The Land of Painted Caves - Jean M. Auel [384]
I suppose I shouldn’t blame Brukeval for hating the Clan. He didn’t have a mother to love him, or to comfort him when people called him names because he looked a little different. It was hard for Durc, too. He looked enough different from the Clan that they thought he was deformed, and some of them didn’t want to let him live, but at least he had people who loved him. I should have been more careful of Brukeval’s feelings. I’m always so sure that I’m right. Always blaming people for calling the Clan Flatheads and animals. I know they aren’t, but most people don’t know them like I do. It was my fault Brukeval ran away. I don’t blame him for hating me.
Ayla got up; she didn’t want to sit inside anymore. It was dim and gloomy in the windowless dwelling, and the lamp was guttering out, adding to the darkness. She wanted to get out, do something besides think about her shortcomings. As she stepped out of the dwelling and looked around, she was surprised to see Madroman approaching in a big hurry. When he saw her, he gave her such a malicious glare, she felt the tingle of icy needles prickling up her spine, raising the hairs on the back of her neck, and a cold shudder of ominous apprehension.
Ayla watched him as he hurried on. Something’s different about him, she said to herself. Then she noticed he was not wearing his acolyte clothing, but the clothes he had on were strangely familiar. She wrinkled her brow in concentration, then it came to her. Those are Ninth Cave patterns! But he’s Fifth Cave; why is he wearing Ninth Cave clothes? And where is he going in such a hurry?
That look he gave me. Ayla shivered again at the thought. So full of hatred. Why should he hate me so much? And why wasn’t he wearing his acoly … Oh … Suddenly it occurred to her. Zelandoni must have told him he can’t be an acolyte anymore. Is he blaming me? But he’s the one who lied; why should he blame me? It couldn’t be because of Jondalar. He beat Madroman once—knocked his teeth out—but that was over Zelandoni, not me. Could he hate me because I found his leather sack in the cave? Maybe he hates me because he will never be a Zelandoni, and I just became one.
That’s two of them who hate me, Madroman and Brukeval, Ayla thought. Three if I count Laramar; he must hate me, too. When he finally woke up, he said he didn’t want to go back to the Ninth Cave when he felt good enough to leave the zelandonia lodge, and they decided that he could. I’m glad the Fifth Cave said they would be willing to take him. I couldn’t blame him if he never wanted to see me again. I deserve his hatred. It is my fault that Jondalar beat him so badly. Jondalar probably hates me now, too. Ayla was feeling so despondent, she was beginning to think that everyone hated her.
Ayla started walking faster, unmindful of where she was going. She looked up when she heard a soft whicker, and found she was at the horse enclosure. She had been so busy the last few days, she had hardly seen the horses, and when she heard the welcoming whinny of her dun-yellow mare, tears brought a familiar ache behind her eyes. She climbed over the fencing, and hugged the sturdy neck of her old friend.
“Oh, Whinney! I’m so happy to see you,” she said, talking in the strange language she always used with the mare, the one she had made up so long ago in the valley, before Jondalar came and taught her his language. “At least you still care about me,” she said, as the tears overflowed. “You should