“And how many of the young ones that she has hurt will pass it on to the next generation?” the older woman cried out, as though in pain herself. She began rocking back and forth, keening with grief. “Which of the boys behind that fence has she condemned to carry on her terrible legacy? And which of the girls who look up to her will want to be like her? Seeing Jondalar here has reminded me of my training. Of all people, I should not have allowed it. That is what makes me responsible. Oh, Mother! What have I done?”
“The question is not what you have done. It is what you can do now,” Ayla said.
“I must help them. Somehow, I must help them, but what can I do?”
“It is too late to help Attaroa, but she must be stopped. It is the children and men in the Holding we must help, but first they must be freed. Then we must think of how to help them.”
S’Armuna looked at the young woman, who seemed at that moment so positive and so powerful, and wondered who she really was. The One Who Served the Mother had been made to see the damage she had caused and to know she had abused her power. She feared for her own spirit, as well as for the life of the Camp.
There was silence in the lodge. Ayla got up and picked up the bowl used to brew tea. “Let me make tea this time. I have a very nice mixture of herbs with me,” she said. When S’Armuna nodded without saying a word, Ayla reached for her otter-skin medicine bag.
“I’ve thought about those two crippled youngsters in the Holding,” Jondalar said. “Even if they can’t walk well, they could learn to be flint knappers, or something like that, if they had someone to train them. There must be someone among the S’Armunai who could teach them. Perhaps you could find someone at your Summer Meeting who would be willing.”
“We don’t go to the Summer Meetings with the other S’Armunai anymore,” S’Armuna said.
“Why not?” he asked.
“Attaroa doesn’t want to,” S’Armuna said, speaking in a dull monotone. “Other people had never been especially kind to her; her own Camp barely tolerated her. After she became leader, she didn’t want anything to do with anyone else. Not long after she took over, some of the Camps sent a delegation, inviting us to join them. They had somehow heard that we had many women without mates. Attaroa insulted them and sent them away, and within a few years she had alienated everyone. Now, no one comes, not kin, not friends. They all avoid us.”
“Being tied to a target post is more than an insult,” Jondalar said.
“I told you that she’s getting worse. You aren’t the first. What she did to you, she has done before,” the woman said. “A few years ago, a man came, a visitor, on a Journey. Seeing so many women apparently alone, he became arrogant and condescending. He assumed he would not only be welcome, but in great demand. Attaroa played with him, the way a lion will play with its prey; then she killed him. She enjoyed the game so much that she began detaining all visitors. She liked to make their life miserable, then make them promises, torment them, before getting rid of them. That was her plan for you, Jondalar.”
Ayla shuddered as she added some calming and soothing medicines to her ingredients for S’Armuna’s tea. “You were right when you said she is not human. Mog-ur sometimes told of evil spirits, but I always thought they were legends, stories to frighten children into minding, and to send a shiver through everyone. But Attaroa is no legend. She is evil.”
“Yes, and when no visitors came, she began toying with the men in the Holding,” S’Armuna kept on, as though unable to stop once she had begun to tell what she had seen and heard, but kept inside. “She took the stronger ones first, the leaders or the rebellious ones. There are getting to be fewer and fewer men, and the ones that are left are losing their will to rebel. She keeps them half-starved, exposed to the cold and weather. She puts them in cages or ties them up. They are not even able to clean themselves. Many have died from exposure and the bad conditions. And not many children are being born to replace them. As the men die, the Camp is dying. We were all surprised when Cavoa became pregnant.”
“She must have been going into the Holding to stay with a man,” Ayla said. “Probably the one she fell in love with. I’m sure you know that.”
S’Armuna did know, but she wondered how Ayla knew. “Some
women do sneak in to see the men, and sometimes they bring them food. Jondalar probably told you,” she said.
“No, I didn’t tell her,” Jondalar said. “But I don’t understand why the women allow the men to be held.”
“They fear Attaroa. A few of them follow her willingly, but most would rather have their men back. And now she is threatening to cripple their sons.”
“Tell the women the men must be set free, or no more children will be born,” Ayla said, in tones that sent a chill through both Jondalar and S’Armuna. They turned to stare. Jondalar recognized her expression. It was the distanced, somewhat objective way she looked when her mind was occupied with someone who was sick or injured, although in this case, he saw more than her need to help. He also saw in her a cold, hard anger he had not seen before.
But the older woman saw Ayla as something else, and she interpreted her pronouncement as a prophecy, or a judgment.
After Ayla served the tea, they sat in silence together, each deeply affected. Suddenly Ayla felt a strong need to go outside and breathe the clean, crisp, cold air, and she wanted to check on the animals, but as she quietly observed S’Armuna, she didn’t think it was the best time to leave just yet. She knew the older woman had been devastated, and she sensed that she needed something of meaning to cling to.
Jondalar found himself wondering about the men he had left behind in the Holding, and what they were thinking. They no doubt knew he was back but had not been put back in with them. He wished he could talk to Ebulan and S’Amodun, and reassure Doban, but he needed some reassuring himself. They were on dangerous ground, and they hadn’t done anything yet, except talk. Part of him wanted to get out of there as fast as possible, but the larger part of him wanted to help. If they were going to do something, he wished they would do it soon. He hated just sitting there.
Finally, out of desperation, he said, “I want to do something for those men in the Holding. How can I help?”
“Jondalar, you already have,” S’Armuna said, feeling a need to plan some strategy herself. “When you refused her, it gave the men heart, but that by itself would not have been enough. Men have resisted her before, for a while, but this was the first time a man walked away from her, and even more important, came back,” S’Armuna said. “Attaroa has lost face, and that gives others hope.”
“But hope doesn’t get them out of there,” he replied.
“No, and Attaroa will not let them out willingly. No man leaves here alive, if she can help it, although a few have gotten away, but women
’t often make Journeys. You are the first who has come this way Ayla.”
“Would she kill a woman?” Jondalar asked, unconsciously moving in closer to protect the woman he loved.
“It’s harder for her to justify killing a woman, or even putting her in the Holding, although many of the women here are held against their will, though they have no fence around them. She has threatened the ones they love, and they are held by their feelings for their sons or mates. That’s why your life is in danger,” S’Armuna said, looking directly at Ayla. “You have no ties to this place. She has no hold over you, and if she succeeds in killing you, it will make it easier for her to kill other women. I’m telling you this not only to warn you, but because of the danger to the whole Camp. You can both still get away, and perhaps that is what you should do.”
“No, I cannot leave,” Ayla said. “How can I walk away from those children? Or those men? The women will need help, too. Brugar called you a medicine woman, S’Armuna. I don’t know if you know what that means, but I am a medicine woman of the Clan.”
“You are a medicine woman? I should have known,” S’Armuna said. She wasn’t entirely sure what a medicine woman was, but she had gained such respect from Brugar after he had ranked her within that classification, that she had granted the position the highest significance.
“That is why I can’t go,” Ayla said. “It is not so much something I choose to do; it is what a medicine woman must do, it is what she is. It is inside. A piece of my spirit is already in the next world”—Ayla reached for the amulet around her neck—” given in exchange for the spirit obligation of those people who will need my help. It’s difficult to explain, but I can’t allow Attaroa to abuse them any more, and this Camp will need help after the ones in the Holding are free. I must stay, as long as I need to.”
S’Armuna nodded, feeling that she understood. It was not an easy concept to explain. She equated Ayla’s fascination with healing and compassionate need to help with her own feelings about being called to Serve the Mother, and she identified with the young woman.
“We will stay as long as we can,” Jondalar amended, remembering that they still had to cross a glacier that winter. “The question is, how are we going to persuade Attaroa to let the men out?”
“She fears you, Ayla,” the shaman said, “and I think most of her Wolf Women do, too. Those who don’t fear you are in awe of you. The S’Armunai are horse-hunting people. We hunt other animals, too, including mammoths, but we know horses. To the north there is a cliff that we have driven horses over for generations. You cannot deny your control
over horses is powerful magic. It is so powerful that it is hard to believe, even seeing it.”
“There is nothing mysterious about it,” Ayla snorted. “I raised the mare from the time she was a foal. I was living alone, and she was my only friend. Whinney does what I want because she wants to, because we are friends,” she said, trying to explain.
The way she said the name was the gentle nicker that was the sound made by a horse. Traveling alone with only Jondalar and the animals for so long, she had slipped back into the habit of saying Whinney’s name in its original form. The nicker coming from the woman’s mouth startled S’Armuna, and the very idea of being the friend of a horse was beyond comprehension. It didn’t matter that Ayla had said it wasn’t magic. She had just convinced S’Armuna that it was.
“Perhaps,” the woman said. But she thought, No matter how simple you try to make it, you can’t stop people from wondering who you really are, and why you have come here. “People want to think, and hope, that you have come to help them,” she continued. “They fear Attaroa, but I think with your help, and Jondalar’s, they may be willing to stand up to her and make her free the men. They may refuse to let her intimidate them any more.”
Ayla was again feeling a strong need to get out of the lodge, which was more uncomfortable. “All this tea,” she said, standing up. “I need to pass water. Can you tell me where to go, S’Armuna?” After she listened to the directions, she added, “We need to see to the horses while we’re out, make sure they are comfortable. Is it all right to leave these bowls here for a while?” She had lifted a lid and was checking the contents. “It’s cooling off fast. It’s too bad this can’t be served hot. It would be better.”
“Of course, leave it,” S’Armuna said, picking up her cup and drinking the last of her tea as she watched the two strangers leave.
Perhaps Ayla wasn’t an incarnation of the Great Mother, and Jondalar really was Marthona’s son, but the idea that someday the Mother would exact Her retribution had been weighing heavily on the One Who Served Her. After all, she was S’Armuna. She had exchanged her personal identity for the power of the spirit world, and this Camp was her charge, all the people, women and men. She had been entrusted with the care of the spiritual essence of the Camp, and Her children depended on her. Looking from the view of outsiders, of the man who had served to remind her of her calling, and the woman with unusual powers, S’Armuna knew she had failed them. She only hoped it was still possible to redeem herself and to help the Camp recover a normal, healthy life.
S
’Armuna stepped outside her lodge and watched the two visitors as they walked away toward the edge of the Camp. She saw that Attaroa and Epadoa, standing in front of the headwoman’s lodge, had turned to watch them, too. The shaman was about to go back in when she noticed Ayla suddenly changing direction and heading for the palisade. Attaroa and her chief Wolf Woman also saw her veer, and both moved forward in quick strides to intercept the blond woman. They reached the fenced enclosure almost simultaneously. The older woman arrived a moment later.
Through the cracks, Ayla looked directly into the eyes and faces of silent watchers on the other side of the sturdy poles. On close inspection, they were a sorry sight, dirty and unkempt, and dressed in ragged skins, but even worse was the stench emanating from the Holding. It was not only malodorous; to the perceptive nose of the medicine woman it was revealing. Normal body odors of healthy individuals did not bother her, even a certain amount of normal bodily wastes was not offensive, but she smelled sickness. The foetid breath of starvation, the noisome filth of excrement resulting from stomach ailments and fever, the foul odor of pus from infected, suppurating wounds, and even the putrid rot of progressed gangrene, all assaulted her senses and infuriated her.
Epadoa stepped in front of Ayla, trying to block her view, but she had seen enough. She turned and confronted Attaroa. “Why are these people held here behind this fence, like animals in a surround?”
There was a gasp of surprise from the people who were watching when they heard the translation, and they held their breaths waiting for the headwoman’s reaction. No one had ever dared to ask her before.
Attaroa glared at Ayla, who stared back with dauntless anger. They were nearly equal in height, though the dark-eyed woman was a shade taller. Both were physically strong women, but Attaroa was more muscular as a natural attribute of her heredity, while Ayla had flat and wiry muscles developed from use. The headwoman was somewhat older than the stranger, more experienced, crafty, and totally unpredictable;
the visitor was a skilled tracker and hunter, quick to notice details, draw conclusions, and able to react swiftly on her judgments.