by Jean M. Auel
In the morning she told her women that she wanted a work crew, and to include the Zelandonii man. Jondalar was glad just to be getting out where he could see something besides bare earth and desperate men. It was the first time he had been allowed outside the Holding to work, and he had no idea what she planned to have him do, but he hoped he would have an opportunity to look for young, straight trees. Finding a way to get them into the Holding would be another problem.
Later in the day, Attaroa strode out of her earthlodge, accompanied by two of her women and S’Armuna, and wearing—flaunting—Jondalar’s fur parka. The men had been carrying mammoth bones that had been brought earlier from some other place, and they were piling them up where Attaroa wanted. They had worked all morning and into the afternoon with nothing to eat and little to drink. Even though he was out of the Holding, he had not been able to look for potential spear shafts, much less think of a way of cutting them down and bringing them back. He was watched too closely and given no time to rest. He was not only frustrated, he was tired, and hungry, and thirsty, and angry.
Jondalar put down one end of the legbone that he and Olamun were carrying, then stood up and faced the approaching women. As Attaroa neared, he noticed how tall she was, taller than many men. She could have been very attractive. What had happened to make her hate men so much? he wondered. When she spoke to him, her sarcasm was clear, though he didn’t understand her words.
“Well, Zelandonii, are you ready to tell us another story like your last? I’m ready to be entertained,” S’Armuna translated, complete with sarcastic intonation.
“I did not tell you a story. I told you the truth,” Jondalar said.
“That you were traveling with a woman who rides on the backs of horses? Where is this woman, then? If she has the power you say, why hasn’t she come to claim you?” Attaroa said, standing with her hands on her hips, as though to face him down.
“I don’t know where she is. I wish I did. I’m afraid she went over the cliff with the horses you were hunting,” Jondalar said.
“You lie, Zelandonii! My hunters saw no woman on the back of a horse, and no body of a woman was found with the horses. I think you have heard that the penalty for stealing from the S’Armunai is death, and you are trying to lie your way out of it,” Attaroa said.
No body was found? Jondalar was elated in spite of himself when S’Armuna translated, feeling a surge of hope that Ayla might still be alive.
“Why do you smile when I have just told you that the penalty for stealing is death? Do you doubt that I will do it?” Attaroa said, pointing to him, and then to herself for emphasis.
“Death?” he said, then paled. Could someone be put to death for hunting food? He had been so happy to think that Ayla might still be alive that he hadn’t really comprehended what she had said. When he did, his anger returned. “Horses were not given to the S’Armunai alone. They are here for all of Earth’s Children. How can you call hunting them stealing? Even if I had been hunting the horses, it would have been for food.”
“Ha! See, I’ve caught you in your lies. You admit you were hunting the horses.”
“I did not! I said, ‘Even if I had been hunting the horses.’ I didn’t say that I was.” He looked at the translator. “Tell her, S’Armuna. Jondalar of the Zelandonii, son of Marthona, former leader of the Ninth Cave, does not lie.”
“Now you say you are the son of a woman who was a leader? This Zelandonii is an accomplished liar, covering one lie about a miraculous woman with another about a woman leader.”
“I’ve known many women who were leaders. You are not the only headwoman, Attaroa. Many Mamutoi women are leaders,” Jondalar said.
“Coleaders! They share leadership with a man.”
“My mother was a leader for ten years. She became leader when her mate died, and she shared it with no one. She was respected by both women and men, and gave the leadership over to my brother Joharran willingly. The people did not wish it.”
“Respected by women and men? Listen to him! You think I don’t know men, Zelandonii? You think I was never mated? Am I so ugly no man would have me?”
Attaroa was nearly screaming at him, and S’Armuna was translating almost simultaneously, as though she knew the words the headwoman would be saying. Jondalar could almost forget that the shaman was speaking for her, it seemed as though he were hearing and understanding Attaroa herself, but the shaman’s unemotional tone gave the words a strange detachment from the woman who was behaving so belligerently. A bitter, deranged look came into her eyes as she continued to harangue Jondalar.
“My mate was the leader here. He was a strong leader, a strong man.” Attaroa paused.
“Many people are strong. Strength doesn’t make a leader,” Jondalar said.
Attaroa didn’t really hear him. She wasn’t listening. Her pause was only to hear her own thoughts, to gather her own memories. “Brugar was such a strong leader that he had to beat me every day to prove it.” She sneered. “Wasn’t it a shame that the mushrooms he ate were poisonous?” Her smile was malignant. “I beat his sister’s son in a fair fight to become leader. He was a weakling. He died.” She looked at Jondalar. “But you are no weakling, Zelandonii. Wouldn’t you like a chance to fight me for your life?”
“I have no desire to fight you, Attaroa. But I will defend myself, if I must.”
“No, you will not fight me, because you know I would win. I am a woman. I have the power of Muna on my side. The Mother has honored women; they are the ones who bring forth life. They should be the leaders,” Attaroa said.
“No,” Jondalar said. Some of the people watching flinched when the man disagreed so openly with Attaroa. “Leadership doesn’t necessarily belong to one who is blessed by the Mother anymore than it does to one who is physically strong. The leader of the berry pickers, for instance, is the one who knows where the berries grow, when they will be ripe, and the best way to pick them.” Jondalar was working up to a harangue of his own. “A leader has to be dependable, trustworthy; leaders have to know what they are doing.”
Attaroa was scowling. His words had no effect on her, she listened only to her own counsel, but she didn’t like the scolding tone of his voice, as though he thought he had the right to speak so freely, or to presume to tell her anything.
“It doesn’t matter what the task is,” Jondalar continued. “The leader of the hunt is the one who knows where the animals will be and when they will be there; he is the one who can track them. He’s the one most skilled at hunting. Marthona always said leaders of people should care about the people they lead. If they don’t, they won’t be leaders for very long.” Jondalar was lecturing, venting his anger, oblivious to Attaroa’s glowering face. “Why should it matter if they are women or men?”
“I will not allow men to be leaders anymore,” Attaroa interrupted. “Here, men know that women are leaders, the young ones are raised to understand it. Women are the hunters here. We don’t need men to track or lead. Do you think women cannot hunt?”
“Of course women can hunt. My mother was a hunter before she became leader, and the woman I traveled with was one of the best hunters I know. She loved to hunt and was very good at tracking. I could throw a spear farther, but she was more accurate. She could knock a bird out of the sky or kill a rabbit on the run with a single stone from her sling.”
“More stories!” Attaroa snorted. “It’s easy enough to make claims for a woman that doesn’t exist. My women didn’t hunt; they weren’t allowed to. When Brugar was leader, no women were even allowed to touch a weapon, and it was not easy for us when I became leader. No one knew how to hunt, but I taught them. Do you see these practice targets?”
Attaroa pointed to a series of sturdy posts stuck in the ground. Jondalar had noticed them in passing before, though he hadn’t known what they were for. Now he saw a large section of a horse carcass hanging from a thick wooden peg near the top of one. A few spears were sticking out of it.
“All the women must pract
ice every day, and not just jabbing the spears hard enough to kill—throwing them, too. The best of them become my hunters. But even before we learned to make and use spears, we were able to hunt. There is a certain cliff north of here, near the place I grew up. People there chase horses off that cliff at least once every year. We learned to hunt horses like that. It is not so difficult to stampede horses off a cliff, if you can entice them up.”
Attaroa looked at Epadoa with obvious pride. “Epadoa discovered how much horses like salt. She makes the women save the water they pass and uses it to lead the horses along. My hunters are my wolves,” Attaroa said, smiling in the direction of the women with spears who had gathered around.
They took evident pleasure in her praise, standing taller as she spoke. Jondalar hadn’t paid much attention to their clothing before, but now he realized that all of the hunters wore something that came from a wolf. Most of them had a fringe of wolf fur around their hoods and at least one wolf tooth, but often more, dangling around their necks. Some of them also had a fringe of wolf fur around the cuffs of their parkas, or the hem, or both, plus additional decorative panels. Epadoa’s hood was entirely wolf fur, with a portion of a wolf’s head, with fangs bared, decorating the top. Both the hem and cuffs of her parka were fringed, wolf paws hung down from her shoulders in front, and a bushy tail hung behind from a center panel of wolf skin.
“Their spears are their fangs, they kill in a pack, and bring the food back. Their feet are their paws, they run steady all day, and go a long way,” Attaroa said in a rhythmic meter that he felt sure had been repeated many times. “Epadoa is their leader, Zelandonii. I wouldn’t try to outsmart her. She is very clever.”
“I’m sure she is,” Jondalar said, feeling outnumbered. But he also couldn’t help feeling a touch of admiration for what they had accomplished, starting with so little knowledge. “It just seems such a waste to have men sitting idle when they could be contributing, too, helping to hunt, helping to gather food, making tools. Then the women alone wouldn’t have to be working so hard. I’m not saying women cannot do it, but why should they have to do it all, for both men and women?”
Attaroa laughed, the harsh, demented laugh that gave him a chill. “I have wondered the same thing. Women are the ones who produce new life; why do we need men at all? Some of the women don’t want to give men up yet, but what good are they? For Pleasures? It’s men who get the Pleasure. Here we don’t worry about giving men Pleasures anymore. Instead of sharing a hearth with a man, I have put women together. They share the work, they help each other with their children, they understand each other. When there are no men around, the Mother will have to mix the spirits of women, and only female children will be born.”
Would it work? Jondalar wondered. S’Amodun had said that very few babies had been born in the last few years. Suddenly he remembered Ayla’s idea that it was the Pleasures that men and women shared that started new life growing inside a woman. Attaroa had kept the women and men separated. Could that be why there were so few babies?
“How many children have been born?” he asked, out of curiosity.
“Not many, but some, and where there are some, there can be more.”
“Have they all been girls?” he asked then.
“The men are still too close. It confuses the Mother. Soon enough all the men will be gone; then we will see how many boy babies are born,” Attaroa said.
“Or how many babies are born at all,” Jondalar said. “The Great Earth Mother made both women and men, and like Her, women are blessed to give birth to both male and female, but it is the Mother Who decides which man’s spirit is mingled with the woman’s. It is always a man’s spirit. Do you really think you can alter what She has ordained?”
“Don’t try to tell me what the Mother will do! You are not a woman, Zelandonii,” she said contemptuously. “You just don’t like to be told how worthless you are, or perhaps you don’t want to give up your Pleasures. That’s it, isn’t it?”
Suddenly Attaroa changed her tone, affecting a purr of attraction. “Do you want Pleasures, Zelandonii? If you will not fight me, what will you do to gain your freedom? Ah, I know! Pleasures. For such a strong, handsome man, Attaroa might be willing to give you Pleasures. But can you give Attaroa Pleasures?”
S’Armuna’s change to speaking about the woman, rather than as her, made him suddenly aware that all the words he had heard had been translated. It was one thing to speak as the voice of Attaroa the headwoman, it was quite another to speak as the voice of Attaroa the woman. S’Armuna could translate the words; she just couldn’t take on the intimate persona of the woman. As S’Armuna continued to translate, Jondalar heard both of them.
“So tall, so fair, so perfect, he could be the mate of the Mother Herself. Look, he is even taller than Attaroa, and not many men are. You have given many women Pleasure, haven’t you? One smile from the big, tall, handsome man with his blue, blue eyes and women clamor to climb into his furs. Do you Pleasure them all, Zelandonii man?”
Jondalar refused to answer. Yes, there was once a time when he enjoyed Pleasuring many women, but now he only wanted Ayla. A wrenching pain of grief threatened to overcome him. What would he do without her? Did it matter if he lived or died?
“Come, Zelandonii, if you give Attaroa great pleasure, you can have your freedom. Attaroa knows you can do it.” The tall, attractive headwoman walked seductively toward him. “See? Attaroa will give herself to you. Show everyone how a strong man gives a woman Pleasures. Share the Gift of Muna, the Great Earth Mother, with Attaroa, Jondalar of the Zelandonii.”
Attaroa put her arms around his neck and pressed herself against him. Jondalar did not respond. She tried to kiss him, but he was too tall for her, and he would not bend down. She was not used to a man who was taller; it wasn’t often that she had to reach up to a man, especially one she could not bend. It made her feel foolish and flamed her anger.
“Zelandonii! I am willing to couple with you, and give you a chance for your freedom!”
“I won’t share the Mother’s Gift of Pleasures under these circumstances,” Jondalar said. His quiet, controlled voice belied his great anger, but did not hide it. How did she dare to insult the Mother like that? “The Gift is sacred, meant to be shared with willingness and joy. Coupling like this would be contemptuous of the Mother. It would defile Her Gift and anger Her just as much as taking a woman against her will. I choose the woman I want to couple with, and I have no desire to share Her Gift with you, Attaroa.”
Jondalar might have responded to Attaroa’s invitation, but he knew it was not genuine. He was an exciting, handsome man to most women. He had gained skill at pleasing them, and experience in the ways of mutual attraction and invitation. For all her sinuous walking, there was no warmth to Attaroa, and she gave him no spark of desire. He sensed that even if he had tried, he could not have pleased her.
But Attaroa looked stunned when she heard the translation. Most men had been more than willing to share the Gift of Pleasures with the handsome woman to gain their freedom. Visitors unfortunate enough to pass through her territory and get caught by her hunters had usually jumped at the chance to get away from the Wolf Women of the S’Armunai so easily. Though some had hesitated, doubtful and wondering what she was up to, none had ever refused her outright. They soon found out they were right to doubt.
“You refuse …” the headwoman sputtered, unbelieving. The translation was spoken without feeling, but her reaction was clear enough. “You refuse Attaroa. How dare you refuse!” she screamed, then turned to her Wolf Women. “Strip him and tie him to the practice target.”
That had been her intention all along, just not so soon. She had wanted Jondalar to keep her occupied through the whole long, dreary winter. She enjoyed tantalizing men with promises of freedom in exchange for Pleasures. To her, it was the height of irony. From that point, she led them into further acts of humiliation or degradation, and she usually managed to get them to do whatever she wanted before she
was ready to play her final game. They would even strip themselves when she told them she would let them go if they did, hoping it would please her enough.
But no man could give Attaroa Pleasure. She had been used badly when she was a girl, and she had looked forward to mating the powerful leader of another group. Then she discovered that the man she had joined with was worse than the situation she had left behind. His Pleasures were always done with painful beatings and humiliation, until she finally rebelled and caused his painful, humiliating death. But she had learned her lesson too well. Warped by the cruelty she received, she could not feel Pleasure without causing pain. Attaroa cared little for sharing the Mother’s Gift with men, or even women. She gave herself Pleasures watching men die slow and painful deaths.
When there was a long time between visitors, Attaroa had even played with S’Armunai men, but after the first two or three fell to her “Pleasures,” they knew her game and would not play it. They just pleaded for their lives. She usually, but not always, gave in to those who had a woman to plead their case. Some of the women were not as cooperative—they didn’t understand it was for them that she needed to eliminate men—but they could usually be controlled through the males to whom they were tied, so she kept them alive.
Travelers ordinarily came during the warmer season. People seldom traveled very far in the cold of winter, especially those on a Journey, and there had been fewer travelers lately, none the previous summer. A few men, by a lucky fluke, managed to escape, and some women ran away. They warned others. Most people who heard the stories passed them on as rumors, or fantastic tales of storytellers, but the rumors of the vicious Wolf Women had been growing, and people were staying away.