Plains of Passage (79 page)

“And get pierced by Epadoa and her spear-stickers?” another man said.

“Olamun is right. Besides, I’m not sure how many could make the
effort, any more,” Ebulan added. “Attaroa likes to keep us weak … or worse.”

“Worse?” Jondalar said, frowning.

“Show him, S’Amodun,” Ebulan said to a tall, cadaverously thin man with gray matted hair and a long beard that was almost white. He had a strong, craggy face with a long, high-bridged beak of a nose and heavy brows that were accented by his gaunt face, but it was his eyes that captured the attention. They were compelling, as dark as Attaroa’s, but rather than malice they held depths of ancient wisdom, mystery, and compassion. Jondalar wasn’t sure what it was about him, some quality of carriage or demeanor, but he sensed that this was a man who commanded great respect, even in these wretched conditions.

The old man nodded and led the way to the lean-to. As they neared, Jondalar could see that a few people were still inside. As he ducked under the sloping roof, an overpowering stench assaulted him. A man was lying on a plank that might have been torn from the roof, and he was covered with only a ripped piece of hide. The old man pulled back the cover and exposed a putrefying wound in his side.

Jondalar was aghast. “Why is this man here?”

“Epadoa’s spear-stickers did that,” Ebulan said.

“Does S’Armuna know about this? She could do something for him.”

“S’Armuna! Hah! What makes you think she would do anything?” said Olamun, who was among those who had followed them. “Who do you think helped Attaroa in the first place?”

“But she cleaned the wound on my head,” Jondalar said.

“Then Attaroa must have plans for you,” Ebulan said.

“Plans for me? What do you mean?”

“She likes to put the men who are young and strong enough to work, as long as she can control them,” Olamun said.

“What if someone doesn’t want to do her work?” Jondalar asked. “How can she control them?”

“By withholding food or water. If that doesn’t work, by threatening kin,” Ebulan said. “If you know that the man of your hearth or your brother will be put in the cage without food or water, you’ll usually do what she wants.”

“The cage?”

“The place you were kept,” Ebulan said. Then he smiled wryly. “Where you got that magnificent cloak.” Other men were smiling, too.

Jondalar looked at the ragged hide he had torn from the structure inside the earthlodge and wrapped around him.

“That was a good one!” Olamun said. “Ardemun told us how you almost broke down the cage, too. I don’t think she expected that.”

“Next time, she make stronger cage,” said another man. It was obvious
that he was not entirely familiar with the language. Ebulan and Olamun were so fluent that Jondalar had forgotten that Mamutoi was not the native language of these people. But apparently others knew some, and most seemed to understand what was being said.

The man on the ground moaned, and the old man knelt to comfort him. Jondalar noticed a couple of other figures stirring, farther back under the lean-to.

“It won’t matter. If she doesn’t have a cage, she’ll threaten to hurt your kin to make you do what she wants. If you were mated before she became headwoman, and were unlucky enough to have a son born to your hearth, she can make you do anything,” Ebulan said.

Jondalar didn’t like the implication, and he frowned deeply. “Why should it be unlucky to have a son born to your hearth?”

Ebulan glanced toward the old man. “S’Amodun?”

“I will ask if they want to meet the Zelandonii,” he said.

It was the first time S’Amodun had spoken, and Jondalar wondered how a voice so deep and rich could emanate from so spare a man. He went to the back of the lean-to, bending down to talk to the figures huddled in the space where the slanting roof reached the ground. They could hear the deep mellow tones of his voice, but not his words, and then the sound of younger voices. With the old man’s help, one of the younger figures got up and hobbled toward them.

“This is Ardoban,” the old man announced.

“I am Jondalar of the Ninth Cave of the Zelandonii, and in the name of Doni, the Great Earth Mother, I greet you, Ardoban,” he said with great formality, holding out both his hands to the youngster, somehow feeling that the boy needed to be treated with dignity.

The boy tried to stand straighter and take his hands, but Jondalar saw him wince with pain. He started to reach for him to support him, but caught himself.

“I really prefer to be called Jondalar,” he said, with a smile, trying to gloss over the awkward moment.

“I called Doban. Not like Ardoban. Attaroa always say Ardoban. She wants me say S’Attaroa. I not say anymore.”

Jondalar looked puzzled.

“It’s hard to translate. It’s a form of respect,” Ebulan said. “It means someone held in the highest regard.”

“And Doban does not respect Attaroa anymore.”

“Doban hate Attaroa!” the youngster said, his voice rising to the edge of tears as he tried to turn away and hobble back. S’Amodun waved them out as he helped the youngster.

“What happened to him?” Jondalar asked after they were outside and somewhat away from the lean-to.

“His leg was pulled until it became dislocated at the hip,” Ebulan said. “Attaroa did it, or rather, she told Epadoa to do it.”

“What!” Jondalar said, his eyes open wide in disbelief. “Are you saying she purposely dislocated the leg of that child? What kind of abomination is this woman?”

“She did the same thing to the other boy, and Odevan’s younger.”

“What possible justification can she even give to herself for doing such a thing?”

“With the younger one, it was to make an example. The boy’s mother didn’t like the way Attaroa was treating us, and she wanted her mate back at her hearth. Avanoa even managed to get in here sometimes and spend the night with him, and she used to sneak extra food to us. She’s not the only woman who does that sometimes, but she was stirring up the other women, and Armodan, her man, was … resisting Attaroa, refusing to work. She took it out on the boy. She said at seven years he was old enough to leave his mother and live with the men, but she dislocated his leg first.”

“The other boy is seven years?” Jondalar said, shaking his head and shuddering with horror. “I have never heard of anything so terrible.”

“Odevan is in pain, and he misses his mother, but Ardoban’s story is worse.” It was S’Amodun who spoke. He had left the lean-to and just joined the group.

“It’s hard to imagine anything worse,” Jondalar said.

“I think he suffers more from the pain of betrayal than from the physical pain,” S’Amodun said. “Ardoban thought of Attaroa as his mother. His own mother died when he was young and Attaroa took him in, but she treated him more like a favored plaything than a child. She liked to dress him in girl’s clothes and adorn him with silly things, but she fed him well, and she often gave him special tidbits. She even cuddled him, sometimes, and took him to her bed to sleep with her when she was in the mood. But when she got tired of him, she’d push him out and make him sleep on the ground. A few years ago, Attaroa began to think people were trying to poison her.”

“They say that’s what she did to her mate,” Olamun interjected.

“She made Ardoban taste everything before she ate it,” the old man continued, “and when he got older, she tied him up, sometimes, convinced he was going to run away. But she was the only mother he knew. He loved her and tried to please her. He treated the other boys the same way she treated the men, and he began telling the men what to do. Of course, she encouraged him.”

“He was insufferable,” Ebulan added. “You’d think the whole Camp belonged to him, and he made the other boys’ lives miserable.”

“But what happened?” Jondalar asked.

“He reached the age of manhood,” S’Amodun said. Then, seeing Jondalar’s puzzled look, he explained. “The Mother came to him in his sleep in the form of a young woman and brought his manhood to life.”

“Of course. That happens to all young men,” Jondalar said.

“Attaroa found out,” S’Amodun explained, “and it was as though he had purposely turned into a man just to displease her. She was livid! She screamed at him, called him terrible names, then banished him to the Men’s Camp, but not before she had his leg dislocated.”

“With Odevan, it was easier,” Ebulan said. “He was younger. I’m not even sure if they originally intended to tear his joint loose. I think they just wanted to make his mother and her mate suffer by listening to his screams, but once it happened, I think Attaroa thought it would be a good way to disable a man, make him easier to control.”

“She had Ardemun as an example,” Olamun said.

“Did she dislocate his leg, too?” Jondalar asked.

“In a way,” S’Amodun said. “It was an accident, but it happened when he was trying to get away. Attaroa would not allow S’Armuna to help him, although I believe she wanted to.”

“But it was harder to disable a boy of twelve years. He fought and screamed, but it did no good,” Ebulan said. “And I will tell you, after listening to his agony, no one here could be angry with him any more. He more than paid for his childish behavior.”

“Is it true that she has told the women that all children, including the one that is expected, if they are boys, will have their legs dislocated?” Olamun asked.

“That’s what Ardemun said,” Ebulan confirmed.

“Does she think she can tell the Mother what to do? Force Her to make only girl babies?” Jondalar asked. “She is tempting her fate, I think.”

“Perhaps,” Ebulan said, “but it will take the Mother Herself to stop her, I’m afraid.”

“I think the Zelandonii may be right,” S’Amodun said. “I think the Mother has already tried to warn her. Look how few babies have been born in the last several years. This latest outrage of hers, injuring children, may be more than She will stand for. Children are supposed to be protected, not harmed.”

“I know Ayla would never stand for it. She wouldn’t stand for any of this,” Jondalar said. Then, remembering, he frowned and lowered his head. “But I don’t even know if she’s alive.”

The men glanced at each other, hesitant to speak, though they all thought the same question. Finally Ebulan found his voice. “Is that the woman you claimed could ride on the backs of horses? She must be a woman of great powers if she can control horses like that.”

“She wouldn’t say so.” Jondalar smiled. “But I think she has more ‘power’ than she will acknowledge. She doesn’t ride all horses. She only rides the mare that she raised, although she has ridden my horse, too. But he’s a little harder to control. That was the problem…”

“You can ride horses, too?” Olamun said in tones of disbelief.

“I can ride one … well, I can ride hers, too, but…”

“Are you saying that the story you told Attaroa is true?” Ebulan said.

“Of course it’s true. Why would I make up something like that?” He looked at the skeptical faces. “Maybe I’d better start at the beginning. Ayla raised a little filly…”

“Where did she get a filly?” Olamun asked.

“She was hunting and killed its dam, and then she saw the foal.”

“But why would she raise it?” Ebulan asked.

“Because it was alone, and she was alone … and that’s a long story,” Jondalar sidestepped, “but she wanted company and decided to take in the filly. When Whinney grew up—Ayla named the horse Whinney—she gave birth to a colt, just about the time we met. She showed me how to ride and gave me the colt to train. I named him Racer. That’s a Zelandonii word that means a fast runner, and he likes to run fast. We have traveled all the way from the Mamutoi Summer Meeting, around the southern end of those mountains to the east, riding those horses. It really doesn’t have anything to do with special powers. It’s a matter of raising them from the time they are born, just like a mother would take care of a baby.”

“Well … if you say so,” Ebulan said.

“I say so because it’s true,” Jondalar countered, then decided it was worthless to pursue the subject. They would have to see it to believe it, and it was unlikely that they ever would. Ayla was gone, and so were the horses.

Just then the gate opened and they all turned to see. Epadoa entered first along with a few of her women. Now that he knew more about her, Jondalar studied the woman who had actually caused such great pain to the two children. He wasn’t sure who was more of an abomination, the one who conceived of the idea or the one who carried it out. Though he had no doubt that Attaroa would have done it herself, it was evident that something was wrong with her. She was not whole. Some dark spirit must have touched her and stolen a vital part of her being—but what about Epadoa? She seemed sound and whole, but how could she be and still be so cruel and unfeeling? Was she also lacking some essential part?

To everyone’s surprise, Attaroa herself came in next.

“She never comes in here,” Olamun said. “What can she want?” Her unusual behavior frightened him.

Behind her came several women carrying steaming trays of cooked
meat along with tightly woven baskets of some delicious-smelling rich and meaty soup. Horsemeat! Have the hunters returned? Jondalar wondered. He hadn’t eaten horsemeat for a long time, the thought of it didn’t usually appeal to him, but at that moment it smelled delicious. A large, full waterbag with a few cups was also carried in.

The men watched the arriving procession avidly, but none of them moved anything except his eyes, afraid to do anything that might cause Attaroa to change her mind. They feared that it might be another cruel trick, to bring it in and show them and then take it away.

“Zelandonii!” Attaroa said, making the word sound like a command. Jondalar looked at her closely as he approached. She seemed almost masculine … no, he decided, not exactly that. Her features were strong and sharp, but cleanly defined and well shaped. She was actually beautiful, in her way, or could have been, if she had not been so hard. But there was cruelty in the set of her mouth, and the lack in her soul showed in her eyes.

S’Armuna appeared at her side. She must have come in with the other women, he thought, though he hadn’t noticed her before.