Plains of Passage (43 page)

When she saw hazelnuts, still on the tree in their green prickly casings, but nearly ripe, the way she liked them, she had to stop and pick some. As she cracked a few with her teeth, suddenly it struck her. The reason she felt that she knew the area, that it felt like home, was that it resembled the mountainous region at the tip of the peninsula, around the cave of Brun’s clan. She had grown up in a place very much like this.

The area was becoming more familiar to Jondalar, too, with good reason, and when he found a clearly marked trail that he recognized, descending toward a path that led to the outside edge of a cliff face, he knew they weren’t far. He could feel the excitement growing inside him. When Ayla found a big thorny briar mound, high in the middle with long prickly runners, and branches weighted down with ripe, juicy blackberries, he felt an edge of irritation that she wanted to delay their arrival just to pick some.

“Jondalar! Stop. Look. Blackberries!” Ayla said, sliding off Whinney and rushing to the briar patch.

“But we’re almost there.”

“We can bring them some.” Her mouth was full. “I haven’t had blackberries like this since I left the Clan. Taste them, Jondalar! Have you ever tasted anything so sweet and good?” Her hands and mouth were purple from picking small handfuls and popping them all in her mouth at one time.

Watching her, Jondalar suddenly laughed. “You should see yourself,” he said. “You look like a little girl, full of berry stains and all excited.” He shook his head and chuckled. She didn’t answer. Her mouth was too full.

He picked some, decided that they were very sweet and good, and picked some more. After a few more handfuls, he stopped. “I thought you said we were going to pick some to take to them. We don’t even have anything to put them in.”

Ayla stopped for a moment, then smiled. “Yes, we do,” she said, taking off her sweat-stained, woven conical hat, and looking for some leaves to line it. “Use your hat.”

They had each filled a hat nearly three-quarters full when they heard Wolf give a warning growl. They looked up and saw a tall youth, almost a man, who had come along the trail, gaping at them and the wolf who was so near, eyes open wide with fear. Jondalar looked again.

“Darvo? Darvo, is it you? It’s me, Jondalar. Jondalar of the Zelandonii,” he said, striding toward the lad.

Jondalar was speaking a language Ayla wasn’t familiar with, though she heard some words and tones that were reminiscent of Mamutoi. She watched the expression on the young man’s face change from fear, to puzzlement, to recognition.

“Jondalar? Jondalar! What are you doing here? I thought you went away and were never coming back,” Darvo said.

They rushed toward each other and threw their arms around each other; then the man backed off and looked at him, holding him by the shoulders. “Let me see you! I can’t believe how you’ve grown!” Ayla
stared at the young man, drawn to the sight of another person after not seeing one for so long.

Jondalar hugged him again. Ayla could see the genuine affection they shared, but after the first rush of greeting, Darvo seemed a little embarrassed. Jondalar understood the sudden reticence. Darvo was, after all, nearly a man now. Formal hugs of greeting were one thing, but exuberant displays of unrestrained affection, even for someone who had been like the man of your hearth for a time, were something else. Darvo looked at Ayla. Then he noticed the wolf she was holding back, and his eyes opened wide again. Then he saw the horses standing quietly nearby, with baskets and poles hanging on them, and his eyes opened even wider.

“I think I’d better introduce you to my … friends,” Jondalar said.

“Darvo of the Sharamudoi, this is Ayla of the Mamutoi,” Jondalar said.

Ayla recognized the cadence of the formal introduction, and enough of the words. She signaled Wolf to stay then walked toward the boy, with both hands outstretched, palms up.

“I am Darvalo of the Sharamudoi,” the young man said, taking her hands, and he said it in the Mamutoi language. “I welcome you, Ayla of the Mamutoi.”

“Tholie has taught you well! You are speaking Mamutoi as though you were born to it, Darvo. Or do I say Darvalo now?” Jondalar said.

“I am called Darvalo, now. Darvo is a child’s name,” the youngster said; then he suddenly flushed. “But you can call me Darvo, if you want. I mean, that’s the name you know.”

“I think Darvalo is a fine name,” Jondalar said. “I’m glad you kept up the lessons with Tholie.”

“Dolando thought it would be a good idea. He said I would need the language when we go to trade with the Mamutoi next spring.”

“Would you, perhaps, like to meet Wolf, Darvalo?” Ayla said.

The young man knitted his brows in consternation. In his whole life, he never expected to meet a wolf face to face, and he never wanted to. But Jondalar isn’t afraid of him, Darvalo thought, and the woman isn’t either … she’s kind of a strange woman … she talks a little strange, too. Not wrong, but not quite like Tholie, either.

“If you reach your hand over here, and let him smell it, it will give Wolf a chance to know you,” Ayla said.

Darvalo wasn’t sure if he wanted his hand to be so close to the wolf’s teeth, but he didn’t think there was any way he could back out now. He tentatively reached forward. Wolf sniffed his hand, then unexpectedly he licked it. His tongue was warm and wet, but it certainly didn’t hurt.
In fact, it was rather nice. The youngster looked at the animal and the woman. She had an arm carelessly, and comfortably, draped around the wolfs neck, and she was petting his head with the other hand. What did it feel like to pet a living wolf on the head, he wondered?

“Would you like to feel his fur?” Ayla asked.

Darvalo looked surprised; then he reached out to touch, but Wolf moved to sniff him and he pulled back.

“Here,” Ayla said, taking his hand and putting it firmly on the Wolfs head. “He likes to be scratched, like this,” she said, showing him.

Wolf suddenly noticed a flea, or the tentative scratchings reminded him of one. He sat back on his haunch and, with a spasm of rapid motion, scratched behind his ear with his hind leg. Darvalo smiled. He had never seen a wolf in such a funny position, scratching fast and furious.

“I told you he likes to be scratched. So do the horses,” Ayla said, signaling Whinney forward.

Darvalo glanced at Jondalar. He was just standing and smiling, like there was nothing strange at all about a woman who scratched wolves and horses.

“Darvalo of the Sharamudoi, this is
whinny,”
Ayla said Whinney’s name as a soft nicker, the way she had first named the horse, and when she said it, she sounded exactly like a horse. “That’s her real name, but sometimes we just call her Whinney. It’s easier for Jondalar to say.”

“Can you talk to horses?” Darvalo said, completely overwhelmed.

“Anyone can talk to a horse, but a horse doesn’t listen to everyone. You have to get to know each other first. That’s why Racer listens to Jondalar. He got to know Racer when he was just a baby.”

Darvalo spun around to look at Jondalar and took two steps back. “You are sitting on that horse!” he said.

“Yes, I’m sitting on this horse. That’s because he knows me, Darvo. I mean, Darvalo. He even lets me sit on his back when he runs, and we can go very fast.”

The young man looked like he was ready to run himself, and Jondalar swung a leg over and slid down. “About these animals, you could help us, Darvo, if you’re willing,” he said. The boy looked petrified and ready to bolt. “We’ve been traveling a long time, and I’m really looking forward to a visit with Dolando and Roshario, and everyone, but most people get a little nervous when they first see the animals. They aren’t used to them. Would you walk in with us, Darvalo? I think if everyone sees that you aren’t afraid to stand next to the animals, they might not be so worried, either.”

The youth relaxed a little. That didn’t seem so difficult. After all, he was already standing next to them, and wouldn’t everyone be surprised
to see him walking in with Jondalar and the animals? Especially Dolando and Roshario…

“I almost forgot,” Darvalo said. “I told Roshario I would get some blackberries for her, since she can’t pick them any more.”

“We have blackberries,” Ayla said, at the same time that Jondalar said, “Why can’t she pick them?”

Darvalo looked from Ayla to Jondalar. “She fell down the cliff to the boat dock and broke her arm. I don’t think it will ever be right. It wasn’t set.”

“Why not?” they both asked.

“There was no one to set it.”

“Where’s Shamud? Or your mother?” Jondalar asked.

“Shamud died, last winter.”

“I’m sorry to hear that,” the man interjected.

“And my mother is gone. A Mamutoi man came to visit Tholie not long after you left. He’s kin, a cousin. I guess he liked my mother, and he asked her to be his mate. She surprised everyone and left to go live with the Mamutoi. He asked me to come, too, but Dolando and Roshario asked me to stay with them. So I did. I am Sharamudoi, not Mamutoi,” Darvalo explained. Then he looked at Ayla and blushed. “Not that there’s anything wrong with being Mamutoi,” he added hastily.

“No, of course not,” Jondalar said, a frown of worry on his face. “I understand how you feel, Darvalo. I am still Jondalar of the Zelandonii. How long ago did Roshario fall?”

“Summer Moon, about now,” the boy said.

Ayla looked at Jondalar with a questioning glance.

“About this phase of last moon,” he explained. “Do you think it’s too late?”

“I won’t know until I see her,” Ayla said.

“Ayla is a healer, Darvalo. A very good healer. She might be able to help,” Jondalar said.

“I wondered if she was shamud. With those animals and all.” Darvalo paused for a moment, looking at the horses and the wolf, and nodded. “She must be a very good healer.” He stood up a little taller for his thirteen years. “I’ll walk in with you so no one will be afraid of the animals.”

“Will you carry these blackberries for me, too? So I can stay close to Wolf and Whinney. They are sometimes afraid of people, too.”

D
arvalo led the way downhill along the path through the open wooded landscape. At the bottom of the slope they came to another path and turned right, down a more gradual incline. The new trail was a runoff for excess water during the spring melt and in rainier seasons, and though the sometime creek bed was dry at the end of a hot summer, it was rocky, which made walking difficult.

Though horses were animals of the plains, Whinney and Racer were surefooted in the mountain terrain. They had learned at a young age to negotiate the steep narrow trail up to Ayla’s cave in the valley. But she still worried that the horses might injure themselves because of the unstable footing, and she was glad when they turned up another path that came from someplace downhill and continued on. The new trail was well used and wide enough in most places for two people to walk side by side, though not two horses.

After traversing the side of a steep grade and around to the right, they reached a sheer rock wall. When they came to a talus slope, Ayla felt a sense of familiarity. She had seen similar accumulations of sharp rocky debris at the base of steep walls in the mountains where she grew up. She even noticed the large white horn-shaped flowers of a stout plant with jagged leaves. The members of the Mammoth Hearth she had met called the unpleasant-smelling plant thorn-apple, because of its spiny green fruit, but it brought back memories from her childhood. It was datura. Creb and Iza had both used it, but for different purposes.

The place was familiar to Jondalar because he had collected gravel from the loose pile of scree to line paths and fireplaces. He felt a wave of anticipation, knowing they were close. Once across the rocky sliding slope, the trail had been evened out with a covering of the rock chips as it wound around the foot of the soaring wall. Ahead they could see sky between the trees and brush, and Jondalar knew they were approaching the edge of the cliff.

“Ayla, I think we should take the poles and the pack baskets off the horses here,” the man said. “The path around the edge of this wall is not all that wide. We can come back and get them later.”

After everything was unloaded, Ayla, following the young man,
walked a short distance along the wall toward the open sky. Jondalar, trailing behind to watch, smiled when she reached the edge of the cliff and looked down—then stepped back quickly. She grabbed for the wall, feeling a touch of vertigo, then edged forward and looked out again. Her jaw dropped in amazement.

Far below, down the sheer cliff, was the same Great Mother River they had been following, but Ayla had never viewed her from this perspective. She had seen all the branches of the river contained in a single channel, but it had always been from the level of a bank that was not much higher than the water itself. The urge to look down and watch from this height was compelling.

The often spread-out and meandering river was gathered together between walls of rock that soared straight out of the water from roots that extended deep into the earth. As the deep undercurrent raced elements of itself that moved against rock, the constrained force of the Great Mother River rolled by with silent power, undulating with an oily fluency of heaving swells folding and spilling over themselves. Though many more tributaries would be added before the magnificent river would attain her full capacity, even this far from the delta, she had already reached such an enormous size that the decrease was hardly noticeable, especially looking down upon her full measure of moving water.

An occasional pinnacle of soaring stone broke the surface in midstream, parting the waters with curls of foam, and while she watched, a log, finding its way blocked, bumped its way around one of them. Hardly noticed was a construction of wood directly below, close to the cliff. When she finally looked up, Ayla scanned the mountains on the other side. Though still rounded, they were taller and steeper than they had been downstream, nearly matching the height of the sharper peaks on her side. Separated only by the width of the river, the two ranges had once been joined until the sharp edge of time and tide cut a path through.