Jondalar slowly became aware that he was awake, but caution made him lie still until he could sort out what was wrong, because something most certainly was. For one thing, his head was throbbing. He opened his eyes a crack. There was only dim light, but enough to see the cold, hard-packed dirt he was lying on. Something felt dry and caked on the side of his face, but when he attempted to reach up and find out what it was, he discovered that his hands were tied together behind his back. His feet were tied together, too.
He rolled to his side and looked around. He was inside a small round structure, a kind of wooden frame covered with skins, which he sensed was inside a larger enclosure. There were no sounds of wind, no drafts, no billowing of the hides as there would have been if he had been outside, and though it was cool, it wasn’t freezing. And he suddenly realized that he was no longer wearing his fur parka.
Jondalar struggled to sit up, and a wave of dizziness washed over him. The throbbing in his head localized to a sharp pain above his left temple, near the dry, caked residue. He stopped when he heard the sound of voices drawing near. Two women were speaking an unfamiliar language, though he thought he detected a few words that sounded vaguely Mamutoi.
“Hello out there. I’m awake,” he called out, in the language of the Mammoth Hunters. “Will someone come and untie me? These ropes aren’t necessary. I’m sure there has been a misunderstanding. I mean no harm.” The voices stopped for a moment, then continued, but no one either answered or came.
Jondalar, lying facedown on the dirt, tried to remember how he had gotten there, and what he might have done that would have prompted someone to tie him up. In his experience, the only time people were tied up was when they behaved wildly and tried to hurt someone. He recalled a wall of fire—and horses racing toward the drop-off at the edge of the field. People must have been hunting the horses, and he’d been caught up in the middle of it.
Then he remembered seeing Ayla riding Racer, but having trouble controlling him. He wondered how the stallion had ended up in the middle of the stampeding herd when he had left him tied to a bush.
Jondalar had almost panicked then, afraid the horse would respond to his herding instinct and follow the others over the edge, taking Ayla with him. He remembered running toward them with his spear ready in his spear-thrower. As much as he loved that brown stallion, he would have killed Racer before allowing him to carry Ayla over the cliff. That was the last thing he remembered, except for a fleeting recollection of a sharp pain before everything went dark.
Someone must have hit me with something, Jondalar thought. It was a hard blow, too, because I don’t remember anything about being brought here, and my head still hurts. Did they think I was spoiling their hunting strategy? The first time he’d met Jeren and his hunters, it had been under similar circumstances. He and Thonolan had inadvertently run off a herd of horses the hunters had been driving toward a trap. But Jeren had understood, once he got over his anger, that it wasn’t intentional, and they had become friends. I didn’t spoil the hunt of these people, did I?
He tried again to sit up. Bracing himself on his side, he pulled his knees up, then strained to roll and bob up into a sitting position. It took a few tries and left his head throbbing from the effort, but he finally succeeded. He sat with his eyes closed, hoping the pain would soon subside. But as it eased off, his concern for Ayla and the animals grew. Had Whinney and Racer been swept over the edge with the herd, and had Racer taken Ayla with him?
Was she dead? He felt his heart beat with fear just thinking about it. Were they all gone, Ayla and the horses? What about Wolf? When the injured animal finally reached the field, he would find no one. Jondalar imagined him sniffing around, trying to follow a trail that went nowhere. What would he do? Wolf was a good hunter, but he was hurt. How well could he hunt for himself with his injury? He would miss Ayla and the rest of his “pack.” He wasn’t used to living alone. How would he get along? What would happen when he came up against a pack of wild wolves? Would he be able to defend himself?
Isn’t anyone going to come? I’d like a drink of water, Jondalar thought. They must have heard me. I’m hungry, too, but mostly thirsty. His mouth felt drier and drier, and his craving for water grew stronger. “Hey, out there! I’m thirsty! Can’t someone bring a man a drink of water?” he shouted. “What kind of people are you? Tying a man up and not even giving him a drink of water!”
No one answered. After shouting a few more times, he decided to save his breath. It was only making him more thirsty, and his head still hurt. He considered lying down, but it had taken so much effort to get up that he wasn’t sure if he could do it again.
As more time passed, he began to feel morose. He was weak, bordering on delirious, and he imagined the worst, vividly. He convinced himself that Ayla was dead, and both the horses as well. When he thought of Wolf, he pictured the poor beast wandering alone, injured and unable to hunt, looking for Ayla and open to attack by local wolves or hyenas or some other animal … better, perhaps, than dying of starvation. He wondered if he was going to be left to die of thirst, and then almost hoped he would, if Ayla was gone. Identifying with the plight he envisioned for the wolf, the man decided that he and Wolf must be the last surviving members of their unusual band of travelers, and that they would soon be gone.
He was pulled out of his despair by the sound of people approaching. The entrance flap of the small structure was thrown back, and through the opening he saw a figure standing, feet apart and hands on hips, silhouetted by torchlight. She issued a sharp command. Two women entered the enclosed space, walked to either side of him, lifted him up, and dragged him out. They propped him up on his knees in front of her, his hands and feet still bound. His head was throbbing again, and he leaned unsteadily against one of the women. She pushed him away.
The woman who had ordered him to be brought forward looked down at him for a moment or two and then she laughed. It was harsh and dissonant, a demented, jarring curse of a sound. Jondalar recoiled involuntarily and felt a shudder of fear. She spoke a few sharp words at him. He didn’t understand, but he tried to straighten up and look at her. His vision blurred, and he weaved unsteadily. The woman scowled, barked more orders, then turned on her heel and stalked out. The women who were holding him up dropped him and followed her, along with several others. Jondalar toppled over on his side, dizzy and weak.
He felt the bindings on his feet being cut, and then water was poured on his mouth. It almost choked him, but he tried eagerly to swallow some. The woman who was holding the waterbag spoke a few words in tones of disgust, and then she thrust the bladder of liquid at an older man. He came forward and held the waterbag to Jondalar’s mouth, then tipped it up, not more gently, exactly, but with more patience, so that Jondalar could swallow and finally slake his ravenous thirst.
Before he was fully satisfied, the woman impatiently spat out a word, and the man took the water away. Then she pulled Jondalar to his feet. He staggered with dizziness as she pushed him ahead, out of the shelter, and in with a group of other men. It was cold, but no one offered him his fur parka or even untied his hands so he could rub them together.
But the cool air revived him, and he noticed that some of the other men had their hands tied behind their backs, too. He looked more closely at the people among whom he had been thrust. They were all ages, from young men—more like boys actually—to oldsters. All of them looked thin, weak, and dirty, with tattered, inadequate clothes and matted hair. A few had untended wounds, full of dried blood and dirt.
Jondalar tried to speak to the man standing next to him in Mamutoi, but he just shook his head. Jondalar thought he didn’t understand, so he tried Sharamudoi. The man looked away just as a woman holding a spear came and threatened Jondalar with it, barking a sharp command. He didn’t know her words, but her actions were plain enough, and he wondered if the reason the man had not spoken was that he didn’t understand him, or if he had, had not wanted to speak.
Several women with spears spaced themselves around the group of men. One of them shouted some words and the men started walking. Jondalar used the opportunity to look around and try to get a sense of where he was. The settlement, consisting of several rounded dwellings, felt vaguely familiar, which was strange because the countryside was totally unknown to him. Then he realized it was the dwellings. They resembled Mamutoi earthlodges. Though they were not exactly the same, they appeared to be constructed in a similar fashion, probably using the bones of mammoths as structural supports that were covered with thatch, then sod and clay.
They started walking uphill, which afforded Jondalar a broader view. The countryside was mostly grassy steppeland or tundra—treeless plains on land with frozen subsoil that thawed to a black mucky surface in summer. Tundra was able to support only dwarfed herbs, but in spring their conspicuous blossoms added color and beauty, and they fed musk-oxen, reindeer, and other animals that could digest them. There were also stretches of taiga, low-growing evergreen trees so uniform in height that their tops could have been sheared off by some gigantic cutting tool, and in fact they were. Icy winds driving needles of sleet or sharp bits of gritty loess cut short any individual twig or tip that dared to strive above its brethren.
As they trudged higher, Jondalar saw a herd of mammoths grazing far to the north, and somewhat closer, reindeer. He knew horses roamed nearby—the people had been hunting them—and he guessed that bison and bear frequented the region in the warmer seasons. The land resembled his own country more than it did the dry grassy steppes to the east, at least in the types of plants that grew, although the dominant vegetation was different, and probably the proportional mix of animals, too.
Out of the corner of his eye, Jondalar caught movement to the left. He turned in time to see a white hare dash across the hill chased by an arctic fox. As he watched, the large rabbit suddenly bounded in another direction, passing by the partially decomposed skull of a woolly rhinoceros, then scooted into its hole.
Where there are mammoths and rhinoceroses, Jondalar thought, there are cave lions, and with the other herding animals, probably hyenas, and certainly wolves. Plenty of meat and fur-bearing animals, and food that grows. This is a bountiful land. Making such an assessment was second nature to him, as it was to some degree to most people. They lived off the land, and careful observations about its resources were necessary.
When the group reached a high, level place on the side of the hill, they stopped. Jondalar looked down the hillside and saw that the hunters who lived in this area had a unique advantage. Not only could the animals be seen from a distance, the vast and various herds that roamed the land had to pass through a narrow corridor below that lay between steep walls of limestone and a river. They would be easy to hunt right here. It made him wonder why they had been hunting horses near the Great Mother River.
A keening wail brought Jondalar’s attention back to his immediate surroundings. A woman with long, stringy, disheveled gray hair was being supported by two somewhat younger women as she wailed and cried in obvious grief. Suddenly she broke free, fell on her knees, and draped herself over something on the ground. Jondalar edged forward to get a closer look. He was a good head taller than most of the other men, and with a few steps he understood the woman’s grief.
This was obviously a funeral. Stretched out on the ground were three people—young, probably late teens or early twenties, he guessed. Two of them were definitely male; they were bearded. The biggest one was probably the youngest. His light facial hair was still somewhat sparse. The gray-haired woman was sobbing over the body of the other male, whose brown hair and short beard were more apparent. The third one was fairly tall but thin, and something about the body and the way it lay made him wonder if that person had had some physical problem. He could see no facial hair, which made him think it was a woman at first, but it also could have been a rather tall young man who shaved, just as easily.
The details of clothing were not much help. They were all dressed in leg-coverings and loose tunics that disguised distinguishing characteristics. The clothes appeared to be new, but lacked decoration. It was almost as though someone didn’t want them recognized in the next world and had attempted to make them anonymous.
The gray-haired woman was lifted, almost dragged—though not roughly—away from the body of the young man by the two women who had tried to support her. Then another woman stepped forward, and something about her made Jondalar look again. Her face was strangely skewed, oddly unsymmetrical, with one side seemingly pushed back and slightly smaller than the other. She made no attempt to hide it. Her hair was light-colored, perhaps gray, pulled back and piled up into a bun on top of her head.
Jondalar thought she was about his mother’s age, and she moved with the same grace and dignity, although there was no physical resemblance to Marthona. In spite of her slight deformity, the woman was not unattractive, and her face commanded attention. When she caught his eye, he realized he had been staring, but she looked away first, rather quickly, he thought. As she began to speak, he realized that she was conducting the funeral ceremony. She must be a mamut, he thought, a woman who communicates with the spirit world, a zelandonii for these people.
Something made him turn and look to the side of the congregation. Another woman was staring at him. She was tall, quite muscular and strong featured, but a handsome woman with light brown hair and, interestingly, very dark eyes. She did not turn away when he looked at her, but appraised him quite frankly. She had the size and shape, the general appearance of a woman that he would ordinarily be attracted to, he thought, but her smile made him uneasy.
Then he noticed she was standing with her legs apart and her hands on her hips, and suddenly he knew who she was: the woman who had laughed so menacingly. He fought an urge to move back and hide among the other men, knowing he couldn’t even if he tried. He was not only a head taller, he was far healthier and more muscular than they. He would be conspicuous no matter where he stood.
The ceremony seemed rather perfunctory, as if it were an unpleasant necessity, rather than a solemn, important occasion. With no burial shrouds, the bodies were simply carried to a single shallow grave one at a time. They were limp when they were picked up, Jondalar noted. They could not have been dead very long; no stiffness had set in yet and there was no smell. The tall, thin body went in first, placed on its back, and powdered red ochre was sprinkled on the head and, strangely, over the pelvis, the powerful generative area, making Jondalar wonder if, perhaps, it was indeed a woman.
The other two were handled differently, but even more strangely. The brown-haired male was put in the common grave, to the left of the first corpse from Jondalar’s viewpoint, but on the figure’s right, and placed on his side, facing the first body. Then his arm was stretched out so that his hand rested on the red-ochred pubic region of the other. The third body was almost thrown into the grave, facedown, on the right side of the body that had been put in first. Red ochre was also sprinkled on both of their heads. The sacred red powder was obviously meant for protection, but for whom? And against what? Jondalar wondered.
Just as the loosely piled dirt was being scooped back into the shallow grave, the gray-haired woman broke loose again. She ran to the grave and threw something in it. Jondalar saw a couple of stone knives and a few flint spear points.
The dark-eyed woman strode forward, clearly incensed. She cracked an order to one of the men, pointing at the grave. He cringed but did not move. Then the shaman stepped forward and spoke, shaking her head. The other woman screamed at her in anger and frustration, but the shaman stood her ground and continued to shake her head. The woman pulled back and slapped her face with the back of her hand. There was a collective gasp, and then the angry woman stalked off, with a coterie of spear-carrying females following her.
The shaman did not acknowledge the blow, not even to put her hand to her cheek, though Jondalar could see the growing redness even from where he stood. The grave was hurriedly filled in, with soil that had several pieces of loose charcoal and partially burned wood mixed in. Large bonfires must have burned here, Jondalar thought. He glanced down at the narrow corridor below. With dawning insight, it occurred to him that this high ground was a perfect lookout from which fires could be used to signal when animals—or anything else—approached.
As soon as the bodies were covered, the men were marched back down the hill and taken to an area surrounded by a high palisade of trimmed tree trunks placed side by side and lashed together. Mammoth bones were piled against a section of the fence, and Jondalar wondered why. Perhaps the bones helped to prop it up. He was separated from the others and taken back to the earthlodge, then shoved toward the small, circular, hide-covered enclosure again. But before he went in, he noted how it was made.
The sturdy frame was constructed of poles made from slender trees. The thicker butt ends had been buried in the ground; the tops were bent together and joined. Leather hides covered the frame on the outside, but the entrance flap he had seen from inside was barred on the outside with a gatelike closure that could be secured shut with lashings.
Once inside, he continued his examination of the structure. It was completely bare, lacking even a sleeping pallet. He could not stand up straight, except in the very middle, but he bent over to get close to the side, then walked slowly around the small, dark space, studying it very carefully. He noticed that the hides were old and torn, some in such shreds that they seemed almost rotten, and they had been only roughly sewn together, as though done in a hurry. There were gaps at the seams through which he could see some of the area beyond his cramped quarters. He lowered himself to the ground and sat watching the entrance of the earthlodge, which was open. A few people walked past, but none entered.
After a time, he began to feel an urge to pass his water. With his hands tied, he could not even bare his member to relieve himself. If someone didn’t come and untie him soon, he would wet himself. Besides that, his wrists were getting raw where the ropes were rubbing. He was getting angry. This was ridiculous! It had gone far enough!
“Hey, out there!” he shouted. “Why am I being held like this? Like an animal in a trap? I have done nothing to harm anyone. I need my hands free. If someone doesn’t untie me soon, I will wet myself.” He waited for a while, then shouted again. “Someone out there, come and untie me! What strange kind of people are you?”
He stood up and leaned against the structure. It was well made, but it gave a little. He stepped back and, aiming with his shoulder, ran into the framing, trying to break it down. It gave a little more, and he rammed it again. With a feeling of satisfaction, he heard a piece of wood crack. He stepped back, ready to try again, when he heard people running into the earthlodge.
“It’s about time someone came! Let me out of here! Let me out of here now!” he shouted.
He heard the rustlings of someone unlashing the gate. Then the entrance flap was thrown back to reveal several women holding spears aimed at him. Jondalar ignored them and pushed his way out of the opening.
“Untie me!” he said, turning to the side so they could see him raising up the hands that were tied behind his back. “Get these ropes off me!”
The older man who had helped him drink water stepped forward. “Zelandonii! You … far … away,” he said, obviously struggling to remember the words.
Jondalar hadn’t realized that in his anger, he had been speaking in his native tongue. “You speak Zelandonii?” he said to the man with surprise, but his overwhelming need came first. “Then tell them to get these ropes off me before I make a mess all over myself.”
The man spoke to one of the women. She answered, shaking her head, but he spoke again. Finally she took a knife out of a sheath at her waist, and with a command that made the rest of the women surround him with pointing spears, she stepped forward and motioned him around. He turned his back to her and waited while she hacked at his bindings. They must need a good flint knapper around here, he couldn’t help but think. Her knife is dull.
After what seemed forever, he felt the ropes fall away. Immediately he reached to unfasten his closure flap, and, too much in need to be embarrassed, he pulled out his organ and frantically looked for a corner or some out-of-the-way place to go. But the spear-holding women would not let him move. In anger and defiance, he purposely turned to face them and, with a great sigh of relief, let his water come.
He watched them all as the long yellow stream slowly emptied his bladder, steaming as it hit the cold ground and raising up a strong smell. The woman in command seemed appalled, though she tried not to show it. A couple of the women turned their heads or averted their eyes; others stared in fascination, as if they’d never seen a man pass his water before. The older man was trying very hard not to smile, though he couldn’t hide his delight.
When Jondalar was through, he tucked himself back in and then faced his tormentors, determined not to let them tie his hands again. He addressed himself to the man. “I am Jondalar of the Zelandonii, and I am on a Journey.”
“You Journey far, Zelandonii. Maybe … too far.”
“I have traveled much farther. I wintered last year with the Mamutoi. I am returning home now.”
“That’s what I thought I heard you speaking before,” the old man said, shifting into the language in which he was much more fluent. “There are a few here who understand the language of the Mammoth Hunters, but the Mamutoi usually come from the north. You came from the south.”
“If you heard me speaking before, why didn’t you come? I’m sure there’s been some misunderstanding. Why was I tied up?”
The old man shook his head, Jondalar thought with sadness. “You will find out soon enough, Zelandonii.”
Suddenly the woman interrupted with a spate of angry words. The old man started to limp away, leaning on a staff.
“Wait! Don’t go! Who are you? Who are these people? And who is that woman who told them to take me here?” Jondalar asked.
The old man halted and looked back. “Here, I am called Ardemun. The people are the S’Armunai. And the woman is … Attaroa.”
Jondalar missed the emphasis that had been put on the name of the woman. “S’Armunai? Where have I heard that name before … wait … I remember. Laduni, the leader of the Losadunai …”
“Laduni is leader?” Ardemun said.
“Yes. He told me about the Sarmunai when we were traveling east, but my brother didn’t want to stop,” Jondalar said.
“It’s well you didn’t, and too bad you are here now.”
“Why?”
The woman in command of the spear holders interrupted again with a sharp order.
“Once I was a Losadunai. Unfortunately, I made a Journey,” Ardemun said as he limped out of the earthlodge.
After he left, the woman in command said some sharp words to Jondalar. He guessed that she wanted to lead him someplace, but he decided to feign complete ignorance.
“I don’t understand you,” Jondalar said. “You’ll have to call Ardemun back.”
She spoke to him again, more angrily, then poked her spear at him. It broke the skin, and a line of blood trickled down his arm. Anger flared in his eyes. He reached over and touched the cut, then looked at his bloody fingers.
“That wasn’t necess—” he started to say.
She interrupted with more angry words. The other women circled him with their weapons as the woman walked out of the earthlodge; then they prodded Jondalar to follow. Outside, the cold made him shiver. They went past the palisaded enclosure, and though he couldn’t see in, he sensed that he was being watched through the cracks by those inside. The whole idea puzzled him. Animals were sometimes driven into surrounds like that, so they couldn’t get away. It was a way of hunting them, but why were people kept there? And how many were in there?
It’s not all that large, he thought, there can’t be too many in there. He imagined how much work it must have taken to fence in even a small area with wooden stakes. Trees were scarce on the hillside. There was some woody vegetation in the form of brush, but the trees for the fence had to come from the valley below. They had to chop the trees down, trim them of branches, carry them up the hill, dig holes deep enough to hold them upright, make rope and cord, and then tie the trees together with it. Why had these people been willing to put forth so much effort for something that made so little sense?
He was led toward a small creek, largely frozen over, where Attaroa and several women were overseeing some young men who were carrying large, heavy mammoth bones. The men all looked half-starved, and he wondered where they found the strength to work so hard.
Attaroa eyed him up and down once, her only acknowledgment of him, then ignored him. Jondalar waited, still wondering about the behavior of these strange people. After a while he became chilled, and he began moving around, jumping up and down and beating his arms trying to warm himself. He was getting more and more angry at the stupidity of it all, and, finally deciding he wasn’t going to stand there any longer, he turned on his heel and started back. In the earthlodge, at least he’d be out of the wind. His sudden movement caught the spear wielders by surprise, and when they put up their phalanx of points, he pushed them aside with his arm and kept on going. He heard shouts, which he ignored.
He was still cold when he got inside the earthlodge. Looking around for something to warm himself, he strode to the round structure, ripped off the leather cover, and wrapped it around him. Just then several women burst in, brandishing their weapons again. The woman who’d pricked him before was among them, and she was obviously furious. She lunged at him with her spear. He ducked aside and grabbed for it, but they were all stopped in their tracks by harsh and sinister laughter.
“Zelandonii!” Attaroa sneered, then spoke other words that he didn’t understand.
“She wants you to come outside,” Ardemun said. Jondalar hadn’t noticed him near the entrance. “She thinks you are clever, too clever. I think she wants you where she can have her women surround you.”
“What if I don’t want to go outside?” Jondalar said.
“Then she’ll probably have you killed here and now.” The words were said by a woman, speaking in perfect Zelandonii, without even a trace of an accent! Jondalar shot a look of surprise in the direction of the speaker. It was the shaman! “If you go outside, Attaroa will probably let you live a little longer. You interest her, but eventually she’ll kill you anyway.”
“Why? What am I to her?” Jondalar asked.
“A threat.”
“A threat? I’ve never threatened her.”
“You threaten her control. She’ll want to make an example of you.”
Attaroa interrupted, and though Jondalar didn’t understand her, the barely restrained fury of her words seemed to be directed at the shaman. The older woman’s response was reserved but showed no fear. After the exchange, she spoke again to Jondalar. “She wanted to know what I said to you. I told her.”
“Tell her I’ll come outside,” he said.
When the message was relayed, Attaroa laughed, said something, then sauntered out.
“What did she say?” Jondalar asked.
“She said she knew it. Men will do anything for one more heartbeat of their miserable lives.”
“Perhaps not anything,” Jondalar said, starting out, then he turned back to the shaman. “What is your name?”
“I am called S’Armuna,” she said.
“I thought you might be. Where did you learn to speak my language so well?”
“I lived among your people for a time,” S’Armuna said, but then she cut off his obvious desire to know more. “It’s a long story.”
Though the man had rather expected to be asked to give his identity in return, S’Armuna simply turned her back. He volunteered the information. “I am Jondalar of the Ninth Cave of the Zelandonii,” he said.
S’Armuna’s eyes opened with surprise. “The Ninth Cave?” she said.
“Yes,” he said. He would have continued to name his ties, but he was stopped by the look on her face, though he could not fathom its meaning. A moment later her expression showed nothing, and Jondalar wondered if he had imagined it.
“She’s waiting,” S’Armuna said, leaving the earthlodge.
Outside, Attaroa was sitting on a fur-covered seat on a raised platform of earth, which had been dug from the floor of the large semisubterranean earthlodge just behind her. She was opposite the fenced area, and, as he walked past it, Jondalar sensed again that he was being watched through the cracks.
As he drew near, he was sure the fur on her seat was from a wolf. The hood of her parka, thrown back off her head, was trimmed with wolf fur, and around her neck she wore a necklace made primarily of the sharp canine teeth of wolves, although there were some from arctic fox, and at least one cave-bear tooth. She was holding a carved staff similar to the Speaking Staff Talut had used when there were issues to be discussed or arguments to be resolved. That stick had helped to keep the talk orderly. Whoever held it had the right to speak, and when someone else had something to say, it was necessary first to ask for the Speaking Staff.
Something else was familiar about the staff she held, though he couldn’t quite place it. Could it be the carving? It bore the stylized shape of a seated woman, with an enlarging series of concentric circles representing breasts and stomach, and a strange triangular head, narrow at the chin, with a face of enigmatic designs. It wasn’t like Mamutoi carving, but he felt he’d seen it before.
Several of her women surrounded Attaroa. Other women he hadn’t noticed before, only a few of them with children, were standing nearby. She observed him for a while; then she spoke, looking at him. Ardemun, standing off to the side, began a stumbling translation into Zelandonii. Jondalar was about to suggest that he speak Mamutoi, but S’Armuna interrupted, said something to Attaroa, then looked at him.
“I will translate,” she said.
Attaroa made a sneering comment that made the women around her laugh, but S’Armuna did not translate it. “She was speaking to me,” was all she said, her face impassive. The seated woman spoke again, this time to Jondalar.
“I speak now as Attaroa,” S’Armuna said, beginning to translate. “Why did you come here?”
“I did not come here voluntarily. I was brought here, tied up,” Jondalar said, while S’Armuna translated almost simultaneously. “I am on my Journey. Or I was. I don’t understand why I was tied up. No one bothered to tell me.”
“Where did you come from?” Attaroa said through S’Armuna, ignoring his comments.
“I wintered last year with the Mamutoi.”
“You lie! You came from the south.”
“I came the long way around. I wanted to visit kin who live near the Great Mother River, at the south end of the eastern mountains.”
“Again you lie! The Zelandonii live far to the west of here. How can you have kin to the east?”
“It is not a lie. I traveled with my brother. Unlike the S’Armunai, the Sharamudoi welcomed us. My brother mated a woman there. They are my kin through him.”
Then, full of righteous indignation, Jondalar continued. It was the first chance he’d had to speak to someone who was listening. “Don’t you know those on a Journey have rights of passage? Most people welcome visitors. They exchange stories, share with them. But not here! Here I was hit on the head and though I was injured, my wound was left untreated. No one gave me water or food. My fur parka was taken from me, and it was not given back even when I was made to go out.”
The more he spoke, the angrier he got. He had been very badly treated. “I was brought outside in the cold and left standing. No other people on my long Journey have ever treated me like this. Even animals of the plains share their pasture, their water. What kind of people are you?”
Attaroa interrupted him. “Why did you try to steal our meat?” She was fuming, but she tried not to show it. Although she knew everything he said was true, she didn’t like being told that she was somehow less than others, especially in front of her people.
“I wasn’t trying to steal your meat,” Jondalar said, denying the accusation vigorously. S’Armuna’s translation was so smooth and quick and Jondalar’s need to communicate so intense, that he almost forgot his interpreter. He felt he was talking directly with Attaroa.
“You are lying! You were seen running into that herd we were after with a spear in your hand.”
“I am not lying! I was only trying to save Ayla. She was on the back of one of those horses, and I couldn’t let them carry her along.”
“Ayla?”
“Didn’t you see her? She is the woman I have been traveling with.”
Attaroa laughed. “You were traveling with a woman who rides on the backs of horses? If you are not a traveling storyteller, you have missed your calling.” Then she leaned forward and, jabbing her finger at him for emphasis, said, “Everything you’ve said is untrue. You are a liar and a thief!”
“I am neither a liar nor a thief! I have told the truth and I have stolen nothing,” Jondalar said with conviction. But in his heart he couldn’t really blame her for not believing him. Unless someone had seen Ayla, who would believe that they had traveled by riding on the backs of horses? He began to worry about how he would ever convince Attaroa that he wasn’t lying, that he had not intentionally interfered with their hunt. If he’d known the full extent of his plight, he would have been more than concerned.
Attaroa studied the tall, muscular, handsome man standing in front of her, wrapped in the hides he had torn from his cage. She noticed that his blond beard was a shade darker than his hair and that his eyes, an unbelievably vivid shade of blue, were compelling. She felt strongly attracted to him, but the very strength of her response dredged up painful memories long suppressed and provoked a powerful but strangely twisted reaction. She would not allow herself to be attracted to any man, because to have feelings for one might give him control over her—and never again would she allow anyone, particularly a man, to have control over her.
She had taken his parka and left him standing in the cold for the same reason she had withheld food and water. Deprivation made men easier to control. While they still had the strength to resist, it was necessary to keep them tied. But the Zelandonii man, wrapped in those hides he was not supposed to have, showed no fear, she thought. Look at him standing there, so sure of himself.
He was so defiant and cocky, he had even dared to criticize her in front of everyone, including the men in the Holding. He did not cringe, or plead, or hurry to please her as they did. But she vowed that he would before she was through with him. She was determined to bring him down. She would show them all how to handle a man like that, and then … he would die.
But before I break him, she said to herself, I will play with him for a while. Besides, he’s a strong man, and he’ll be hard to control if he decides to resist. He’s suspicious now, so I need to make him lower his guard. He needs to be weakened. S’Armuna will know of something. Attaroa beckoned to the shaman and spoke to her privately. Then she looked at the man and smiled, but the smile held such malice that it sent a chill up his spine.
Jondalar not only threatened her leadership, he threatened the fragile world that her sick mind had led her to create. He even threatened her tenuous hold on reality, which had recently been stretched very thin.
“Come with me,” S’Armuna said when she left Attaroa.
“Where are we going?” Jondalar asked, as he stepped in beside her. Two women with spears followed behind.
“Attaroa wants me to treat your wound.”
She led Jondalar to a dwelling on the far edge of the settlement, similar to the big earthlodge that Attaroa had been seated near, but smaller and more dome-shaped. A low, narrow entrance led through a short passageway to another low opening. Jondalar had to bend over and walk bent-kneed for a few paces, then step down three stairs. No one, except a child, could enter her dwelling easily, but once inside, the man was able to stand to his full height with room to spare. The two women who had followed stayed outside.
After his eyes adjusted to the dim interior, he noticed a bed platform against the far wall. It was covered with a white fur of some kind … the rare and unusual white animals were held sacred among his people and, he had discovered in his travels, by many others as well. Dried herbs hung from roof supports and racks, and many of the baskets and bowls on shelves along the walls probably contained more. Any mamut or zelandoni could have moved in and been completely at home, except for one thing. Among most people, the hearth or dwelling place of the One Who Served the Mother was a ceremonial area, or adjacent to one, and the larger space was also where visitors stayed. But this was not a spacious and inviting area for activities and visitors. It had a closed and secretive feeling. Jondalar felt sure that S’Armuna lived alone and that other people seldom entered her domain.
He watched her stir up the fire, add dried dung and a few sticks of wood, and pour water into a blackened, pouchlike container, formerly the stomach of an animal, attached to a frame of bone. From a basket on one of her shelves, she added a small handful of some dried material, and when the water began to soak through the container, she moved it directly over the flames. As long as there was liquid in it, even if it was boiling, the pouch could not catch fire.
Though Jondalar did not know what it was, the odor that rose from the pot was familiar and, strangely, made him think of home. With a sudden flash of memory, he knew why. It was a smell that had often emanated from a zelandoni’s fire. They used the decoction to wash wounds and injuries.
“You speak the language very well. Did you live among the Zelandonii long?” Jondalar asked.
S’Armuna looked up at him and seemed to consider her reply. “Several years,” she said.
“Then you know that the Zelandonii welcome their visitors. I don’t understand these people. What could I possibly have done to deserve such treatment?” Jondalar said. “You shared the hospitality of the Zelandonii—why don’t you explain to them about rights of passage and courtesy to visitors? It’s really more than a courtesy, it’s an obligation.”
S’Armuna’s only response was a sardonic glance.
He knew he wasn’t handling the situation well, but he was still so incredulous over his recent experiences that he found himself with an almost childish need to explain how things should be, as if that would put them right. He decided to try another approach.
“I wonder, since you lived there so long, if you knew my mother. I am the son of Marthona …” He would have continued, but the expression on her somewhat misshapen face stopped him. She registered such shock that it contorted her features even more.
“You are the son of Marthona, born to the hearth of Joconan?” she finally said, more as a question.
“No, that’s my brother Joharran. I was born to Dalanar’s hearth, the man she mated later. Did you know Joconan?”
“Yes,” S’Armuna said, looking down, then turning her attention back to the skin pot that was almost boiling.
“Then you must have known my mother, too!” Jondalar was excited. “If you knew Marthona, then you know I’m not a liar. She would never put up with that in a child of hers. I know it sounds unbelievable—I’m not even sure I’d believe it, if I didn’t know better—but the woman I was traveling with was sitting on the back of one of those horses that was being chased over the cliff. It was one she raised from a foal, not one that really belonged to that herd. Now I don’t even know if she’s alive. You must tell Attaroa I’m not lying! I’ve got to look for her. I’ve got to know if she’s still alive!”
Jondalar’s impassioned plea elicited no response from the woman. She did not even look up from the pouch of boiling water she was stirring. But, unlike Attaroa, she did not doubt him. One of Attaroa’s hunters had come to her with a story about seeing a woman riding on one of the horses, afraid because she thought it was a spirit. S’Armuna thought there could be something to Jondalar’s story, but she wondered whether it was real or supernatural.
“You did know Marthona, didn’t you?” Jondalar asked, walking to the fire to get her attention. He had gotten her to respond before by invoking his mother.
When she looked up, her face was impassive. “Yes, I knew Marthona, once. I was sent, when I was young, to be trained by the Zelandoni of the Ninth Cave. Sit here,” she said. Then she moved the frame back from the fire, turned away from him, and reached for a soft skin. He winced when she washed his injury with the antiseptic solution she had prepared, but he was sure her medicine was good. She had learned it from his people.
After it was clean, S’Armuna looked closely at his wound. “You were stunned for a while, but it is not serious. It will heal by itself.” She averted her eyes, then said, “But you probably have a headache. I will give you something for it.”
“No, I don’t need anything now, but I am still thirsty. All I really want is some water. Is it all right if I drink from your waterbag?” Jondalar said, walking over to the large damp bladder of water, from which she had filled the pot. “I’ll refill it for you, if you’d like. Do you have a cup I can use?”
She hesitated, then got a cup from a shelf.
“Where can I fill your waterbag?” he asked when he was through. “Is there a favorite place nearby?”
“Don’t worry about the water,” she said.
He walked closer and looked at her, realizing she was not going to let him walk freely, not even for water. “We weren’t trying to hunt the horses they were after. Even if we had been, Attaroa should have known we would have offered something to compensate. Although with that whole herd driven off the cliff, there should have been plenty. I just hope Ayla isn’t with them. S’Armuna, I need to go and look for her!”
“You love her, don’t you?” S’Armuna asked.
“Yes, I love her,” he said. He saw her expression change again. There was an element of gloating bitterness, but something softer, too. “We were on our way back to my home to be mated, but I also need to tell my mother about the death of my younger brother, Thonolan. We started out together, but he … died. She will be very unhappy. It’s hard to lose a child.”
S’Armuna nodded but made no comment.
“That funeral earlier, what happened to those youngsters?”
“They weren’t much younger than you are,” S’Armuna said, “old enough to make some wrong decisions for themselves.”
Jondalar thought she looked distinctly uncomfortable. “How did they die?” he asked.
“They ate something that was bad for them.”
Jondalar didn’t believe she was quite telling the truth, but before he could say more, she handed him his hide coverings and led him back out to the two women who had been guarding the entrance. They marched on either side of him, but this time he was not taken back to the earthlodge. Instead he was led to the fenced enclosure, and the gate was opened just enough to push him inside.