“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.