Ayla bent over the woman on the bed, holding the bowl of cooling liquid. She dipped her little finger into it to check the temperature, then put it down and, gracefully lowering herself to the ground in a cross-legged position, sat quietly for a moment.
Her thoughts were drawn back to her life with the Clan, and particularly to the training she had received from the skilled and knowledgeable medicine woman who had raised her. Iza had taken care of most ordinary illnesses and minor injuries with practical dispatch, but when she had to treat a serious problem—an especially bad hunting accident or a life-threatening illness—she asked Creb, in his capacity as Mog-ur, to call upon higher powers for their assistance. Iza was a medicine woman, but in the Clan, Creb was the magician, the holy man, who had access to the world of the spirits.
Among the Mamutoi and, from the way Jondalar talked, apparently among his people as well, the functions of medicine woman and Mog-ur were not necessarily separated. Those who healed often interceded with the spirit world, though not all of Those Who Served the Mother were equally well versed in every capacity that was open to them. The Mamut of the Lion Camp was much more like Creb. His interest was in things of the spirit and the mind. Though he did have knowledge of certain remedies and procedures, his healing abilities were relatively undeveloped, and it often fell to Talut’s mate, Nezzie, to deal with the minor injuries and illnesses of the Camp. At the Summer Meeting, however, Ayla had met many skilled healers among the mamutii and had exchanged knowledge with them.
But Ayla’s training had been of the practical kind. Like Iza, she was a medicine woman, a healer. She felt herself to be unknowledgeable in the ways of the spirit world, and she wished at that moment she had someone like Creb to call on. She wanted, and felt she needed, the assistance of any powers greater than herself that would be willing to help. Though Mamut had begun to train her in the understanding of the spiritual realm of the Great Mother, she was still most familiar with the spirit world she grew up with, particularly her own totem, the spirit of the Great Cave Lion.
Though it was a Clan spirit, she knew it was powerful, and Mamut had said that the spirits of all animals, indeed all spirits, were part of the Great Earth Mother. He had even included her protective Cave Lion totem in the ceremony when she was adopted, and she knew how to ask for help from her totem. Even though she wasn’t Clan, Ayla thought, perhaps the spirit of her Cave Lion would help Roshario.
Ayla closed her eyes and began to make the beautiful flowing motions of the most ancient, sacred, silent language of the Clan, the one known by all the clans, used to address the world of the spirits.
“Great Cave Lion, this woman, who was chosen by the powerful totem spirit, is grateful to have been chosen. This woman is grateful for the Gifts that have been given, and most grateful for the Gifts inside, for the lessons learned and the knowledge gained.
“Great Powerful Protector, who is known to choose males who are worthy and need great protection, but who chose this woman and marked her with the totem sign when she was only a girl, this woman is grateful. This woman knows not why the spirit of the Great Cave Lion of the Clan chose a girlchild, and one of the Others, but this woman is grateful that she was found worthy, and this woman is grateful for the protection of the great totem.
“Great Totem Spirit, this woman who has asked before for guidance, would now ask for assistance. The Great Cave Lion guided this woman to learn the ways of a medicine woman. This woman knows healing. This woman knows remedies for illness and injury, knows teas and washes and poultices and other medicines from plants, this woman knows treatments and practices. This woman is grateful for the knowledge, and grateful for the unknown knowledge of medicine that the Totem Spirit may guide to this woman. But this woman knows not the ways of the spirit world.
“Great Spirit of the Cave Lion, who dwells with the stars in the world of the spirits, the woman lying here is not Clan; the woman is one of the Others, as is this woman you chose, but help is asked for the woman. The woman suffers great pain, but the pain that is inside is worse. The woman would suffer the pain, but the woman fears that without both arms, the woman would be useless. The woman would be a good woman, would be a useful woman. This medicine woman would help the woman, but the help could be dangerous. This woman would ask the assistance of the spirit of the Great Cave Lion, and any spirits the Great Totem would choose, to guide this woman, and to help the woman lying here.”
Roshario, Dolando, and Jondalar were as silent as Ayla, as she performed her unusual actions. Of the three, Jondalar was the only one who knew what she was doing, and he found himself watching the other two as much as Ayla. Though his knowledge of the Clan language was rudimentary—it was far more complex than he imagined—he did understand that she was asking for help from the spirit world.
Jondalar simply did not see some of the finer nuances of a method of communicating that had been developed upon an entirely different basis than any verbal language. It was impossible to fully translate anyway. At best, any translation to words seemed simplistic, but he did think her graceful motions were beautiful. He recalled that there was a time when he might have been embarrassed over her actions, and he smiled to himself now at his foolishness, but he was curious about how Roshario and Dolando would interpret Ayla’s behavior.
Dolando was perplexed and a little disturbed, since her actions were completely unfamiliar. His concern was for Roshario, and anything strange, even if it might be for a good purpose, felt slightly threatening. When Ayla was through, Dolando looked at Jondalar with a questioning expression, but the younger man only smiled.
The injury had debilitated Roshario, leaving her weak and feverish, not enough to make her delirious, but drained and disoriented, and more open to suggestion. She had found herself focusing on the unknown woman and was strangely moved. She didn’t have the least idea what Ayla’s movements meant, but she did appreciate their flowing gracefulness. It was as though the woman were dancing with her hands, indeed with more than her hands. She evoked a subtle beauty with her motions. Her arms and shoulders, even her body, seemed integral parts of her dancing hands, responding to some internal rhythm that had a definite purpose. Though she didn’t understand it anymore than she understood how Ayla had known she needed her help, Roshario was certain it was important, and that it had something to do with her calling. She was Shamud; that was sufficient. She had knowledge beyond the ken of ordinary people, and anything that seemed mysterious only added to her credibility.
Ayla picked up the cup and got up on her knees beside the bed. She tested the liquid again with her smallest finger, then smiled at Roshario.
“May the Great Mother of All watch over you, Roshario,” Ayla said, then lifting the woman’s head and shoulders up enough for her to drink comfortably, she held the small bowl to the woman’s mouth. It was a bitter, rather foetid brew, and Roshario made a face, but Ayla encouraged her to drink more until she finally consumed the entire bowlful. Ayla lowered her back down gently and smiled again to reassure the injured woman, but she was already watching for telltale signs of its effect.
“Let me know when you feel sleepy,” Ayla said, although it would just confirm other indications she was noting, such as changes in the size of her pupils, the depth of her breathing.
The medicine woman could not have said that she had administered a drug that inhibited the parasympathetic nervous system and paralyzed the nerve endings, but she could detect the effects, and she had enough experience to know if they were appropriate. When Ayla noticed Roshario’s eyelids drooping sleepily, she felt her chest and her stomach, to monitor the relaxation of the smooth muscles of her alimentary tract, though she would not have described it that way, and watched her breathing closely to note the response of her lungs and bronchial tree. When she was sure the woman was sleeping comfortably, and in no apparent danger, Ayla stood up.
“Dolando, it is best that you leave now. Jondalar will stay and help me,” she said in a firm though quiet voice, but her assured and competent manner gave her authority.
The leader started to object, but he recalled that Shamud never allowed close loved ones around, either, simply refusing to help in any way until the person left. Perhaps that was how all of them were, Dolando thought, as he took a long look at the sleeping woman, then left the dwelling.
Jondalar had watched Ayla take command in similar situations before. She seemed to forget herself entirely in her concentration on an ailing or suffering person, and without thought directed others to do whatever was necessary. It did not occur to her to question her prerogative to aid someone who needed her help, and as a result no one questioned her.
“Even if she’s sleeping, it is not easy to watch someone break the bone of a person you love,” Ayla said to the tall man who loved her.
Jondalar nodded, and he wondered if that was why Shamud had not let him stay when Thonolan was gored. It had been a frightening wound, a gaping, ragged puncture that almost made Jondalar sick when he first saw it, and though he thought he wanted to stay, it probably would have been difficult to watch Shamud doing whatever he had to do. He wasn’t entirely sure he even wanted to stay and help Ayla, but there was no one else. He took a deep breath. If she could do it, he could at least try to help.
“What do you want me to do?” he said.
Ayla was examining Roshario’s arm, seeing how far it would straighten, and how she reacted to such manipulation. She mumbled and moved her head from side to side, but it seemed to be in response to some dream or inner prompting, not directly because of pain. Ayla prodded deeply then, digging into the flaccid muscle, trying to locate the position of the bone. When she was finally satisfied, she asked Jondalar to come, catching a glimpse of Wolf watching intensely from his place in the corner.
“First, I will want you to support her arm at the elbow, while I try to break it where it is joining wrong,” she said. “After it is broken, I will have to pull on it hard to straighten and fit it back together properly. With her muscles so lax, the bones of a joint could be pulled apart, and I might dislocate an elbow or a shoulder, so you will have to hold her firmly, and perhaps pull the other way.”
“I understand,” he said; at least he thought he did.
“Make sure you are in a comfortable, steady position, straighten her arm and support her elbow up about this far, and let me know when you are ready,” Ayla directed.
He held her arm and braced himself. “All right, I’m ready,” he said.
With both hands, one on either side of the break that bent it at an unnatural angle, Ayla took hold of Roshario’s upper arm, gripping it experimentally in several places, feeling for the protruding ends of the ill-knit bone under the skin and muscle. If it had healed too well, she would never be able to break the jointure with her bare hands, and would have to attempt some other far less controllable means, or perhaps not be able to rebreak it properly at all. Standing over the bed to get the best leverage, she took a deep breath, then exerted a quick, hard pressure against the bend with her two strong hands.
Ayla felt the snap. Jondalar heard a sickening crack. Roshario jumped spasmodically in her sleep, and then quieted again. Ayla prodded through the muscle for the newly broken bone. The bone scar tissue had not cemented the fracture too firmly yet, perhaps because in its unnatural position the bone had not been joined in a way that encouraged healing. It was a good clean break. She breathed a sigh of relief. That part was done. She wiped the sweat off her brow with the back of her hand.
Jondalar was watching her with amazement. Though only partly healed, it took very strong hands to break a bone like that. He had always loved her sheer physical strength ever since he was first aware of it in her valley. He realized that she needed strength living alone as she did, and thought that having to do everything for herself had probably encouraged more muscle development, but he hadn’t known how strong she really was.
Ayla’s strength came not only from being forced to exert herself just to survive when she lived in the valley; it had been developing from the time she was first adopted by Iza. The ordinary tasks that were expected of her had become a conditioning process. Simply to keep up at the minimum level of competence for a woman of the Clan, she had become an exceptionally strong woman of the Others.
“That was good, Jondalar. Now I want you to brace yourself again, and hold her arm here at the shoulder,” Ayla said, showing him. “You must not let go, but if you feel yourself slipping, tell me right away.” Ayla realized that the bone had resisted healing in the wrong shape, making it somewhat easier to break than if it had been set straight for that length of time, but the muscle and tendon had healed much more. “When I straighten this arm, some of the muscle will tear, just as it did when it was first broken, and the sinews will be stretched. Muscle and sinew will be hard to force, and will cause her pain later, but it must be done. Tell me when you are ready.”
“How do you know about this, Ayla?”
“Iza taught me.”
“I know she taught you, but how do you know this? About rebreaking a bone that has started to heal?”
“Once Brun took his hunters on a hunt to a distant place. They were gone a long time, I don’t remember how long. One of the hunters broke his arm shortly after they started out, but he refused to return. He tied it to his side and hunted with one arm. When he returned, Iza had to make it right,” Ayla explained, quickly.
“But how could he do it? Go on like that with a broken arm?” Jondalar asked, looking incredulous. “Wouldn’t he have been in great pain?”
“Of course he was in great pain, but not much was made of it. Men of the Clan would rather die than admit to pain. That’s how they are; it’s how they are trained,” Ayla said. “Are you ready now?”
He wanted to ask more, but this was not the time. “Yes, I’m ready.”
Ayla took a firm hold of Roshario’s arm just above the elbow, while Jondalar held her below the shoulder. With slow but steady force, Ayla started pulling back, not only straightening, but working it around to avoid bone rubbing against bone and perhaps crushing it, and to keep the ligaments from tearing. At one point it had to be stretched slightly beyond its original shape to get it into a normal position.
Jondalar didn’t know how she kept up the forceful, controlled tension when he could barely hold on. Ayla strained with the exertion, perspiration running down her face, but she could not stop now. For the bone to be right, it needed to be straightened in a steady, smooth movement. But once she got beyond the slight overstretch, past the broken end of the bone, the arm settled into the proper position, almost of its own accord. She felt it fall into place, carefully eased the arm to the bed, and finally let go.
When Jondalar looked up, she was shaking, her eyes were closed, and she was breathing hard. Maintaining control under tension had been the most difficult part, and she was struggling now to control her own muscles.
“I think you did it, Ayla,” he said.
She took a few more deep breaths, then looked at him and smiled, a broad, happy smile of victory. “Yes, I think I did,” she said. “Now I need to put on the splints.” She carefully felt along the straight, normal-looking arm again. “If it heals right, if I haven’t done any damage to her arm while it was without feeling, I think she will be able to use it, but she is going to be very bruised and it will swell up.”
Ayla dipped the strips of chamois skin in the hot water, placed the spikenard and yarrow on it, wrapped it loosely around the arm, then told Jondalar to ask Dolando if he had the splints ready.
When Jondalar stepped out of the dwelling, a crowd of faces greeted him. Not only Dolando, but all the rest of the Cave, both Shamudoi and Ramudoi, had been keeping a vigil in the gathering place around the large hearth. “Ayla needs the splints, Dolando,” he said.
“Did it work?” the Shamudoi leader asked, handing him the pieces of smoothed wood.
Jondalar thought he should wait for Ayla to say, but he smiled. Dolando closed his eyes, took a long deep breath, and shuddered with relief.
Ayla placed the splints in position and wrapped more chamois strips around them. The arm would swell, and the poultice would have to be replaced. The splints were to hold the arm in place so Roshario’s movements would not disturb the fresh break. Later, when the swelling went down and she wanted to move about, birchbark, dampened with hot water, would mold to her arm and dry into a rigid cast.
She checked the woman’s breathing again, and the pulses in her neck and wrist, listened to her chest, lifted her eyelids, then went to the entrance of the dwelling.
“Dolando, you can come in now,” she said to the man who was just outside the door.
“Is she all right?”
“Come and see for yourself.”
The man went in and knelt down beside the sleeping woman, staring at her face. He watched her through several breaths, assuring himself that she was breathing, then finally looked at her arm. Under the dressings, the outline looked straight and normal.
“It looks perfect! Will she be able to use her arm again?”
“I have done what I can. With the help of the spirits and the Great Earth Mother, she should be able to use it. It may not be with the full use she had before, but she should be able to use it. Now, she must sleep.”
“I am going to stay here with her,” Dolando said, trying to convince her with his authority, though he knew if she insisted, he would leave.
“I thought you might want to,” she said, “but now that it’s done, there is something I would like.”
“Ask. I will give you anything you want,” he said, not hesitating, but wondering what she would demand of him.
“I would like to wash. Can the pool be used for swimming and washing?”
It was not what he had expected her to say, and he was taken aback for a moment. Then he noticed for the first time that her face was stained with blackberry juice, her arms were scratched from thorny briars, her clothes were worn and dirty, and her hair was disheveled. With a look of chagrin, and a wry smile, he said, “Roshario would never forgive me for my lack of hospitality. No one has so much as offered you a drink of water. You must be exhausted after your long travels. Let me get Tholie. Anything you want, if we have it, it is yours.”
Ayla rubbed the saponin-rich flowers between her wet hands until a foam developed; then she worked it into her hair. The foam from ceanothus wasn’t as rich as soaproot lather, but this was a final washing and the pale blue petals left a pleasant mild scent. The nearby area and the plants had been so familiar that Ayla was sure she’d be able to find some plant that they could use to wash with, but she was pleasantly surprised to find both soaproot and ceanothus when they went to get the pack baskets and travois with the bowl boat. They had stopped to check on the horses, and Ayla told herself she would spend some time combing Whinney later, partly to see to her coat, but also for the reassurance.
“Are there any foaming flowers left?” Jondalar asked.
“Over there, on the rock near Wolf,” Ayla said. “But that’s the last of them. We can pick more next time, and some extra to dry and take with us would be nice.” She ducked under the water to rinse.
“Here are some chamois skins to dry yourselves with,” Tholie said, approaching the pool. She had several of the soft yellow hides in her arms.
Ayla hadn’t seen her come. The Mamutoi woman had tried to stay as far away from the wolf as possible, circling around and approaching from the open end of the site. A little girl of three or four, who had been walking behind, clung to her mother’s leg and stared at the strangers with big eyes and a thumb in her mouth.
“I left a snack for you inside,” Tholie said, putting the toweling skins down. Jondalar and Ayla had been given a bed inside the dwelling that she and Markeno used when they were on land. It was the same shelter that Thonolan and Jetamio had shared with them, and Jondalar had a few bad moments when they first entered, remembering the tragedy that had caused his brother to leave, and ultimately to die.
“But don’t spoil your appetite,” Tholie added. “We are having a big feast tonight, in honor of Jondalar’s return.” She did not add that it was also in honor of Ayla for helping Roshario. The woman was still sleeping, and no one wanted to tempt fate by saying it out loud before it was known that she would wake up, and would recover.
“Thank you, Tholie. For everything,” Jondalar said. Then he smiled at the little girl. She put her head down and hung back behind her mother even more, but she continued to stare at Jondalar. “It looks like the last of the red from the burn on Shamio’s face has faded. I don’t see even a hint of it.”
Tholie picked the girl up, giving Jondalar a chance to see her better. “If you look very closely, you can see where the burn was, but it’s hardly noticeable. I’m grateful, the Mother was kind to her.”
“She is a beautiful child,” Ayla said, smiling at them and looking at the little girl with genuine longing. “You are so lucky. Someday I would like to have a daughter like her.” Ayla started walking out of the pool. It was refreshing, but almost too cool to stay in for very long. “Did you say her name was Shamio?”
“Yes, and I do feel lucky to have her,” the young mother said, putting the child down. Tholie couldn’t resist the compliment to her offspring, and she smiled warmly at the tall, beautiful woman, who was not, however, what she claimed to be. Tholie had resolved to treat her with reserve and caution until she learned more.
Ayla picked up a skin and began drying herself. “This is so soft, and nice to dry with,” she said, then stretched it around herself and tucked an end in at the waist. She picked up another to dry her hair, then wrapped it around her head. She had noticed Shamio watching the wolf, clinging to her mother but obviously curious. Wolf was interested in her, too, all but squirming with anticipation, but staying where he was told. She signaled the animal to her side, then got down on one knee and put her arm around him.
“Would Shamio like to meet Wolf?” Ayla asked the girl. When she nodded, Ayla glanced up at her mother for approval. Tholie looked apprehensively at the huge animal with the sharp teeth. “He won’t hurt her, Tholie. Wolf loves children. He grew up with the children of Lion Camp.”
Shamio had already let go of her mother and taken a tentative step toward them, fascinated by the creature that had been looking at her with equal fascination. The child watched him with unsmiling, solemn eyes, while the wolf whined with eagerness. Finally she took another step forward and reached for him with two hands. Tholie gasped, but the sound was drowned out by Shamio’s giggles when Wolf licked her face. She pushed his eager muzzle away, grabbed a handful of fur, then lost her balance and fell over him. The wolf waited patiently for the girl to get up, then licked her face again, to another string of delighted giggles.
“C’mon, Wuffie,” the girl said, grabbing him by the fur of his neck and pulling to make him come with her, already claiming him as her very own living toy.
Wolf looked at Ayla, and yipped a short puppy bark. She hadn’t yet signaled his release. “You can go with Shamio, Wolf,” she said, giving him the sign he was waiting for. She could almost believe that the look he gave her was gratitude, but there was no mistaking his delight as he followed the girl. Even Tholie smiled.
Jondalar had been watching the interaction with interest while he dried himself off. He picked up their clothes and walked toward the sandstone overhang with the two women. Tholie was keeping an eye on Shamio and Wolf, just in case, but she, too, was intrigued with the tame animal. She was not the only one. Many people were watching the girl and the wolf. When a boy a little older than Shamio approached, he was also greeted with a wet invitation to join them. Just then, two other children came out of one of the dwellings, tussling over some wooden object. The smaller one threw it to keep the other from getting it, which Wolf took as a signal that they wanted to play one of his favorite games. He raced after the carved stick, brought it back and laid it on the ground, his tongue panting and his tail waving, ready to play again. The boy picked it up and threw it again.
“I think you must be right—he’s playing with them. He must like children,” Tholie said. “But why should he like to play? He’s a wolf!”
“Wolves and people are alike in some ways,” Ayla said. “Wolves like to play. From the time they are cubs, siblings in a litter play, and the half-grown and adult wolves love to play with the little ones. Wolf didn’t have any siblings when I found him; he was the only one left, and he barely had his eyes open. He didn’t grow up in a wolf pack, he grew up playing with children.”
“But look at him. He’s so tolerant, even gentle. I’m sure when Shamio pulls on his fur, it must hurt. Why does he put up with it?” Tholie asked, still trying to understand.
“It’s natural for a grown wolf to be gentle with the little ones of a pack, so it wasn’t hard to teach him to be careful, Tholie. He’s especially gentle with small children and babies and will tolerate almost anything from them. I didn’t teach him that, that’s just how he is. If they get too rough, he’ll move away, but he goes back later. He won’t put up with as much from older children, and he seems to know the difference between one of them accidentally hurting him and one who is being purposely hurtful. He has never really harmed anyone, but he will nip a little—give a little pinch with his teeth—to remind an older child, who is pulling on his tail or yanking his fur, that some things hurt.”
“The idea of anyone, particularly a child, even thinking of pulling a wolf’s tail is hard to imagine … or it would have been until today,” Tholie said. “And I wouldn’t have believed that I’d ever see the day that Shamio would play with a wolf. You have … made some people think, Ayla … Ayla of the Mamutoi.” Tholie wanted to say more, to ask some questions, but she didn’t exactly want to accuse the woman of lying, not after what she had done for Roshario, or at least seemed to have done. No one knew for sure, yet.
Ayla sensed Tholie’s reservations, and she was sorry about them. It placed an unspoken strain between them, and she liked the short, plump Mamutoi woman. They walked a few steps in silence, watching Wolf with Shamio and the other children, and Ayla thought again how much she would like to have a daughter like Tholie’s … a daughter next time, not a son. She was such a beautiful little girl, and her name matched her.
“Shamio is a beautiful name, Tholie, and unusual. It sounds like a Sharamudoi name, but also like a Mamutoi name,” Ayla said.
Tholie could not resist smiling again. “You’re right. Not everyone knows it, but that’s what I was trying to do. She would be called Shamie if she were Mamutoi, although that isn’t a name that would likely be found in any Camp. It comes from the Sharamudoi language, so her name is both. I may be Sharamudoi now, but I was born to the Red Deer Hearth, a line of high status. My mother insisted on a good Bride Price for me from Markeno’s people, though he wasn’t even Mamutoi. Shamio can be as proud of her Mamutoi background as she will be of her Sharamudoi heritage. That’s why I wanted to show both in her name.”
Tholie stopped as a thought occurred to her. She turned to look at the visitor. “Ayla is an unusual name, too. What Hearth were you born to?” she said, thinking, There, now I’d like to hear you explain that name.
“I was not born Mamutoi, Tholie. I was adopted by the Mammoth Hearth,” Ayla said, glad that the woman had brought out the questions that had obviously been bothering her.
Tholie was certain she had caught the woman in a lie. “People are not adopted by the Mammoth Hearth,” she asserted. “That is the Hearth of the mamutii. People choose the way of the spirits, and may be accepted by the Mammoth Hearth, but they are not adopted.”
“That is the usual way, Tholie, but Ayla was adopted,” Jondalar interjected. “I was there. Talut was going to adopt her into his Lion Hearth, but Mamut surprised everyone, and adopted her into the Mammoth Hearth, as his own. He saw something in her—that’s why he was training her. He claimed she was born to the Mammoth Hearth, whether she was born a Mamutoi or not.”
“Adopted to the Mammoth Hearth? From outside?” Tholie said, surprised, but she did not doubt Jondalar. After all, she knew him and he was kin, but she was even more interested. Now that she no longer felt so constrained to be watchful and cautious, her natural forthright curiosity rose to the surface. “Who were you born to, Ayla?”
“I don’t know, Tholie. My people died in an earthquake when I was a girl not much more than Shamio’s age. I was raised by the Clan,” Ayla said.
Tholie had never heard of any people called the Clan. They must be one of those eastern tribes, she thought. That would explain a lot. No wonder she has such a strange accent, though she does speak the language well, for an outsider. That Old Mamut of the Lion Camp was a wise and canny old, old man, she mused. He had always been old, it seemed. Even when she was a girl, no one could remember when he was young, and no one doubted his insights.
With a mother’s natural instinct, Tholie glanced around to check on her child. Noticing Wolf, she thought once again about how strange it was that an animal would prefer associating with people. Then she looked the other way at the horses grazing quietly and contentedly in the field so near to their living site. Ayla’s control over the animals was not only surprising, it was interesting because they seemed so devoted to her. The wolf seemed to adore her.
And look at Jondalar. He was obviously captivated by the beautiful blond woman, and Tholie didn’t think it was just because she was beautiful. Serenio had been beautiful, and there had been countless attractive women who had tried their best to interest him in a serious attachment. He had been closer to his brother, and Tholie recalled wondering if any woman would ever reach his heart, but this woman had. Even without her apparent healing skills, she seemed to possess some unusual quality. Old Mamut must have been right. It probably was her destiny to belong to the Mammoth Hearth.
Inside the dwelling, Ayla combed out her hair, tied it back with a piece of soft leather thong, and put on the clean tunic and short pants she had been keeping aside in case they met some people, so she would not have to wear her stained traveling clothes for visiting. Then she went to check on Roshario. She smiled at Darvalo, who was sitting listlessly outside the dwelling, and she nodded to Dolando when she entered and approached the woman lying on the bed. She examined her briefly, just to make sure she was all right.
“Should she still be sleeping?” Dolando asked, with a worried frown.
“She’s fine. She will sleep a while longer yet.” Ayla looked at her medicine bag, then decided that it would be a good time to gather some fresh ingredients for a reviving tea to help bring Roshario out of the datura-induced sleep when she did begin to awaken. “I saw a linden tree on my way here. I want some flowers for a tea for her and, if I can find them, a few other herbs. If Roshario wakes up before I get back, you can give her a little water. Expect her to be bewildered and a bit dizzy. The splints should hold her arm straight, but don’t let her move it too much.”
“Will you be able to find your way?” Dolando asked. “Maybe you should take Darvo with you.”
Ayla was sure she would have no trouble finding her way, but she decided to take the lad with her anyway. In all the concern for Roshario, he had been somewhat neglected, and he was worried about the woman, too.
“Thank you, I will,” she said.
Darvalo had overheard the conversation and was standing and ready to go with her, looking pleased to be useful.
“I think I know where that linden tree is,” he said. “There are always a lot of bees around it this time of year.”
“That’s the best time to gather the flowers,” Ayla said, “when they smell like honey. Do you know where I can find a basket to carry them back?”
“Roshario stores her baskets back here,” Darvalo said, showing Ayla to a storage space behind the dwelling. They selected a couple.
As they stepped out from under the overhang, Ayla noticed Wolf watching her, and she called him. She did not feel comfortable leaving the wolf alone with these people just yet, though the children complained when he left. Later, when everyone felt more familiar with the animals, it might be different.
Jondalar was in the field with the horses and two men. Ayla walked toward them to tell him where she was going. Wolf ran ahead and they all turned to watch when he and Whinney rubbed noses, while the mare whickered a greeting. Then the canine struck a playful pose and yipped a puppy bark at the young stallion. Racer lifted his head in a neigh and pawed the ground, returning the playful gesture. Then the mare approached Ayla and put her head across her shoulder. The woman put her arms around Whinney’s neck, and they leaned against each other in a familiar posture of comfort and reassurance. Racer took a few paces forward and nuzzled them both, wanting contact, too. She hugged his neck, then patted and stroked him, realizing that they all welcomed each other’s familiar presence in this place of so many strangers.
“I should introduce you, Ayla,” Jondalar said.
She faced the two men. One was nearly as tall as Jondalar, but thinner, the other was shorter, and older, but their similarity was striking, nonetheless. The shorter one stepped forward first, with both hands outstretched.
“Ayla of the Mamutoi, this is Carlono, Ramudoi leader of the Sharamudoi.”
“In the name of Mudo, Mother of All in water and on land, I welcome you, Ayla of the Mamutoi,” Carlono said, taking both of her hands. He spoke Mamutoi even better than Dolando, a result of several trading missions to the mouth of the Great Mother River, as well as Tholie’s coaching.
“In the name of Mut, I thank you for your welcome, Carlono of the Sharamudoi,” she replied.
“Soon you must come down to our dock,” Carlono said, thinking, What a strange accent she has. I don’t believe I’ve ever heard one like that, and I’ve heard many. “Jondalar told me he promised you a ride in a proper boat, not one of those oversize Mamutoi bowls.”
“I shall be pleased,” Ayla said, offering one of her brilliant smiles.
Carlono’s thoughts were diverted from consideration of her speech mannerism to appreciation of her. This woman Jondalar has brought certainly is a beauty. She suits him, he decided.
“Jondalar has told me of your boats, and about hunting sturgeon,” Ayla continued.
Both men laughed, as though she had made a joke, and they looked at Jondalar, who smiled, too, although he turned slightly red.
“Did he ever tell you how he hunted half a sturgeon?” the tall young man said.
“Ayla of the Mamutoi,” Jondalar interjected, “this is Markeno of the Ramudoi, the son of Carlono’s hearth, and Tholie’s mate.”
“Welcome, Ayla of the Mamutoi,” Markeno said, informally, knowing she had been greeted with the proper ritual many times. “Have you met Tholie? She will be pleased you are here. She misses her Mamutoi kin sometimes.” His command of his mate’s language was almost perfect.
“Yes, I’ve met her, and Shamio, too. She is a beautiful little girl.”
Markeno beamed. “I think so, too, though one is not supposed to say that of the daughter of one’s own hearth.” Then he turned to the youngster. “How is Roshario, Darvo?”
“Ayla has fixed her arm,” he said. “She is a healer.”
“Jondalar told us she set the break properly,” Carlono said, careful to be noncommittal. He would wait to see how well her arm healed.
Ayla noticed the Ramudoi leader’s response, but she thought it was understandable, given the circumstances. No matter how well they liked Jondalar, she was a stranger, after all.
“Darvalo and I are going to gather some herbs I noticed on the way here, Jondalar,” she said. “Roshario is still sleeping, but I want to make a drink for her when she wakes. Dolando is with her. I don’t like the look of Racer’s eyes, either. Later I’ll look for more of those white plants to help him, but I don’t want to take the time now. You might try rinsing them with cool water,” she said. Then, smiling at everyone, she signaled Wolf, nodded to Darvalo, and headed for the edge of the embayment.
The view from the path at the end of the wall was no less spectacular than it had been the first time she saw it. She had to catch her breath as she looked down, but she could not resist doing it. She allowed Darvalo to lead the way and was glad she did when he showed her a shortcut he knew. The wolf explored the area around the path, busily chasing after intriguing scents, then rejoining them. The first few times Wolf suddenly reappeared, he startled the youth, but as they continued, Darvalo began to get used to his comings and goings.
The large old linden tree announced its presence long before they reached it with a rich fragrance, reminiscent of honey, and the droning hum of bees. The tree came into view around a turn in the path and revealed the source of the luscious aroma, small green-and-yellow flowers dangling from oblong, winglike bracts. The bees were so busy collecting nectar that they didn’t bother with the people who disturbed them, though the woman had to shake some bees out of the blossoms they cut. The insects just flew back to the tree and found others.
“Why is this especially good for Rosh?” Darvalo asked. “People always make linden tea.”
“It does taste good, doesn’t it? But it’s helpful, too. If you’re upset, or nervous, or even angry, it can be very soothing; if you’re tired, it wakes you up, lifts your spirits. It can make a headache go away and calm an upset stomach. Roshario will be feeling all of those things, because of the drink that made her go to sleep.”
“I didn’t know it would do all that,” the youngster said, looking again at the familiar spreading tree with smooth dark brown bark, impressed that something so ordinary had qualities that made it so much more than it seemed.
“There is another tree I would like to find, Darvalo, but I don’t know the name in Mamutoi,” Ayla said. “It’s a small tree, sometimes growing as brush. It has thorns on it, and the leaves are shaped a little like a hand with fingers. It has clusters of white flowers earlier in the summer, and about now, round red berries.”
“It’s not a rosebush you want, is it?”
“No, but that’s a good guess. The one I want usually grows bigger than a rosebush, but the flowers are smaller, and the leaves are different.”
Darvalo frowned with concentration, then suddenly smiled. “I think I know what you mean, and there are some not far from here. In spring, we always pick the leaf buds and eat them when we walk by.”
“Yes, that sounds like the one. Can you take me to it?”
Wolf was not in sight, so Ayla whistled. He appeared almost instantly, looking at her with eager anticipation. She signaled him to follow. They walked for a short while until they came to a stand of hawthorne.
“That’s exactly what I was looking for, Darvalo!” Ayla said. “I wasn’t sure if my description was clear enough.”
“What does this do?” he asked as they were picking berries and some leaves.
“It’s for the heart, restores, strengthens it, and stimulates, makes it beat hard—but it’s gentle, for a healthy heart. It’s not for someone with a weak heart, who needs a strong medicine,” Ayla said, trying to find words to explain so that the youngster would understand what she knew from observation and experience. She had learned from Iza in a language and way of teaching that were difficult to translate. “It is also good to mix with other medicines. It stimulates them, makes them work better.”
Darvalo was deciding that it was fun to gather stuff with Ayla. She knew all kinds of things that no one else did, and she didn’t mind telling him at all. On the way back, she stopped at a dry, sunny bank and cut some pleasant-smelling purple hyssop flowers. “What does that do?” he asked.
“It clears the chest, helps breathing. And this,” she said, picking some soft, downy leaves of mouse-eared hawkweed that were nearby, “stimulates everything. It’s stronger, and doesn’t taste too good, so I’ll only use a little. I want to give her something pleasant to drink, but this will clear her mind, make her feel alert.”
On the way back, Ayla stopped once more, to gather a large bunch of pretty pink gillyflowers. Darvalo expected to learn more medical lore when he asked what they were for.
“Just because they smell nice, and add a sweet, spicy flavor. I’ll use some for the tea, and I’ll put some in water by her bed, to make her feel good. Women like pretty, nice-smelling things, Darvalo, especially when they are sick.”
He decided he liked pretty, nice-smelling things, too, like Ayla. He liked the way she always called him Darvalo, and not Darvo, the way everyone else did. Not that he minded so much when Dolando or Jondalar called him that, but it was nice to hear her use his grown-up name. Her voice sounded nice, too, even if she did say some words a little funny. All it did was make you pay attention to her when she talked, and after a while think about what a nice voice she had.
There was a time when he wished more than anything that Jondalar would mate his mother and stay with the Sharamudoi. His mother’s mate had died when he was young, and there had never been a man who lived with them until the tall Zelandonii man came. Jondalar had treated him like a son of his hearth—he had even begun to teach him to work the flint—and Darvalo had felt hurt when the man left.
He had hoped Jondalar would come back, but he never really expected it. When his mother left with that Mamutoi man, Gulec, he was sure there would be no reason for the Zelandonii man to stay if he did come back. But now that he had come, and with another woman, his mother didn’t need to be there. Everyone liked Jondalar, and, especially since Roshario’s accident, everybody talked about how much they needed a healer. He was sure Ayla was a good one. Why couldn’t they both stay? he thought.
“She woke up once,” Dolando said the instant Ayla entered the dwelling. “At least I think she did. She might have just been thrashing in her sleep. She has quieted down and is sleeping again now.”
The man was relieved to see her, though it was clear that he did not want to make it obvious. Unlike Talut, who had been completely open and friendly, and whose leadership was based on the strength of his character, his willingness to listen, accept differences, and work out compromises … and a voice loud enough to get the attention of a noisy group in the midst of a heated argument … Dolando reminded her more of Brun. He was more reserved, and though he was a good listener who considered a situation carefully, he did not like to reveal his feelings. But Ayla was used to interpreting the subtle mannerisms of such a man.
Wolf came in with her, and he went to his corner even before she signaled. She put down her basket of herbal flowers to check on Roshario, then spoke to the worried man. “She’ll be waking up soon, but I should have time to prepare a special tea for her to drink when she does.”
Dolando had noticed the fragrance of the flowers as soon as Ayla entered, and the steaming liquid she made from them had a warm floral scent when she brought a cup for him as well as the woman on the bed.
“What is this for?” he asked.
“I made it to help Roshario wake up, but you might find it refreshing, too.”
He sipped it, expecting a light flowery essence, and was surprised as a subtly sweet taste rich with character and flavor filled his mouth. “This is good!” he said. “What’s in it?”
“Ask Darvalo. I think he’d be pleased to tell you.”
The man nodded, understanding her implied suggestion. “I should pay more attention to him. I’ve been so worried about Roshario, I haven’t thought of anything else, and I’m sure he’s been worried about her, too.”
Ayla smiled. She was beginning to perceive the qualities that made him the leader of this group. She liked the quickness of his mind and was fast growing to like him. Roshario made a sound, and their attention was suddenly diverted to her.
“Dolando?” she said in a weak voice.
“I’m here,” he said, and the tenderness in his voice brought a lump to Ayla’s throat. “How are you feeling?”
“A little dizzy, and I had the strangest dream,” she said.
“I have something for you to drink.” The woman made a face, remembering the last drink she had been given. “You will like this, I think. Here, smell it,” Ayla said, bringing the cup down so that the delicious aroma was near her nose. The frown faded, and the medicine woman lifted Roshario’s head and brought the cup to her lips.
“That is nice,” Roshario said after a few sips, then drank some more. She lay back when she finished it and closed her eyes, but soon opened them. “My arm! How is my arm?”
“How does it feel?” Ayla said.
“It’s a little painful, but not as much and in a different way,” she said. “Let me see it.” She craned to look at her arm, then tried to sit up.
“Let me help you,” Ayla said, propping her up.
“It’s straight! My arm looks right. You did it,” the woman said. Then tears filled her eyes as she lay back down. “Now I won’t have to be a useless old woman.”
“You may not have full use of it,” Ayla cautioned, “but it is set correctly now and has a chance to heal right.”
“Dolando, can you believe it? Everything is going to be fine now,” she sobbed, but her tears were of joy and relief.