The Land of Painted Caves - Jean M. Auel [351]
Ayla frowned, staring into the dark. Yes, of course, Jondalar, she thought. “I don’t think Jondalar would want to leave his apprentices. He has made promises, and winter is the best time to work on perfecting techniques,” she said.
Echozar was silent for a few paces. “I don’t suppose you’d want to leave Jondalar for a season and visit by yourself, with Jonayla and your animals, of course,” he said. “As much as she loves Bokovan, I know Joplaya would love to have that little girl around. She and Bokovan spent a lot of time at Levela’s camp and got to know her.”
“I … don’t know. I guess I never thought about it. I’ve been so busy training for the zelandonia …,” she said, then glanced around looking for her daughter, who was straggling behind. She has probably found something along the path to distract her, Ayla thought.
“We would never object to having another Donier,” Echozar said.
Ayla smiled at him, then stopped. “Jonayla, why are you so far back?”
“I’m tired, mother,” Jonayla whined. “Would you carry me?”
Ayla stopped to pick her daughter up, using a hip for support. The little girl’s arms felt good around her neck. She had missed Jonayla, and hugged her little body close.
They continued in silence for a while, and began to hear raucous voices. Ahead they could see the light of a campfire behind a fairly dense stand of brush. It wasn’t a regular Cave’s site, Ayla gathered as they drew closer. Through the screen of brush, she noticed several men sitting around the fire. They were obviously gaming, and drinking something from miniature waterbags made from the nearly waterproof stomachs of small animals. She knew many of the men; several were from the Ninth Cave, but there was a sprinkling of others from several different Caves.
Laramar was there, the man who was known for making the potent alcoholic brew from almost anything that would ferment. While they didn’t have the refinement of the wine that Marthona made, the drinks he produced weren’t bad. He did very little of anything else and had perfected what had become his “craft,” but he made it in quantity and many people regularly drank too much, creating problems. His only other claim to fame had been a hearthful of unkempt children, and a slovenly mate who indulged heavily in his product. Ayla and the rest of the Cave took more care of the children than either Laramar or Tremeda did.
Now the oldest girl, Lanoga, was mated to Lanidar and had a child of her own, but the young couple had adopted all her younger siblings. Her older brother, Bologan, also lived with them and helped to provide for the children. He had also helped to build their new dwelling, along with Jondalar and several others. Her mother, Tremeda, and Laramar also lived with them occasionally, when they chose to go to a place they called home, and both of them behaved as though it was theirs.
Besides Laramar, Ayla noticed the distinctive forehead markings of a Zelandoni on one man, but when he smiled, she saw the gap of his missing front teeth and frowned, realizing it was Madroman. Had he already been accepted into the zelandonia and tattooed? She didn’t think so. She looked again and noticed that an edge of the “tattoo” was smeared. He must have painted it on, using the colors that some people used to temporarily decorate their faces for special occasions, but she had never seen anyone decorate with Zelandoni marks before.
Seeing him reminded her of the backpack she had found in the cave and had brought to the First. Though he invariably smiled and tried to engage her in conversation, she had always felt uneasy around Madroman. He disturbed her in a way that made her think of how a horse’s fur looked when it was stroked opposite to the direction in which it grew; he rubbed her the wrong way.
She saw many young men, talking and laughing loudly, but there were other men of all ages. From what she knew of those she recognized, none of them contributed much. Some were not too bright, or were easily led. One of them spent most of his time drinking Laramar’s brew, barely stumbling