Plains of Passage (126 page)

During the long spring, all the species partook of the herbaceous green bounty indiscriminately, but with the end of the growing season they faced fierce competition from each other for the maturing and less nutritious or less digestible grasses and herbs. The competition did not express itself in squabbling over who would eat first or most, or in guarding boundaries. Herding animals of the plains were not territorial. They migrated over great distances and were highly social, seeking the company of their own kind as they traveled, and sharing their ranges with others that were adapted to open grasslands.

But whenever more than one species of animal had nearly identical eating and living habits, invariably only one would prevail. The others would evolve new ways to exploit another niche, utilize some other element of the available food, migrate to a new area, or die off. None of the many different grazing and browsing animals were in direct competition with each other for exactly the same food.

Fighting was always between males of the same kind, and was saved for rutting season, when often the mere display of a particularly imposing rack of antlers or pair of horns or tusks was enough to establish dominance and the right to breed—genetically compelling reasons for the magnificent embellishments that the rich spring growth encouraged.

But once the surfeit of spring was over, life for the itinerant dwellers of the steppes settled into established patterns, and it was never as easy. In summer they had to maintain the spectacular growth spring had wrought and fill out and put on fat for the harsh season ahead. Autumn
brought the demanding rutting season for some; for others the growth of heavy fur and other protective measures. But hardest of all was winter; in winter they had to survive.

Winter determined the carrying capacity of the land; winter decided who would live and who would die. Winter was hard on males, with a larger body size and heavy social adornments to maintain or regrow. Winter was hard on females, who were smaller in size because they had not only to sustain themselves with essentially the same amount of available food, but also the next generation either developing inside them, or nursing, or both. But winter was particularly hard on the young, who lacked the size of adults to store reserves, and spent what they had accumulated on growth. If they could survive their first year, their chances were much better.

On the dry, cold, ancient grasslands near the glaciers, the great diversity of animals shared the complex and productive land and were maintained because eating and living habits of one species fit in between or around those of another. Even the carnivores had preferred prey. But an inventive, creative new species, one that didn’t so much adapt to the environment as alter the environment to suit itself, was beginning to make its presence felt.

   Ayla was strangely quiet when they stopped for a rest near another gurgling mountain stream, to finish the venison and fresh greens they had cooked that morning.

“It’s not very far now. Thonolan and I stopped near here when we left,” Jondalar said.

“It’s breathtaking,” she answered, but only part of her mind appreciated the breathtaking view.

“Why so quiet, Ayla?”

“I’ve been thinking about your kin. It makes me realize, I don’t have any kin.”

“You have kin! What about the Mamutoi? Aren’t you Ayla of the Mamutoi?”

“It’s not the same. I miss them, and I’ll always love them, but it wasn’t so hard to leave. It was harder the other time, when I had to leave Durc behind.” A look of pain filled her eyes.

“Ayla, I know it must have been difficult to leave a son.” He took her in his arms. “It wouldn’t bring him back, but the Mother may give you other children … someday … perhaps even children of my spirit.”

She didn’t seem to hear him. “They said Durc was deformed, but he wasn’t. He was Clan, but he was mine, too. He was part of both. They didn’t think I was deformed, just ugly, and I was taller than any man of the Clan … big and ugly…”

“Ayla, you are not big and ugly. You are beautiful, and remember, my kin are your kin.”

She looked up at him. “Until you came, I had no one, Jondalar. Now I have you to love and maybe, someday, a child of yours. That would make me happy,” she said, smiling.

Her smile relieved him, and her mention of a child even more. He looked up at the sun’s position in the sky. “We won’t make it to Dalanar’s cave today if we don’t hurry. Come on, Ayla, the horses need a good run. I’ll race you across the meadow. I don’t think I could stand another night in the tent when we’re so close.”

Wolf bounded out of the woods, full of energy and playfulness. He jumped up, put his paws on her chest, and licked her jaw. This was her family, she thought, as she grabbed his neck fur. This magnificent wolf, the faithful and patient mare, the spirited stallion, and the man, the wonderful caring man. Soon she would be meeting his family.

She fell silent while she packed the few things; then suddenly she started digging things out of a different pack. “Jondalar, I’m going to take a bath in this stream and put on a clean tunic and leggings,” she said, taking off the leather tunic she had been wearing.

“Why don’t you wait until we get there. You’ll freeze, Ayla. That water is probably straight off the glacier.”

“I don’t care, I don’t want to meet your kin all dirty and travel stained.”

   They came to a river, cloudy green with glacial runoff, and running high, though the rushing water would be much higher when it reached its full volume later in the season. They turned east, upstream, until they found a place shallow enough to ford, then climbed in a southeasterly direction. It was late afternoon when they reached a gradual slope that leveled out near a rock wall. The dark hole of a cave was tucked under an overhanging ledge.

A young woman was seated on the ground, her back to them, surrounded by broken chips and nodules of flint. She held a punch, a pointed wooden stick, to a core of the dark gray stone with one hand, concentrating on the exact placement, and preparing to hit the punch with a heavy bone hammer held in the other. She was so absorbed in her task that she didn’t notice Jondalar slipping up silently behind her.

“Keep practicing, Joplaya. Someday you’ll be as good as I am,” he said with a grin.

The bone mallet came down wrong, shattering the blade she was about to flake off as she whirled around, a look of stunned disbelief on her face.

“Jondalar! Oh, Jondalar! Is it really you?” she cried, throwing herself
into his arms. With his arms around her waist, he picked her up and spun her around. She clung to him, as though she never wanted to let him go. “Mother! Dalanar! Jondalar’s back! Jondalar came back!” she shouted.

People came running out of the cave, and an older man, as tall as Jondalar, raced toward him. They grabbed each other, stood back and looked, then hugged again.

Ayla signaled Wolf, who crowded close to her as she stood back and watched, holding the lead ropes of both horses.

“So, you came back! You were gone so long, I didn’t think you would,” the man said.

Then, over Jondalar’s shoulder, the older man spied a most astounding sight. Two horses, with baskets and bundles fastened to them, and hides draped across their backs, and a large wolf, were hovering close to a tall woman, dressed in a far parka and leggings cut in an unusual style and decorated with unfamiliar patterns. Her hood was thrown back, and the woman’s deep golden hair cascaded around her face in waves. There was a decidedly foreign cast to her features, rather like the unfamiliar cut of her clothing, but it only added to her outstanding beauty.

“I don’t see your brother, but you did not return alone,” the man said.

“Thonolan is dead,” Jondalar said, closing his eyes involuntarily. “I would be, too, if it wasn’t for Ayla.”

“I’m sorry to hear that. I liked the boy. Willomar and your mother will be grief-stricken. But I notice your taste in women has not changed. You always did have a liking for beautiful zelandonia.”

Jondalar wondered why he thought Ayla was One Who Served the Mother. Then he looked at her, surrounded by the animals, and suddenly saw her as the older man would, and he smiled. He strode to the edge of the clearing, took Racer’s lead, and started walking back, followed by Ayla, Whinney, and Wolf.

“Dalanar of the Lanzadonii, please welcome Ayla of the Mamutoi,” he said.

Dalanar held out both hands, palms up, in the greeting of openness and friendship. Ayla grasped them with both of hers.

“In the name of Doni, the Great Earth Mother, I welcome you, Ayla of the Mamutoi,” Dalanar said.

“I greet you, Dalanar of the Lanzadonii,” Ayla replied, with the proper formality.

“You speak our language well for someone from so far away. It is my pleasure to meet you.” His formality was belied by his smile. He had noticed her manner of speaking and thought it most intriguing.

“Jondalar taught me to speak,” she said, hardly able to keep from
staring. She glanced at Jondalar, then back at Dalanar, stunned by their resemblance.

Dalanar’s long blond hair was a little thinner on top and his waist a little thicker, but he had the same intensely blue eyes—a few creases at the corners—and the same high forehead, his worry lines etched a little deeper. His voice had the same quality, too, the same pitch, the same tone. He even stressed the word
pleasure
the same way, giving it the hint of a double meaning. It was uncanny. The warmth of his hands started a tingling response in her. His similarity even confused her body for a moment.

Dalanar felt her response and smiled Jondalar’s smile, understanding the reason and liking her for it. With that strange accent, he thought, she must come from someplace quite far away. When he dropped her hands, the wolf suddenly approached him, quite fearlessly, although he couldn’t say he felt the same way himself. Wolf insinuated his head under Dalanar’s hand, looking for attention, as though he knew the man. To his own surprise, Dalanar found himself stroking the handsome animal, as though it were perfectly natural to pet a large living wolf.

Jondalar was grinning. “Wolf thinks you’re me. Everyone always said we looked alike. Next you’ll be on Racer’s back.” He held the lead rope toward the man.

“Did you say ‘Racer’s back’?” Dalanar said.

“Yes. Most of the way here, we rode on the backs of those horses; Racer is the name I gave the stallion,” Jondalar explained. “Ayla’s horse is Whinney, and this big beast that’s taken such a liking to you is called ‘Wolf.’ That’s the Mamutoi word for a wolf.”

“How did you ever get a wolf, and horses…” Dalanar began.

“Dalanar, where are your manners? Don’t you think other people want to meet her and hear their stories?”

Ayla, still slightly flustered by Dalanar’s amazing resemblance to Jondalar, turned to the one who spoke—and found herself staring again. The woman resembled no one Ayla had ever seen before. Her hair, pulled back from her face into a roll at the back of her head, was glossy black, streaked with gray at the temples. But it was her face that held Ayla’s attention. It was round and flat with high cheekbones, a tiny nose, and dark slanting eyes. The woman’s smile contradicted her stern voice and Dalanar beamed as he looked down at her.

“Jerika!” Jondalar said, smiling with delight.

“Jondalar! It’s so good to have you back!” They hugged with obvious affection. “Since this great bear of a man of mine has no manners, why don’t you introduce me to your companion? And then you can tell me why those animals stand there and don’t run away,” the woman said.

She moved between the two men and was dwarfed by them. They were exactly the same height, and the top of her head barely reached midway up their chests. Her walk was quick and energetic. She reminded Ayla of a bird, an impression reinforced by her diminutive size.

“Jerika of the Lanzadonii, please greet Ayla of the Mamutoi. She is the one responsible for the behavior of the animals,” Jondalar said, beaming at the small woman with Dalanar’s expression. “She can tell you better than I why they don’t run away.”

“You are welcome here, Ayla of the Mamutoi,” Jerika said, with hands outstretched. “And the animals as well, if you can promise they will continue such uncommon ways.” She was eying Wolf as she spoke.

“I greet you, Jerika of the Lanzadonii.” Ayla returned her smile. The small woman’s grip had a strength that was surprising and, Ayla sensed, a character to match. “The wolf will not harm anyone, unless someone threatens one of us. He is friendly, but very protective. The horses are nervous around strangers and may rear if they are crowded, which could be dangerous. It would be better if people would stay away from them in the beginning, until they get to know everyone better.”

“That’s sensible, but I am glad you told us,” she replied, then looked at Ayla with disconcerting directness. “You have come a long way. The Mamutoi live beyond the end of Donau.”

“Do you know the land of the Mammoth Hunters?” Ayla asked, surprised.

“Yes, and even farther east, though I don’t remember as much of that. Hochaman will be glad to tell you about it. Nothing would please him more than a new ear to listen to his stories. My mother and he came from a land near the Endless Sea, as far east as the land goes. I was born on the way. We lived with many people, sometimes for several years. I remember the Mamutoi. Good people. Fine hunters. They wanted us to stay with them,” Jerika related.

“Why didn’t you?”

“Hochaman wasn’t ready to settle down. His dream was to travel to the ends of the world, to see how far the land would go. We met Dalanar not long after my mother died and decided to stay and help him get the flint mine started. But Hochaman has lived to see his dream,” Jerika said, glancing at her tall mate. “He has traveled all the way from the Endless Sea of the east to the Great Waters of the west. Dalanar helped him finish his Journey, some years ago, carried him on his back most of the way. Hochaman shed tears when he saw the great western sea, and he washed them away with salt water. He can’t walk much now, but no one has made so long a Journey as Hochaman.”

“Or you, Jerika,” Dalanar added proudly. “You’ve traveled nearly as far.”