“What makes you so certain? If she is so unpredictable, couldn’t she just as easily grow tired of it all?” Jondalar asked.
“I’m certain because she has already killed one person to whom she might have passed on her leadership, her own child.”
“She killed her child?!” Jondalar said. “When you said Attaroa caused the death of the three young people, I assumed it was an accident.”
“It was not an accident. Attaroa poisoned them, though she doesn’t admit to it.”
“Poisoned her own child! How could anyone kill her own child?” Jondalar said. “And why?”
“Why? For plotting to help a friend. Cavoa, the young woman you
met. She was in love with a man and was planning to run away with him. Her brother was trying to help them, too. All four were caught. Attaroa spared Cavoa only because she was pregnant, but she has threatened that if the baby is a boy, she will kill them both.”
“No wonder she seems so unhappy and afraid,” Ayla said.
“I must also be held responsible,” S’Armuna said, the blood draining from her face as she said the words.
“You! What did you have against those young people?” Jondalar said.
“I had nothing against them. Attaroa’s child was my acolyte, almost like my own child. I feel for Cavoa, hurt for her, but just as surely as if I had fed them the poison myself, I am responsible for their deaths. If it were not for me, Attaroa would not have known where to get the poison and how to use it.”
They could both see that the woman was obviously distraught, though she controlled it well.
“But to kill her own child,” Ayla said, shaking her head as if to rid herself of the idea. She was horror-stricken by the mere thought. “How could she?”
“I don’t know. I will tell you what I do know, but it is a long story. I think we should go back to my lodge,” S’Armuna suggested, looking around. She did not want to spend any more time talking about Attaroa in such a public place.
Ayla and Jondalar followed her back to her earthlodge, doffed their outdoor clothes, then stood by the fire while the older woman added more fuel and cooking stones for hot tea. When they were settled with the warming herbal drink, S’Armuna paused to collect her thoughts.
“It’s hard to know where it all began, probably with the early difficulties of Attaroa and Brugar, but it didn’t stop there. Even when Attaroa was far along in her pregnancy, Brugar continued to beat her. When she went into labor, he did not send for me. I only knew about it when I heard her crying out in pain. I went to her, but he refused to let me attend her when she gave birth. It was not an easy delivery, and he would allow nothing to help her with the pain. I am convinced he wanted to watch her suffer. Apparently the baby was born with some deformity. My guess is that it was caused by all the beatings he gave Attaroa, and though it wasn’t obvious at birth, it soon became apparent that the spine of the child was bent and weak. I was never allowed to make an examination, so I’m not sure, but there may have been other problems,” S’Armuna said.
“Was her child a boy or a girl?” Jondalar asked, realizing it hadn’t been made clear.
“I don’t know,” S’Armuna declared.
“I don’t understand. How can you not know?” Ayla said
“No one did, except Brugar and Attaroa, and for some reason, they kept it a secret. Even as an infant, the child was never allowed to appear in public without clothes, the way most babies and young children are, and they chose a name with neither a male nor a female ending. The child was called Omel,” the woman explained.
“Did the child never say?” Ayla asked.
“No. Omel kept the secret, too. I think Brugar may have threatened dire consequences to them both if the child’s gender was ever revealed,” S’Armuna said.
“There must have been some hint, especially as the child grew older. The body that was buried appeared to be of adult size,” Jondalar said.
“Omel did not shave, but could have been a male late in developing, and it was hard to tell if breasts developed. Omel wore loose clothing that disguised the shape. Omel did grow to be quite tall for a female, in spite of the crooked spine, but quite thin. Perhaps it was because of the weakness, but Attaroa herself is very tall, and there was a certain delicacy there that men don’t usually have.”
“Did you have no sense of the child as it was growing up?” Ayla asked.
The woman is perceptive, S’Armuna thought, then nodded. “In my heart, I always thought of Omel as a girl, but perhaps that is what I wanted. Brugar wanted people to think of the child as male.”
“You are probably right about Brugar,” Ayla said. “In the Clan, every man wants his mate to have sons. He thinks of himself as less than a man if she doesn’t have at least one. It means his totem spirit is weak. If the infant was a girl, Brugar might have been trying to hide the fact that his mate had given birth to a female,” Ayla explained, then paused and considered a different point of view. “But deformed newborns are usually taken away and left exposed. So it could be that if the baby was born deformed, especially if it was a boy and unable to learn the necessary hunting skills required of a man, Brugar might have wanted to hide that.”
“It’s not easy to interpret his motivations, but whatever they were, Attaroa went along with him.”
“But how did Omel die? And the two young men?” Jondalar asked.
“It’s a strange, complicated story,” S’Armuna said, not wanting to be rushed. “In spite of all the problems, and secrecy, the child became Brugar’s favorite. Omel was the only person he never struck or tried to hurt in some way. I was glad, but I often wondered why.”
“Did he suspect that he might have caused the deformity because he beat Attaroa so much before birth?” Jondalar asked. “Was he trying to make up for it?”
“Perhaps, but Brugar laid the blame on Attaroa. He often told her
she was an inadequate woman who could not deliver a perfect baby. Then he’d become angry and beat her. But his beatings were no longer a prelude to Pleasures with his mate. Instead he demeaned Attaroa and showered affection on the child. Omel began to treat Attaroa the same way that he did, and as the woman felt more estranged, she became jealous of her own offspring, jealous of the affection Brugar showed the child, and even more of the love Omel felt for Brugar.”
“That would have been very hard to bear,” Ayla said.
“Yes, Brugar had discovered a new way to cause Attaroa pain, but she wasn’t the only one who suffered because of him,” S’Armuna continued. “As time went on, all the women were treated worse and worse, by Brugar and the other men. The men who tried to resist his ways were sometimes beaten, too, or they were forced out. Finally, after a particularly bad occasion that left Attaroa with a broken arm and several broken ribs from being jumped on and kicked, she rebelled. She swore she would kill him, and she begged me to give her something to do it with.”
“Did you?” Jondalar asked, unable to restrain his curiosity.
“One Who Serves the Mother learns many secrets, Jondalar, often dangerous secrets, especially one who has studied with the zelandonia,” S’Armuna explained. “But those who are admitted into the Motherhood must swear by the Sacred Caves and the Elder Legends that the secrets will not be misused. One Who Serves the Mother gives up name and identity, and takes on the name and identity of her people, becomes the link between the Great Earth Mother and Her children, and the means by which Earth’s Children communicate with the world of the spirits. Therefore, to Serve the Mother means to serve Her children as well.”
“I understand that,” Jondalar said.
“But you may not understand that the people become engraved on the spirit of One Who Serves. The need to consider their welfare becomes very strong, second only to the needs of the Mother. It is often a matter of leadership. Not directly, usually, but in the sense of showing the way. One Who Serves the Mother becomes a guide to understanding, and to finding the meaning inherent in the unknown. Part of the training is to learn the lore, the knowledge to enable the One to interpret the signs, visions, and dreams sent to Her children. There are tools to help, and ways to seek guidance from the world of the spirits, but ultimately it all comes down to the One’s own judgment. I wrestled with the thought of how best to Serve, but I’m afraid my judgment was clouded by my own bitterness and anger. I came back here hating men, and watching Brugar I learned to hate them more.”
“You said that you felt responsible for the death of the three young
people. Did you teach her about poisons?” Jondalar asked, unable to let it go.
“I taught Attaroa many things, Marthona’s son, but she was not training to be One Who Serves. However, she has a quick mind and is able to learn more than may be intended … but I also knew that.” S’Armuna stopped then, stopped just short of admitting to a grievous transgression, making it clear, but allowing them to draw their own conclusions. She waited until she saw Jondalar frown with concern and Ayla nod in acknowledgment.
“In any case, I did help Attaroa establish her power over the men in the beginning—maybe I wanted power over them myself. In truth, I did more than that. I prodded and encouraged her, convinced her that the Great Earth Mother wanted women to lead, and I helped her to convince the women, or most of them. After the way they had been treated by Brugar and the men, it wasn’t hard. I gave her something to put the men to sleep, and I told her to put it in their favorite drink—a brew they fermented from birch sap.”
“The Mamutoi make a similar drink,” Jondalar commented, listening with amazement.
“When the men were sleeping, the women tied them up. They were glad to do it. It was almost a game, a way of getting back at the men. But Brugar never woke up. Attaroa tried to imply that he was just more susceptible to the sleeping liquid, but I’m sure she put something else in his drink. She said she wanted to kill him, and I believe she did. She all but admits it now, but, whatever the truth is, I was the one who led her to believe that women would be better off if the men were gone. I was the one who convinced her that if there were no men, the spirits of women would have to mix with the spirits of other women to create new life, and only girl children would be born.”
“Do you really think so?” Jondalar asked, frowning.
“I think I almost persuaded myself that I did. I didn’t actually say it—I didn’t want to make the Mother angry—but I know I made her think so. Attaroa thinks the pregnancy of a few women proves it.”
“She is wrong,” Ayla said.
“Yes, of course she is, and I should have known better. The Mother was not deluded by my ruse. I know in my heart that men are here because that is how the Mother planned it. If She didn’t want men, She would not have made them. Their spirits are necessary. But if the men are weak, their spirits are not strong enough for the Mother to use. That’s why so few children have been born.” She smiled at Jondalar. “You are such a strong young man, I would not doubt that your spirit has already been used by Her.”
“If the men were freed, I think you would find they are more than strong enough to make the women pregnant,” Ayla said, “with no help from Jondalar.”
The tall blond man glanced at her and grinned. “But I’d be more than happy to help,” he said, knowing exactly what she meant, even if he wasn’t entirely sure if he shared her opinion.
“And perhaps you should,” Ayla said. “I just said I didn’t think it would be necessary.”
Jondalar suddenly stopped smiling. It occurred to him that no matter who was right, he had no reason to think he was capable of engendering a child.
S’Armuna looked at both of them, knowing they were making reference to something that she wasn’t privy to. She waited, but when it became obvious that they were waiting for her, she continued. “I helped her, and I encouraged her, but I didn’t know it would be worse with Attaroa as leader than it was with Brugar. In fact, right after he was gone, it was better … for the women, at least. But not for the men, and not for Omel. Cavoa’s brother understood; he was a special friend of Omel. That child was the only one who grieved for him.”
“It’s understandable, under the circumstances,” Jondalar said.
“Attaroa didn’t see it that way,” S’Armuna said. “Omel was sure that Attaroa had caused Brugar’s death, became very angry and defied her, and was beaten for it. Attaroa told me once that she only wanted to make Omel understand what Brugar had done to her and the other women. Although she didn’t say it, I think she thought, or hoped, that once Brugar was gone, Omel would turn to her, love her.”
“Beatings are not likely to make someone love you,” Ayla said.
“You’re right,” the older woman said. “Omel had never been beaten before and hated Attaroa even worse after that. They were mother and child, but they couldn’t stand to be near each other, it seemed. That’s when I offered to take Omel as an acolyte.”
S’Armuna stopped, picked up her cup to drink, saw it was empty, then put it down. “Attaroa seemed glad that Omel was out of her lodge. But thinking back, I realized that she took it out on the men. In fact, ever since Omel left her lodge, Attaroa has been getting worse. She has become more cruel than Brugar ever was. I should have seen it before. Instead of keeping them apart, I should have tried to find ways to reconcile them. What will she do now that Omel is gone? Killed by her own hand?”
The woman stared into the dancing air above the fire as though she were seeing something that wasn’t apparent to anyone else. “Oh, Great Mother! I’ve been blind!” she suddenly said. “She had Ardoban
crippled and put in the Holding and I know she cared for that boy. And she killed Omel and the others.”
“Had him crippled?” Ayla said. “Those children in the Holding? That was done on purpose?”
“Yes, to make the boys weak, and fearful,” S’Armuna said, shaking her head. “Attaroa has lost all reason. I fear for us all.” Suddenly she broke down and held her face in her hands. “Where will it end? All this pain and suffering I have wrought,” she sobbed.
“It was not your doing alone, S’Armuna,” Ayla said. “You may have allowed it, even encouraged it, but do not take it all on yourself. The evil is Attaroa’s, and perhaps belongs, too, to those who treated her so badly.” Ayla shook her head. “Cruelty mothers cruelty, pain breeds pain, abuse fosters abuse.”