The Valley of Horses (11 page)

He was stunned for only a short while, but when his head cleared, he found himself stretched out on the ground, staring into Thonolan’s worried gray eyes, his hands bound with thongs behind his back.

“You were the one who said it, Jondalar.”

“Said what?”

“They’re in no mood for objections.”

“Thanks,” Jondalar remarked with a grimace, suddenly aware of a bad headache. “That’s just what I needed to hear.”

“What do you suppose they’re going to do with us?”

“We’re still alive. If they were going to kill us, they’d have done it, wouldn’t they?”

“Maybe they’re saving us for something special.”

The two men lay on the ground, listening to voices and watching the strangers moving about their camp. They smelled food cooking and their stomachs growled. As the sun rose higher, the glaring heat made thirst a worse problem. As the afternoon wore on, Jondalar dozed, his lack of sleep from the night before catching up with him. He woke with a start to shouts and commotion. Someone had arrived.

They were dragged to their feet, and gaped in amazement at a burly man striding toward them carrying a white-haired, wizened old woman on his back. He got down on all
fours, and the woman was helped off her human steed, with obvious deference.

“Whoever she is, she must be pretty important,” Jondalar said. A bruising blow in his ribs silenced him.

She walked toward them leaning on a knobbed staff with a carved finial. Jondalar stared, sure he had never seen anyone so old in his life. She was child-size, shrunken with age, and the pink of her scalp could be seen through her thin white hair. Her face was so wrinkled that it hardly looked human, but her eyes were oddly out of place. He would have expected dull, rheumy, senile eyes in someone so old. But hers were bright with intelligence and crackled with authority. Jondalar was awed by the tiny woman, and a little fearful for Thonolan and himself. She would not have come unless it was very important.

She spoke in a voice cracked with age, yet surprisingly strong. The leader pointed at Jondalar, and she directed a question to him.

“I’m sorry, I don’t understand,” he said.

She spoke again, tapped her chest with a hand as gnarled as her staff, and said a word that sounded like “Haduma.” Then she pointed a knobby finger at him.

“I am Jondalar of the Zelandonii,” he said, hoping he understood her meaning.

She cocked her head as though she had heard a sound. “Zel-an-don-yee?” she repeated slowly.

Jondalar nodded, licking his dry, parched lips nervously.

She stared at him speculatively, then spoke to the leader. His answer was brusque, and she snapped a command, then turned her back and walked to the fire. One of the men who had been guarding them pulled out a knife. Jondalar glanced at his brother and saw a face that expressed his own emotions. He braced himself, sent a silent plea to the Great Earth Mother, and closed his eyes.

He opened them with a surge of relief when he felt the thongs cut away from his wrists. A man was approaching with a bladder of water. Jondalar took a long drink and passed it to Thonolan, whose hands had also been freed. He opened his mouth to say a word of appreciation and then, remembering his bruised ribs, thought better of it.

They were escorted to the fire by guards who hovered close with menacing spears. The burly man who had carried the old woman brought a log, put a fur robe on it, then stood to the side with his hand on his knife handle. She
settled herself on the log, and Jondalar and Thonolan were made to sit in front of her. They were careful to make no moves that might be construed as endangering to the old woman; they had no doubt of their fate if any man there even thought they might try to harm her.

She stared at Jondalar again, not saying a word. He met her gaze, but, as the silence continued, he began to feel disconcerted and uncomfortable. Suddenly, she reached into her robe, and with eves blazing anger and a spate of acrimonious words that left no doubt of their sense if not their meaning, she held out an object toward him. His eyes widened in wonder. It was the carved stone figure of the Mother, his donii, she held in her hand.

Out of the corner of his eye, he watched the guard beside him flinch. There was something about the donii he didn’t like.

The woman ended her tirade, and, lifting her arm dramatically, flung the statuette to the ground. Jondalar jumped involuntarily and reached for it. His anger at her desecration of his sacred object showed in his face. Ignoring the prick of a spear, he picked it up and cradled it protectively in his hands.

A sharp word from her caused the spear to be withdrawn. He was surprised to see a smile on her face and the glint of amusement in her eyes, but he wasn’t at all sure if she smiled out of humor or malice.

She got up from the log and walked closer. She was not much taller standing than he was seated and, facing him at eye level, she peered deep into his startling, vivid blue eyes. Then she stepped back, turned his head from side to side, felt the muscle of his arm, and surveyed the breadth of his shoulders. She motioned for him to get up. When he didn’t quite understand, the guard prodded him into comprehension. She tilted her head back to look up at all six feet six inches of him, then walked around him, poking the hard muscles of his legs. Jondalar had the feeling he was being examined like some prize goods offered for trade, and he flushed to find himself wondering if he measured up.

She looked Thonolan over next, motioned for him to stand, then turned her attention back to Jondalar. His pink flush turned to deep crimson when the meaning of her next gesture dawned on him. She wanted to see his manhood.

He shook his head and gave the grinning Thonolan a dirty look. At a word from the woman, one of the men
grabbed Jondalar from behind, while another, with obvious embarrassment, fumbled to unfasten his trouser flap.

“I don’t think she’s in any mood for objections,” Thonolan said, smirking.

Jondalar angrily shrugged off the man who was holding him and exposed himself to the old woman’s view, glowering at his brother who was hanging on to his sides, snorting, in a futile attempt to constrain his glee. The old woman looked at him, cocked her head to one side, and, with a gnarled finger, touched him.

Jondalar’s crimson turned to purple when, for some inexplicable reason, he felt his manhood swell. The woman cackled, and there were sniggers from the men standing nearby, but a strangely subdued note of awe as well. Thonolan burst out in loud guffaws, stomping and bending over double as tears came to his eyes. Jondalar hastily covered his offending member, feeling foolish and angry.

“Big Brother, you must really need a woman to get a rise over that old hag,” Thonolan quipped, catching his breath and wiping away a tear. Then he burst into uproarious laughter again.

“I just hope it’s your turn next,” Jondalar said, wishing he could think of some witty remark to squelch him.

The old woman signaled to the leader of the men who had stopped them, and spoke to him. A heated exchange followed. Jondalar heard the woman say “Zelandonyee” and saw the young man point to the meat drying on cords. The exchange ended abruptly with an imperious command from the woman. The man shot a glance at Jondalar, then motioned to a curly-haired youth. After a few words, the young man dashed away at full speed.

The two brothers were led back to their tent and their backframes were returned, but not their spears or knives. One man was always a short distance away, obviously keeping an eye on them. Food was brought to them, and, when night fell, they crawled into their tent. Thonolan was in high spirits, but Jondalar was in no mood for conversation with a brother who laughed every time he looked at him.

There was an air of expectancy in the camp when they awoke. About midmorning a large party arrived, amid shouts of greeting. Tents were set up, men, women, and children settled in, and the spartan camp of the two men began to take on aspects of a Summer Meeting. Jondalar and Thonolan watched with interest the assembly of a large
structure, circular, with straight walls covered with hides, and a domed, thatched roof. The various parts of it were preassembled, and it went up with surprising speed. Then bundles and covered baskets were carried inside.

There was a lull in activities while food was prepared. In the afternoon, a crowd began to gather around the large circular structure. The old woman’s log was brought and placed just outside the opening, and the fur robe draped over it. As soon as she appeared, the crowd quieted and formed a circle around her, leaving the place in the center open. Jondalar and Thonolan watched her speak to a man and point to them.

“Maybe she’ll want you to show off your great desire for her again.” Thonolan gibed as the man beckoned.

“They’ll have to kill me first!”

“You mean you’re not dying to bed that beauty?” Thonolan asked, feigning wide-eyed innocence. “It certainly looked that way yesterday.” He began to chuckle again. Jondalar turned and stalked off toward the group.

They were led to the center and she motioned for them to sit in front of her again.

“Zel-an-don-yee?” the old woman said to Jondalar.

“Yes,” He nodded. “I am Jondalar of the Zelandonii.”

She tapped the arm of an old man beside her.

“I … Tamen,” he said, then some words Jondalar couldn’t understand, “ … Hadumai. Long time … Tamen …” another unfamiliar word, “west … Zelandonii.”

Jondalar strained, then suddenly realized he had understood some of the man’s words. “Your name is Tamen, something about Hadumai. Long time … long time ago you … west … made a Journey? to the Zelandonii? Can you speak Zelandonii?” he asked excitedly.

“Journey, yes,” the man said. “No talk … long time.”

The old woman grabbed the man’s arm and spoke to him. He turned back to the two brothers.

“Haduma,” he said, pointing to her. “ … Mother …” Tamen hesitated, then indicated everyone with a sweep of his arm.

“You mean like Zelandoni, One Who Serves the Mother?”

He shook his head. “Haduma … Mother …” He thought for a moment, then beckoned to some people and lined them up in a row beside him. “Haduma … mother … mother … mother … mother,” he said, pointing first at her, then to himself, then to each person in turn.

Jondalar studied the people, trying to make sense out of the demonstration. Tamen was old, but not as old as Haduma. The man next to him was just past middle age. Beside him was a younger woman holding the hand of a child. Suddenly, Jondalar made a connection. “Are you saying Haduma is mother’s mother five times?” He held up his hand with five fingers outstretched. “The mother of five generations?” he said with awe.

The man nodded vigorously. “Yes, mother’s mother … five … generations,” he said, pointing again to each person.

“Great Mother! Do you know how old she must be?” Jondalar said to his brother.

“Great mother, yes,” Tamen said. “Haduma … mother.” He patted his stomach.

“Children?”

“Children.” He nodded. “Haduma mother children …” He began drawing lines in the dirt.

“One, two, three …” Jondalar said the counting words with each one. “ … Sixteen! Haduma gave birth to sixteen children?”

Tamen nodded, pointing again to the marks on the ground. “ … Many son … many … girl?” He shook his head, doubtful.

“Daughters?” Jondalar offered.

Tamen brightened. “Many daughters …” He thought for a moment, “Live … all live. All … many children.” He held up one hand and one finger. “Six Caves … Hadumai.”

“No wonder they were ready to kill us if we so much as looked cross at her,” Thonolan said. “She’s the mother of all of them, a living First Mother!”

Jondalar was as impressed, but even more puzzled. “I am honored to know Haduma, but I don’t understand. Why are we being held? And why did she come here?”

The old man pointed to their meat drying on cords, then to the young man who had first detained them. “Jeren … hunt, Jeren make …” Tamen drew a circle on the ground with two diverging lines making a broad V from the small space left open. “Zelandonii man make … make run …” He thought for a long time, then smiled and said, “Make run horse.”

“So that’s it!” Thonolan said. “They must have built a surround and were waiting for that herd to move closer. We chased them off.”

“I can understand why he was angry,” Jondalar said to Tamen. “But we didn’t know we were on your hunting grounds. We’ll stay and hunt, of course, to make restitution. It’s still no way to treat Visitors. Doesn’t he understand passage customs for those on a Journey?” he said, venting his own anger.

The old man didn’t catch every word, but enough to understand the meaning. “Not many Visitors. Not … west … long time. Customs … forget.”

“Well, you ought to remind him. You were on a Journey, and he might want to make one someday.” Jondalar was still annoyed at their treatment, but he didn’t want to make too much of an issue about it. He still wasn’t sure what was going on and he didn’t want to actually offend them. “Why did Haduma come? How can you allow her to make a long trip at her age?”

Tamen smiled. “Not … allow Haduma. Haduma say. Jeren … find dumai. Bad … bad luck?” Jondalar nodded to indicate the correctness of the word, but he didn’t understand what Tamen was trying to say. “Jeren give … man … runner. Say Haduma make bad luck go. Haduma come.”

“Dumai? Dumai? You mean my donii?” Jondalar said, taking the carved stone figurine out of his pouch. The people around gasped and drew back when they saw what he had in his hand. An angry murmur rose from the crowd, but Haduma harangued them and they quieted.

“But this donii is good luck!” Jondalar protested.

“Good luck … woman, yes. Man …” Tamen searched his memory for a word, “ … sacrilege,” he said.

Jondalar sat back, stunned. “But if it’s good luck for a woman, why did she throw it?” He made a violent gesture of casting the donii down, bringing exclamations of concern. Haduma spoke to the old man.

“Haduma … long time live … big luck. Big … magic. Haduma say me Zelandonii … customs. Say Zelandonii man not Hadumai … Haduma say Zelandonii man bad?”

Jondalar shook his head.