The Earth's Children Series 6-Book Bundle

by Jean M. Auel

  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.

  27

  Ayla sipped tea at her afternoon campfire and stared, unseeing, across the grassy landscape. When she had stopped to let Wolf rest, she noticed a large rock formation outlined against th
e blue sky to the northwest, but as the conspicuous limestone hill faded into mists and clouds in the distance, it receded from memory as her thoughts focused inward, worrying about Jondalar.

  Between her tracking skills and Wolf’s keen nose, they had managed to follow the trail that she felt sure was left by the people who had taken Jondalar. After making a gradual descent off the highland, traveling north, they had turned west until they reached the river she and Jondalar had crossed earlier, but they did not cross over. They turned north again, along the river, leaving a trail that was easier to follow.

  Ayla camped the first night beside the flowing stream and continued tracking the next day She wasn’t sure how many people she was following, but she occasionally saw several sets of footprints on the muddy banks of the river, a couple of which she was beginning to recognize. None of them, however, were Jondalar’s large prints, and she began to wonder if he was still with them.

  Then she recalled that occasionally something large was put down, flattening the grass or leaving an impression in the dust or damp ground beneath it, and she remembered seeing that sign, along with the tracks and other signs, from the beginning. It wouldn’t have been horsemeat, she reasoned, because the horses had been driven over the edge and this load had been carried down from the top. She decided it had to be the man who was being carried on some kind of litter, which caused her both worry and relief.

  If they’d had to carry him, it must mean he couldn’t walk himself, so the blood she had found did indicate a serious injury, but they certainly would not bother to carry him if he was dead. She drew the conclusion that he was still alive but seriously hurt, and she hoped they were taking him someplace where his injuries could be treated. But why would anyone hurt him in the first place?

  Whoever she was following had been moving fast, but the trail was getting colder and she knew she was falling behind. The telltale signs showing the way they had gone were not always easy to find, which slowed her down, and even Wolf had some trouble keeping up. Without the animal, she wasn’t sure if she could have tracked them this far, especially over areas of rocky ground, where the subtle marks of their passing were all but nonexistent. But more than that, she didn’t want to let Wolf out of her sight and risk losing him, too. Nonetheless, she felt an anxious need to hurry, and she was grateful that he seemed better each day.

  She had awakened that morning with a strong sense of foreboding, and she was glad to see that Wolf seemed eager to start out, but by afternoon she could tell he was tiring. She decided to stop and make a cup of tea to let him rest and give the horses time to graze.

  Not long after starting out again she came to a fork in the river. She had easily crossed a couple of small streams flowing down from the highlands, but she wasn’t sure if she should cross the river. She hadn’t seen tracks for some time, and she didn’t know whether to take the east fork or make the crossing and follow the west one. She kept to the east for a while, weaving back and forth, trying to find the trail, and just before nightfall she saw an unusual sight that clearly showed her the way to go.

  Even in the failing light, she knew the posts sticking out of the water had been put there for a purpose. They had been pounded into the riverbed near several logs that were lodged into the bank. From the time she spent with the Sharamudoi, she recognized the construction as a rather simple docking place for some kind of watercraft. Ayla started to make her camp beside it, then changed her mind. She didn’t know anything about the people she was following, except that they had hurt Jondalar and then taken him with them. She did not want such people to come upon her unawares, while she was sleeping and vulnerable. She chose a place around a bend in the river instead.

  In the morning she carefully examined the wolf before entering the river. Though not especially wide, the water was cold and deep, and he would have to swim it. His bruises were still tender to the touch, but he was very much improved, and he was eager to go. He seemed to want to find Jondalar as much as she did.

  Not for the first time, she decided to remove her leggings before getting on Whinney’s back, so they would not get wet. She didn’t want to take the time to worry about drying clothes. Much to her surprise, Wolf did not hesitate to enter the water. Instead of pacing back and forth on the bank, he jumped in and paddled after her, as though he no more wanted to let her out of his sight than she wanted to let him out of hers.

  When they reached the other side, Ayla moved out of the way to avoid the spray from the animals shaking off excess moisture while she donned her legwear. She checked the wolf again, just to satisfy herself, though he showed no discomfort when he shook himself vigorously and then began searching for the trail. Somewhat downstream of their landing, Wolf discovered the watercraft that had been used by the ones she was tracking to make the crossing, hidden in some brush and trees that grew near the water. It took her a while, however, to understand it for what it was.

  She had assumed the people would use a boat, something similar to the Sharamudoi boats—beautifully crafted dugouts with gracefully pointed prows and sterns, or perhaps like the more pedestrian but practical bowl boat that she and Jondalar used. But the contrivance Wolf found was a platform of logs, and she was unfamiliar with a raft. Once she understood its purpose, she thought it was rather clever, if somewhat ungainly. Wolf sniffed around the crude craft curiously, When he came to a certain place, he stopped and made a low growl deep in his throat.

  “What is it, Wolf?” Ayla said. Looking more closely, she found a brown stain on one of the logs and felt a touch of panic drain her face. It was dried blood, she was sure, probably Jondalar’s blood. She patted the canine’s head. “We’ll find him,” she said, to reassure herself as much as the wolf, but she wasn’t at all sure that they would find him alive.

  The trail leading from the landing ran between fields of tall dry grass intermixed with brush and was much easier to follow. The problem was that it was so well used that she couldn’t be sure it had been taken by the ones she was pursuing. Wolf was in the lead, for which Ayla was soon more than grateful. They had not been on the path long when he stopped in his tracks, wrinkling his nose and baring his teeth in a snarl.

  “Wolf? What is it? Is someone coming?” Ayla said, even as she turned Whinney off the path and headed for some thick brush, signaling Wolf to follow. She slid off the mare’s back as soon as they were screened by the tall, bare branches and grass, grabbed Racer’s lead rope to guide him behind the mare, since he was wearing the pack, and hid between the horses herself. She knelt on one knee and put an arm around Wolf’s neck to keep him quiet, then waited.

  Her assessment was not wrong. Before long, two young women ran past, obviously heading for the river. She signaled Wolf to stay and then, using the stealth she had learned when tracking carnivores as a girl, she followed them back, creeping close through the grass, then hiding behind some brush to watch.

  The two women talked to each other as they uncovered the raft, and though the language was unfamiliar, she noticed a similarity to Mamutoi. She wasn’t quite able to understand them, but she thought she caught the meaning of a word or two.

  The women pushed the log platform almost into the water, then retrieved two long poles that had been underneath it. They fastened one end of a large coil of rope around a tree, then climbed on. As one began to pole across the river, the other played out the rope. When they were near the other side, where the current was not as swift, they started poling upstream until they reached the docking place. With ropes fastened to the raft, they secured it to the poles sticking up from the water and stepped off to the logs stuck into the bank. Leaving the raft, they started running back the way Ayla had just come.

  She returned to the animals, thinking about what to do. She felt sure the women would be returning soon, but “soon” could be this day, or the next, or the one after. She wanted to find Jondalar as soon as possible, but she didn’t want to continue following the trail and have them catch up with her. She was also reluctant to ap
proach them directly until she knew more about them. She finally decided to look for a place to wait for them where she could watch them coming without being seen.

  She was pleased that her wait was not too long. By afternoon she saw the two women returning, along with several other people, all carrying litters of butchered meat and sections of horse. They were moving surprisingly fast in spite of their loads. When they drew nearer, Ayla realized there was not a single man in the hunting party. All the hunters were women! She watched them load the meat on the raft, then pole across using the rope for a guide. They hid the raft after unloading it, but they left the guide rope strung across the river, which puzzled her.

  Ayla was again surprised at how fast they traveled as they started up the trail. Almost before she knew it, they were gone. She waited some time before she followed, and she kept well behind.

  Jondalar was appalled at the conditions inside the fence. The only shelter was a rather large, crude lean-to, which offered scant protection from rain or snow, and the fence of posts, itself, which blocked the wind. There were no fires, little water, and no food available. The only people within the Holding were male, and they showed the effects of the poor conditions. As they came out of the shelter to stand and stare at him, he saw that they were thin, dirty, and ill-clad. None of them had sufficient clothing for the weather, and they probably had to huddle together in the lean-to in an attempt to keep warm.

  He recognized one or two from the walk up to the funeral, and he wondered why the men and boys were living in such a place. Suddenly several puzzling things came together: the attitude of the women with spears, the strange comments of Ardemun, the behavior of the men walking to the funeral, the reticence of S’Armuna, the belated examination of his wounds, and their generally harsh treatment of him. Maybe it wasn’t the result of a misunderstanding that would be cleared up as soon as he convinced Attaroa that he wasn’t lying.