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 the 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 approach 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.
The conclusion he was forced to seemed preposterous, but the full realization struck him with the force to shatter his disbelief. It was so obvious that he wondered why it had taken him so long to see it. The men were kept here against their will by the women!
But why? It was such a waste to keep people inactive like this when they could all be contributing to the welfare and benefit of the entire community. He thought of the prosperous Lion Camp of the Mamutoi, with Talut and Tulie organizing the necessary activities of the Camp for the benefit of everyone. They all contributed, and they still had plenty of time to work on their own individual projects.
Attaroa! How much was her doing? She was obviously the head-woman or leader of this Camp. If she wasn't entirely responsible, at the least, she seemed determined to maintain the peculiar situation.
These men should be hunting and collecting food, Jondalar thought, and digging storage pits, making new shelters and repairing old ones; contributing, not huddling together trying to keep warm. No wonder these people were out hunting horses this late in the season. Did they even have enough food stored to last through the winter? And why did they hunt so far away when they had such a perfect hunting opportunity so close at hand?
"You're the one they call the Zelandonii man," one of the men said, speaking Mamutoi. Jondalar thought he recognized him as one whose hands had been tied when they marched up to the funeral.
"Yes. I am Jondalar of the Zelandonii."
"I am Ebulan of the S'Armunai," he said, then added sardonically, "In the name of Muna, the Mother of All, let me welcome you to the Holding, as Attaroa likes to call this place. We have other names: the Men's Camp, the Mother's Frozen Underworld, and Attaroa's Man Trap. Take your pick."
"I don't understand. Why are you… all of you, here?" Jondalar asked.
"It's a long story, but essentially we were all tricked, one way or another," Ebulan said. Then, with an ironic grimace, he continued, "We were even tricked into building this place. Or most of it."
"Why don't you just climb over the wall and get out?" Jondalar said.
"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.
"I now speak for Attaroa," S'Armuna said in Zelandonii.
"You have a lot to answer for, yourself," Jondalar said. "How could you allow it? Attaroa lacks reason, but you do not. I hold you responsible." His blue eyes were icy with outrage.
Attaroa spoke angrily to the shaman.
"She does not want you to speak to me. I am here to translate for her. Attaroa wants you to look at her when you speak," S'Armuna said.
Jondalar looked at the headwoman and waited while she spoke. Then S'Armuna began the translation.
"Attaroa is speaking now: How do you like your new… accommodations?"
"How does she expect me to like them?" Jondalar said to S'Armuna, who avoided his look and spoke to Attaroa.
A malicious smile played across the headwoman's face. "I'm sure you've heard many things about me already, but you should not believe everything you hear."
"I believe what I see," Jondalar said.
"Well, you saw me bring food in here."
"I don't see anyone eating it, and I know they are hungry."
Her smile broadened when she heard the translation. "They shall, and you must, too. You will need your strength." Attaroa laughed out loud.
"I'm sure I will," Jondalar said.
After S'Armuna translated, Attaroa left abruptly, signaling the woman to follow.
"I hold you responsible," Jondalar said to S'Armuna's retreating back.
As soon as the gate closed, one of the guard women said, "You'd better come and get it, before she changes her mind."
The men rushed for the platters of meat on the ground. As S'Amodun passed by, he stopped. "Be very careful, Zelandonii. She has something special in mind for you."
The next few days passed slowly for Jondalar. Some water, but little additional food was brought in, and no one was allowed out, not even to work, which was very unusual. It made the men uneasy, especially since Ardemun was also kept inside the Holding. His knowledge of several languages had made Ardemun first a translator and then a spokesman between Attaroa and the men. Because of his lame, dislocated leg, she felt he posed no threat and, further, would not be able to run away. He was given more freedom to move around the Camp, and he often brought back bits of information about the life outside the Men's Camp and occasionally extra food.
Most of the men passed the time playing games and gambling for future promises, using as playing pieces small sticks of wood, pebbles, and even some broken pieces of bone from meat they had been given. The legbone from the shank of horsemeat had been put aside, after it was stripped clean and cracked for the marrow, for just such a possible purpose.
Jondalar spent the first day of his confinement examining in close detail and testing the strength of the entire fence that surrounded them. He found several places that he thought he could have broken through or climbed over, but through the cracks Epadoa and her women could be seen diligently guarding them, and the terrible infection of the man with the wound deterred him from such a direct approach. He also looked over the lean-to, thinking of several things that could be done to repair it and make it more weatherproof… if only he'd had the tools and materials.
By mutual consent, one end of the enclosed space, behind a jumble of stones – the only other feature beside the lean-to in their barren confinement – had been set aside for passing water and eliminating their wastes. Jondalar became nauseatingly aware of the smell permeating the entire enclosure on the second day. It was worse near the lean-to, where the putrefying flesh of morbid infection added its malodorous aroma, but at night he had no choice. He huddled together with the others for warmth, sharing his makeshift cloak with those who had even less to cover them.
In the days that followed, his sensitivity to the odor dulled, and he hardly noticed his hunger, but he did seem to feel the cold more and was dizzy and light-headed occasionally. He wished for some willow-bark for his headache, too.
The circumstances began to change when the man with the wound finally died. Ardemun went to the gate and asked to speak to Attaroa or Epadoa, so the body could be removed and buried. Several men were let out for the purpose, and later they were told that all who could would attend the burial rites. Jondalar was almost ashamed by the excitement he felt at the thought of getting out of the Holding, since the reason for the temporary release was a death.
Outside, long shadows of a late afternoon sun spread across the ground, highlighting features of the distant valley and river below, and Jondalar felt an almost overwhelming sense of the beauty and grandeur of the open landscape. His appreciation was interrupted by a prick of pain on his arm. He looked down with annoyance at Epadoa and three of her women surrounding him with spears, and it took a large measure of self-control to prevent himself from pushing them out of his way.
"She wants you to put your hands behind your back so they can tie them," Ardemun said. "You can't go if your hands are not tied."
Jondalar scowled, but he complied. As he followed Ardemun, he thought about his predicament. He wasn't even sure where he was, or how long he had been here, but the thought of spending any more time cooped up in that Holding, with nothing but the fence to look at, was more than he could bear. One way or another, he was getting out, and soon. If he didn't, he could foresee a time when he might not be able to. A few days without food was no great problem, but if it continued for very long, it could become one. Besides, if there was any chance at all that Ayla was still alive, hurt perhaps, but still alive, he had to find her fast. He didn't know yet how he was going to accomplish it, he only knew he was not going to stay there very much longer.
They walked some distance, crossing a stream and getting wet feet along the way. The perfunctory funeral was over quickly, and Jondalar wondered why Attaroa bothered with a burial ceremony at all when she showed no concern for the man while he was alive. If she had, he might not have died. He had not known the man, he didn't even know his name, he had only seen him in his suffering – unnecessary suffering. Now he was gone, walking in the next world, but free from Attaroa. Perhaps that was better than spending years looking at the inside of a fence.
As short as the ceremony was, Jondalar's feet were cold from standing in wet footwear. On the way back, he paid more attention to the small waterway, trying to find a stepping-stone or a way across that would keep his feet dry. But when he looked down, he didn't care. Almost as though it were intended, he saw two stones next to each other at the edge of the stream. One was a small but adequate nodule of flint; the other was a roundish stone that looked at though it would just fit in his hand – the perfect shape for a hammerstone.
"Ardemun," he said to the man in back of him, then spoke in Zelandonii. "Do you see these two stones?" He indicated them with his foot. "Can you get them for me? It's very important."
"That is flint?"
"Yes, and I'm a flint knapper."
Suddenly Ardemun appeared to trip, and he fell down heavily. The crippled man had trouble getting up, and a woman with a spear approached. She spoke sharply to one of the men, who offered his hand to help him up. Epadoa marched back to see what was holding up the men. Ardemun got to his feet just before she arrived, and he stood contritely apologetic while she railed at him.
When they got back, Ardemun and Jondalar went to the end of the Holding, where the stones were, to pass their water. When they returned to the lean-to, Ardemun told the men that the hunters had returned with more meat from the horse kill, but something had happened while the second group was returning. He didn't know what it was, but it was causing some commotion among the women. They were all talking, but he hadn't been able to overhear anything specific.
That evening, food and water were brought to the men again, but not even the servers were allowed to stay and slice the meat. It had been precut into chunks and left for the men on a few logs, with no conversation. The men talked about it while they were eating.
"Something strange is going on," Ebulan said, switching to Mamutoi so Jondalar could understand. "I think the women were ordered not to speak to us."
"That doesn't make sense," Olamun said. "If we did know something, what could we do about it?"
"You're right, Olamun. It doesn't make sense, but I agree with Ebulan. I think the women were told not to speak," S'Amodun said.
"Maybe this is the time, then," Jondalar said. "If Epadoa's women are busy talking, maybe they won't notice."
"Notice what?" Olamun said.
"Ardemun managed to pick up a piece of flint…"
"So that's what it was all about," Ebulan said. "I couldn't see anything that would make him trip and fall."
"But what good is a piece of flint?" Olamun said. "You have to have tools to make it into anything. I used to watch the flint knapper, before he died."
"Yes, but he also picked up a hammerstone, and there is some bone around here. It's enough to make a few blades and shape them into knives and points, and a few other tools – if it's a good piece of flint."
"You're a flint knapper?" Olamun said.
"Yes, but I'm going to need some help. Some noise to cover up the sound of stones hitting stones," Jondalar said.
"But even if he can make some knives, what good will they be? The women have spears," Olamun said.
"For one thing, they're good for cutting the rope off someone whose hands are tied," Ebulan said. "I'm sure we can think of a competition or game that will cover up the noise. The light is almost gone, though."
"There should be enough. It won't take me long to make the tools and the points. Then tomorrow I can work inside the lean-to, where they can't see. I'll need that legbone and those logs, and maybe a piece of a plank from the lean-to. It would help if I had some sinew, but thin strips of leather should work. And, Ardemun, if you find any feathers while you are out of the Holding, I could use them."
Ardemun nodded, then said, "You're going to make something that will fly? Like a throwing spear?"
"Yes, something that will fly. It will take careful whittling and shaping, and that will take some time. But I think I can make a weapon that might surprise you," Jondalar said.