cave; and now Brukeval. It was too much.
Jondalar could see that the incident between Brukeval and Charezal had distressed her, and he had some idea why. “It has been a long day,” he said. “I think it’s time for us to go.”
Brukeval seemed upset that they were leaving so soon after he had finally gotten up courage to talk to her. He smiled hesitantly. “Do you have to go?” he asked.
“It’s late. Many people have already gone to bed, and I am tired,” she said, smiling back at him. Without that malevolent expression, she could smile at him, but it lacked the earlier warmth. They said good night to the people nearby, but when she looked back, she noticed Brukeval glaring again at Charezal.
As she and Jondalar walked back toward the dwellings and Marthona’s place, Ayla asked, “Did you see the way your cousin was looking at Charezal? It was filled with hate.”
“I can’t say I blame him for being upset at Charezal,” he said. Jondalar had not exactly warmed to the man, either. “You know it’s a terrible insult to call someone a flathead, and even worse to say someone’s mother is one. Brukeval has been teased before, especially when he was young—children can be cruel.”
Jondalar went on to explain that when Brukeval was a child, whenever someone had wanted to tease him, they called him “flathead.” Though he lacked that specific characteristic of the Clan that had given rise to the epithet—the sloped-back forehead—it was the one word that was all but guaranteed to make him react with fury. And to the young orphan who had hardly known her, it was worse to refer to his mother in a way that meant the most despicable kind of abomination imaginable, half animal, half human.
Because of his predictable emotional response, with the casual cruelty of children, those who were bigger or older often teased him by calling him “flathead” or “son of an abomination” when he was young. But as he grew older, what he lacked in stature, he made up for in strength. After a few battles with boys who, though taller than him, were no match for his phenomenal muscular power, especially coupled with untempered rage, they stopped the hated taunts, at least to his face.
“I don’t know why it should bother people so much, but it’s probably true,” Ayla said. “I think he is part Clan. He reminds me of Echozar, but Brukeval has less Clan. You can see it is not as strong—except for that look. That reminded me of the way Broud looked at me.”
“I’m not so sure he’s a mixture. Maybe some ancestor came from a distant place and it’s only chance that he bears some superficial resemblance to f … Clan people,” Jondalar said.
“He’s your cousin, what do you know about him?”
“I don’t really know much for sure, but I can tell you what I’ve heard,” Jondalar said. “Some of the older people say that when Brukeval’s grandmother was barely a young woman, she somehow got separated from her people while traveling to a Summer Meeting that was quite far away. She was supposed to have her First Rites at that meeting. By the time she was found it was the end of summer. They say she was irrational, hardly even coherent. She claimed she had been attacked by animals. They say she was never quite right again, but she didn’t live long. Not long after she returned, it was discovered she had been blessed by the Mother, even though she had never had First Rites. She died shortly after giving birth to Brukeval’s mother, or perhaps as the result of it.”
“Where do they think she was?”
“No one knows.”
Ayla frowned in thought. “She must have found food and shelter while she was gone,” she said.
“I don’t think she was starving,” he said.
“The animals that attacked her, did she say what kind they were?”
“Not that I’ve heard.”
“Did she have any scratch or bite marks or other injuries?” Ayla continued.
“I don’t know.”
Ayla stopped as they were approaching the area of the dwellings and looked at the tall man in the dim light of the crescent moon and the distant fire. “Don’t the Zelandonii call the Clan animals? Did his grandmother ever say anything about the ones you call flatheads?”
“They do say she hated flatheads, and would run away screaming at the sight of one,” Jondalar said.
“What about Brukeval’s mother? Did you know her? What did she look like?”
“I don’t recall much, I was pretty young,” Jondalar said. “She was short. I remember that she had big, beautiful eyes, dark like Brukeval’s, brownish, but not really dark brown, more hazel. People used to say her eyes were her best feature.”
“Brownish, like Guban’s eyes?” Ayla asked.
“Now that you mention it, I guess they were.”
“Are you sure Brukeval’s mother didn’t have the look of the Clan, like Echozar … and Rydag?”
“I don’t think she was considered very pretty, but I don’t recall her having browridges, like Yorga. She never did mate. I guess men weren’t too interested in her.”
“How did she get pregnant?”
She could see Jondalar’s smile even in the dark. “You are convinced that it takes a man, aren’t you? Everyone just said the Mother Blessed her, but Zolena … Zelandoni once told me that she was one of those rare women who was Blessed immediately after First Rites. People always think that’s too young, but it happens.”
Ayla was nodding in agreement. “What happened to her?”
“I don’t know. Zelandoni said she was never very healthy. I think she died when Brukeval was quite young. He was raised by Marona’s mother, she was a cousin of Brukeval’s mother, but I don’t think she cared much for him. It was more an obligation. Marthona used to watch him sometimes. I remember playing with him when we were little. Some of the older boys picked on him even then. He has always hated it when someone called him a flathead.”
“No wonder he was so furious at Charezal. At least now I understand. But that look …” Ayla shuddered again. “He looked just like Broud. As long as I can remember, Broud hated me. I don’t know why. He just hated me and nothing I ever did could change it. For a while I tried, but I will tell you, Jondalar. I would never want Brukeval to hate me.”
Wolf looked up in greeting when they entered Marthona’s dwelling. He had found Ayla’s sleeping furs and curled up near them when she told him to “go home.” Ayla smiled when she saw his eyes glowing in the light of the one lamp Marthona had left burning. He licked her face and throat in eager welcome when she sat down. Then he welcomed Jondalar.
“He’s not used to so many people,” Ayla said.
When he went back to Ayla, she held his head between her hands and looked into his shining eyes. “What’s the matter, Wolf? A lot of strangers to get used to? I know how you feel.”
“They won’t be strangers for long, Ayla,” Jondalar said. “Everyone already loves you.”
“Except Marona and her friends,” Ayla said, sitting up and loosening the ties of the soft leather top that was meant to be winter underwear for boys.
He was still disturbed over the way Marona had treated her, and so was she, it seemed. He wished that she hadn’t had to be put through such an ordeal, especially her first day here. He wanted her to be happy with his people. She would soon be one of them. But he was proud of the way she had handled it.
“You were wonderful. The way you put Marona in her place. Everyone thought so,” he said.
“Why did those women want people to laugh at me? They don’t know me, and they didn’t even try to get acquainted.”
“It’s my fault, Ayla,” Jondalar said, stopping in the middle of unlacing the ties around the upper portion of his footwear that was wrapped around the calf of one leg. “Marona had every right to expect me to be there for the Matrimonial that summer. I left without explanations. She must have been terribly hurt. How would you feel if you and everyone you knew expected you to mate someone who didn’t show up?”
“I would be very unhappy, and angry at you, but I hope I wouldn’t try to hurt someone I didn’t know,” Ayla said, loosening the waist ties of her leggings. “When they said they wanted to fix my hair, it made me think of Deegie, but I combed my own hair when I looked in the reflector and saw what they did. I thought you told me the Zelandonii were people who believed in courtesy and hospitality.”
“They do,” he said. “Most of them.”
“But not everyone. Not your former women friends. Maybe you should tell me who else I should watch out for,” Ayla said.
“Ayla, don’t let Marona color your opinion about everyone else. Couldn’t you tell how much most people liked you? Give them a chance.”
“What about the ones who tease orphan boys and turn them into Brouds?”
“Most people are not like that, Ayla,” he said, looking at her with a troubled expression.
She exhaled a long sigh. “No, you’re right. Your mother is not like that, or your sister, or the rest of your kin. Even Brukeval was very nice to me. It’s just that the last time I saw that expression was when Broud told Goov to put a death curse on me. I’m sorry, Jondalar. I’m just tired.” Suddenly she reached for him, buried her face in his neck, and let out a sob. “I wanted to make a good impression on your people, and make new friends, but those women didn’t want to be friends. They just pretended they did.”
“You did make a good impression, Ayla. You couldn’t have made a better one. Marona always did have a temper, but I was sure she would find someone else while I was gone. She is very attractive, everyone always said she was the Beauty of the Bunch, the most desirable woman at every Summer Meeting. I guess that’s why everyone expected us to mate,” he said.
“Because you were the most handsome and she was the most beautiful?” Ayla asked.
“I suppose,” he said, feeling himself flush and glad for the faint light. “I don’t know why she isn’t mated now.”
“She said she was, but it didn’t last.”
“I know. But why didn’t she find someone else? It’s not like she suddenly forgot how to Pleasure a man, or became less attractive and desirable.”
“Maybe she did, Jondalar. If you didn’t want her, maybe other men decided to look again. A woman who is willing to hurt someone she doesn’t even know may be less attractive than you think,” Ayla said as she pulled the leggings off one leg.
Jondalar frowned. “I hope it’s not my fault. It’s bad enough that I left her in such a predicament. I would hate to think I made it impossible for her to find another mate.”
Ayla looked at him quizzically. “Why would you think that?”
“Didn’t you say that maybe if I didn’t want her, other men …”
“Other men might look again. If they didn’t like what they saw, how is that your fault?”
“Well … ah …”
“You can blame yourself for leaving without explaining. I’m sure she was hurt and embarrassed. But she has had five years to find someone else, and you said she is considered very desirable. If she couldn’t find someone else, it’s not your fault, Jondalar,” Ayla said.
Jondalar paused, then nodded. “You’re right,” he said, and continued removing his clothing. “Let’s go to sleep. Things will look better in the morning.”
As she crawled into her warm and comfortable sleeping furs, Ayla had another thought. “If Marona is so good at ‘Pleasuring,’ I wonder why she doesn’t have any children?”
Jondalar chuckled. “I hope you are right about Doni’s Gift making children. It would be like two Gifts …” He stopped as he was lifting his side of the covers. “But you’re right! She doesn’t have any children.”
“Don’t hold the cover up like that! It’s cold!” she said in a loud whisper.
He quickly got into the sleeping roll and snuggled his naked body next to hers. “That could be the reason she never mated,” he continued, “or at least part of it. When a man decides to mate, he usually wants a woman who can bring children to his hearth. A woman can have children, and stay at her mother’s hearth, or even make her own hearth, but the only way a man can have children at his hearth is to mate a woman so she can bring her children to it. If Marona mated and didn’t have any children, it could make her less desirable.”
“That would be a shame,” Ayla said, feeling a sudden stab of empathy. She knew how much she wanted children. She had wanted a baby of her own from the time she watched Iza give birth to Uba, and she was sure that it was Broud’s hatred that had given her one. It was his hatred that had caused him to force her, and if he hadn’t forced her, no new life would have started growing inside her.
She didn’t know it at the time, of course, but looking closely at her son had made her understand. Brun’s clan had never seen a child like hers, and since her son didn’t look quite like her—like the Others—they thought he was a deformed child of the Clan; but she could see he was a mixture. He had some of her characteristics and some of theirs, and with a sudden insight, she had realized that when a man put his organ in that place where babies came from, somehow it made new life start. It wasn’t what the Clan believed, and it wasn’t what Jondalar’s people or any of the Others believed, but Ayla was convinced it was true.
Lying next to Jondalar, knowing she was carrying his baby inside her, Ayla felt a pang of pity and sorrow for the woman who had lost him and, perhaps, could not have children. Could she really blame Marona for being upset? How would she feel if she lost Jondalar? Tears threatened at the thought, and a flush of warmth at her good fortune washed over her.
It was a nasty trick, though, and it could have turned out far worse than it did. Ayla couldn’t help getting angry, and she hadn’t known what they would do when she decided to face them all down. They all might have turned on her. She might feel sympathy for Marona, but she didn’t have to like her. And then there was Brukeval. His Clan look had made her feel friendly toward him, but now she was wary.
Jondalar held her until he thought she was asleep, trying to stay awake until he was sure. Then he closed his eyes and slept, too. But Ayla woke up in the middle of the night, feeling a pressure and needing to relieve herself. Wolf silently followed her to the night basket near the entrance. When she got back into bed, he curled up next to her. She felt grateful for the warmth and protection of the wolf on one side and the man on the other, but it was a long time before she fell asleep again.