The Earth's Children Series 6-Book Bundle

by Jean M. Auel

  33

  Jondalar closed his eyes, unable to watch the violent final moment of Ayla’s life. His own life would have no meaning to him when she was gone … So why was he standing there afraid of threatening spears when he didn’t care if he lived or died? His hands were tied, but his legs weren’t. He could run over there and maybe knock Attaroa away.

  He heard a commotion near the gate of the Holding at the instant he decided to ignore the sharp spears and try to help Ayla. The noise from the Holding distracted his guards as he unexpectedly lurched forward, pushed aside their spears, and ran toward the two women struggling on the ground.

  Suddenly a dark blur dashed past the watching people, brushed against his leg, and leaped at Attaroa. The momentum of the attack knocked the headwoman backward as sharp fangs clamped around her throat, tearing through the skin. The headwoman found herself on her back on the ground, trying to fight off a fury of snarling teeth and fur. She managed to make a stab into the heavy, furry body before she dropped the dagger, but it only evoked a deadly snarl and a tighter grip of the viselike jaws pressing together in a stranglehold that cut off her air.

  Attaroa tried to scream as she felt darkness overcoming her, but at that moment a sharp canine tooth severed an artery, and the sound that emerged was a horrible, suffocating gurgle. Then, the tall, handsome woman fell limp and fought no more. Still snarling, Wolf shook her, making sure there was no more resistance.

  “Wolf!” Ayla cried, overcoming her shock and sitting up. “Oh, Wolf.”

  As the wolf let go, blood spurted from the severed artery and sprayed him. He crept toward Ayla with his tail tucked between his legs, whining apologetically, asking for her approval. The woman had told him to stay in hiding, and he knew he had acted against her wishes. When he saw the attack and understood that she was in danger, he had sprung to her defense, but now he wasn’t sure how his misbehavior would be received. More than anything, he hated being scolded by this woman.

  Ayla opened her arms and reached for him. Quick to realize that he had acted correctly and was forgiven for his transgression, he rushed to her with joy. She hugged him, burying her face in his fur, while tears of relief ran from her eyes.

  “Wolf, you saved my life,” she sobbed. He licked her, staining her face with Attaroa’s warm, wet blood that was still on his muzzle.

  The people of the Camp backed away from the scene, staring open-mouthed with incomprehension and wonder at the blond woman who was holding in her arms a large wolf that had just killed another woman in a furious assault. She had addressed the animal with the Mamutoi word for wolf, but it was similar to their own name for the meat-eating hunter, and they knew she was talking to him, just as though he could understand her, the same way she talked to the horses.

  No wonder this stranger had shown no fear of Attaroa. Her magic was so powerful that she could not only make horses do her bidding, she could command wolves! The man had not shown concern either, they realized, when they saw him drop to his knees beside the woman and the wolf. He had even ignored the spears of the Wolf Women, who had also stepped back a few paces and stood gaping. Suddenly they saw a man behind Jondalar, and he had a knife! Where did the knife come from?

  “Let me cut these cords for you, Jondalar,” Ebulan said, slashing the bindings.

  Jondalar glanced around as he felt his hands come free. Other men were mixed through the crowd, and more were coming from the direction of the Holding. “Who let you out?”

  “You did,” Ebulan said.

  “What do you mean? I was tied up.”

  “But you gave us the knives … and the courage to try,” Ebulan said. “Ardemun sneaked up behind the guard at the gate and hit her with his staff. Then we cut the cords that kept the gate closed up. Everyone was watching the fight, and then the wolf came …” His voice trailed off and he shook his head as he watched the woman and the wolf.

  Jondalar didn’t notice that the man was too overcome to continue. Something else was more important. “Are you all right, Ayla? Did she hurt you?” he said, taking both the woman and the wolf in his arms. The animal turned from licking Ayla to licking him.

  “A little scratch on the neck. It’s nothing,” she said, clinging to the man and the excited wolf, “and I think Wolf was cut, but it doesn’t seem to bother him.”

  “I would never have let you come back here if I’d thought she would try to kill you, Ayla, right here at the feast. But I should have known. I was stupid not to realize how dangerous she was,” he said, holding her close.

  “No, you’re not stupid. It didn’t even occur to me that she would try to attack me, and I didn’t know how to defend myself. If it hadn’t been for Wolf …” They both looked at the animal, full of gratitude.

  “I have to admit, there have been times on this Journey when I wanted to leave Wolf behind, Ayla. I thought he was an extra burden, making our travels more difficult. When I found that you had gone to look for him after crossing the Sister, I was so angry. The thought that you had put yourself in jeopardy for this animal upset me.”

  Jondalar took the wolf’s head in both his hands and looked him straight in the eyes. “Wolf, I promise, I will never leave you behind. I would risk my life to save yours, you glorious, furious beast,” the man said, roughing his fur and rubbing behind his ears.

  Wolf licked Jondalar’s neck and face, and with his jaws, he grasped the exposed and trusting throat and jaw of the man, and held it gently, showing his affection. Wolf felt nearly as strongly about Jondalar as he did about Ayla, and he growled contentedly at the attention and approval he was getting from both of his humans.

  But the people who were watching made sounds of wonder and awe to see the man expose his vulnerable throat to the animal. They had watched that same wolf grab the throat of Attaroa with those powerful jaws and kill her, and to them Jondalar’s action bespoke magic, unimaginable control over the spirits of animals.

  Ayla and Jondalar stood up with the wolf between them, while the people watched with some trepidation, not sure what to expect next. Several of them looked toward S’Armuna. She stepped toward the visitors, eyeing the wolf warily.

  “We are finally free of her,” she said.

  Ayla smiled; she could see the woman’s anxiety. “Wolf won’t hurt you,” she said. “He attacked only to protect me.”

  S’Armuna noticed that Ayla didn’t translate the name of the animal into Zelandonii, and she sensed that the word was used as a personal name for the animal. “It is appropriate that her end should come from a wolf. I knew you were here for a reason. We are no longer clutched in her grip, held by her madness,” the woman said. “But what do we do now?” The question was rhetorical, spoken more to herself than to any of the listeners.

  Ayla looked down at the still body of the woman who had only moments before been so malevolently, but vibrantly alive, and it made her conscious of how fragile a thing life was. Except for Wolf, it could have been her lying dead on the ground. She shuddered at the thought. “I think someone should take this headwoman away and prepare her for burial.” She spoke in Mamutoi so that more people would understand without the need for translation.

  “Does she deserve burial? Why not throw her body to the carrion eaters?” It was a male voice that had spoken.

  “Who speaks?” Ayla asked.

  Jondalar knew the man who stepped forward, somewhat hesitantly. “I am called Olamun.”

  Ayla nodded in recognition. “You have a right to feel angry, Olamun, but Attaroa was driven to violence by the violence done to her. The evil in her spirit is eager to carry it on, to leave you with a legacy of her violence. Give it up. Don’t let your rightful anger make you fall prey to the trap her restless spirit has set. It is time to break the pattern. Attaroa was human. Bury her with the dignity she was not able to find in life, and let her spirit rest.”

  Jondalar was surprised by her response. It was the kind of answer a Zelandoni might make, wise and restrained.

  Olamun nodded with a
cquiescence. “But who will bury her? Who will prepare her? She has no kin,” he said.

  “That is the responsibility of the One Who Serves the Mother,” S’Armuna said.

  “Perhaps with the help of those who followed her in this life,” Ayla suggested. The body was obviously too heavy for the older woman to handle alone.

  Everyone turned to face Epadoa and the Wolf Women. They seemed to press together as though to draw strength from each other.

  “And then follow her to the next world,” another male voice said. There were shouts of agreement from the crowd, and a surge toward the women hunters. Epadoa stood her ground, brandishing her spear.

  Suddenly one young Wolf Woman stepped away from the others. “I never asked to be a Wolf Woman. I just wanted to learn to hunt so I wouldn’t have to be hungry.”

  Epadoa glared at her, but the young woman looked back defiantly.

  “Let Epadoa find out what it’s like to be hungry,” the male voice said again. “Let her go without food until she reaches the next world. Then her spirit will be hungry, too.”

  The people surging toward the hunters, and toward Ayla, brought a warning snarl from Wolf. Jondalar quickly knelt to quiet him, but his reaction did have the effect of making the people back away. They looked at the woman and the animal with some trepidation.

  Ayla didn’t ask who had spoken that time. “Attaroa’s spirit still walks among us,” Ayla said, “encouraging violence and revenge.”

  “But Epadoa must pay for the evil she has done.” Ayla saw the mother of Cavoa stepping forward. Her young, pregnant daughter stood just behind her, offering moral support.

  Jondalar got up and stood beside Ayla. He could not help thinking that the woman had a right to retribution for the death of her son. He looked to S’Armuna. The One Who Served the Mother ought to be answering, he thought, but she, too, was waiting for Ayla to reply.

  “The woman who killed your son has already gone to the next world,” Ayla said. “Epadoa should pay for the evil she has done.”

  “She has more than that to pay for. What about the harm she did to these boys?” It was Ebulan who spoke. He stood back to let Ayla see two youngsters leaning on a cadaverous old man.

  Ayla was startled when she saw the man; for an instant she thought she was looking at Creb! He was tall and thin, where the holy man of the Clan had been short and stocky, but his craggy face and dark eyes held the same kind of compassion and dignity, and he obviously commanded the same kind of esteem.

  Ayla’s first thought was to offer him the Clan gesture of respect by sitting at his feet and waiting for him to tap her shoulder, but she knew the action would be misunderstood. Instead, she decided to offer him the regard of formal courtesy. She turned to the tall man beside her.

  “Jondalar, I cannot properly address this man without an introduction,” she said.

  He was quick to understand her sensitivity. He, too, had felt awed by the man. He stepped forward and led Ayla to him. “S’Amodun, most respected of the S’Armunai, may I introduce Ayla, of the Lion Camp of the Mamutoi, Daughter of the Mammoth Hearth, Chosen by the spirit of the Cave Lion, and Protected by the Cave Bear.”

  Ayla was surprised that Jondalar had added the last part. No one had ever named the Cave Bear as her protector, but when she considered it, she thought it might be true, at least through Creb. The Cave Bear had chosen him—it was the totem of Mog-ur—and Creb had been in her dreams so much that she was sure he was guiding and protecting her, perhaps with the help of the Great Cave Bear of the Clan.

  “S’Amodun of the S’Armunai welcomes the Daughter of the Mammoth Hearth,” the old man said, holding out both of his hands. He was not alone in singling out the Mammoth Hearth as the most impressive of her relationships. Most of the people there understood the importance of the Mammoth Hearth to the Mamutoi; it named her the equivalent of S’Armuna, One Who Served the Mother.

  The Mammoth Hearth, of course, thought S’Armuna. It cleared up many questions she’d had. But where was her tattoo? Weren’t those accepted to the Mammoth Hearth marked with a tattoo?

  “I am happy you welcome, Most Respected S’Amodun,” Ayla said, speaking in S’Armunai.

  The man smiled. “You have learned much of our language, but you just said something twice. My name is Amodun. S’Amodun means ‘Most Respected, Amodun,’ or ‘Greatly Honored,’ or whatever you think of to mean singled out for special notice,” he said. “It is a title imposed by the will of the Camp. I am not sure why I have earned it.”

  She knew why. “I thank you, S’Amodun,” Ayla said, looking down and nodding with gratitude. Up close, he reminded her even more of Creb, with his deep, dark, luminous eyes, prominent nose, heavy brows, and generally strong features. She had to consciously overcome her Clan training—women were not supposed to stare directly at men—to look up and talk to him. “I would ask you a question,” she said, speaking in Mamutoi, in which she was more fluent.

  “I will answer if I can,” he replied.

  She looked at the two boys who stood on either side of him. “The people of this Camp want Epadoa to pay for the evil she has done. These boys, in particular, have suffered great harm at her hands. Tomorrow I will see if I can do anything to help them, but what retribution should Epadoa pay for carrying out the wishes of her leader?”

  Involuntarily most people glanced at the body of Attaroa, still sprawled where Wolf had left her; then their eyes were drawn to Epadoa. The woman stood straight and unflinching, ready to accept her punishment. In her heart, she had known that someday she would have to pay.

  Jondalar looked at Ayla, a little awed. She had done exactly the right thing, he thought. No matter what she might have said, even with the fearful respect she had gained, the words of a stranger would never be accepted by these people as willingly as the words of S’Amodun.

  “I think Epadoa should pay for her evil,” the man said. Many people nodded with satisfaction, particularly Cavoa and her mother. “But in this world, not the next. You were right when you said it was time to break the pattern. There has been too much violence and evil in this Camp for too long. The men have suffered greatly in recent years, but they did harm to the women first. It is time to end it.”

  “Then what retribution will Epadoa pay?” the grieving mother asked. “What will be her punishment?”

  “Not punishment, Esadoa. Restitution. She should give back as much as she has taken, and more. She can start with Doban. No matter what the Daughter of the Mammoth Hearth may be able to do for him, it is unlikely that Doban will ever recover fully. He will suffer ill effects for the rest of his life. Odevan will suffer, too, but he has a mother, and kin. Doban has no mother, no kin to care for him, no one to take responsibility for him, or see to it that he is trained in some craft or skill. I would make Epadoa responsible for him, as if she were his mother. She may never love him and he may hate her, but she should be held accountable.”

  There were nods of approval. Not everyone agreed, but someone had to take care of Doban. Although everyone had felt his pain, he had not been well liked when he lived with Attaroa, and no one wanted to take him in. Most people felt that if they objected to S’Amodun’s idea, they might be asked to open their lodges to him.

  Ayla smiled. She thought it was a perfect solution, and though there might be hatred and lack of trust in the beginning, warmth could grow into the relationship. She had known S’Amodun was wise. The idea of restitution seemed much more helpful than punishment, and it gave her an idea.

  “I would offer another suggestion,” she said. “This Camp is not well stocked for winter, and by spring everyone may suffer hunger. The men are weak, and they have not hunted for some years. Many may have lost their skills. Epadoa and the women she has trained are the best hunters of this Camp. I think it would be wise for them to continue to hunt, but they must share the meat with everyone.”

  People were nodding. The thought of facing hunger was not appealing.

  “As soon as any o
f the men are able, and want to start hunting, it should be Epadoa’s responsibility to help them, hunt with them. The only way to avoid facing hunger next spring is if the women and the men work together. Every Camp needs the contribution of both to thrive. The rest of the women, and the older or weaker men, should gather whatever foods they can find.”

  “It’s winter! There is nothing to gather now,” one of the young Wolf Women said.

  “There is not much to be found in winter, that’s true, and what there is will require work to harvest, but food can be found, and whatever there is will help,” Ayla said.

  “She’s right,” Jondalar said. “I have seen and eaten food that Ayla has found, even in winter. You even ate some of it tonight. She gathered the pine nuts from the stone pines near the river.”

  “Those lichens that reindeer like can be eaten,” one of the older women said, “if you cook them right.”

  “And some of the wheats, and millets, and other grasses still bear seed heads,” Esadoa said. “They can be collected.”

  “Yes, but be careful of ryegrass. It can foster a growth that is harmful, often fatal. If it looks and smells bad, it’s probably full of ergot, and it should be avoided,” Ayla advised. “But certain edible berries and fruits stay on the bush well into winter—I even found a tree with a few apples still clinging to it—and the inner bark of most trees can be eaten.”

  “We’d need knives to cut down to it,” Esadoa said. “The ones we have aren’t very good.”

  “I will make you some,” Jondalar volunteered.

  “Will you teach me to make knives, Zelandon?” Doban suddenly asked.

  The question pleased him. “Yes, I will show you how to make knives, and other tools, too.”

  “I’d like to learn more about that, too,” Ebulan said. “We will need weapons to hunt.”

  “I’ll show anyone who wants to learn, or at least get you started. It takes many years to gain real skill. Perhaps next summer, if you go to a S’Armunai Meeting, you will find someone to continue your training,” Jondalar said.