The Land of Painted Caves - Jean M. Auel [410]
He couldn’t believe how far he had come, and worse, how long it was taking him to get back. He slowed once or twice to catch his breath, but never stopped, and put on an extra burst of speed when the brush thinned out as he neared the Campsite.
“Where is she?” he asked the first person he saw.
“The zelandonia lodge,” came the answer.
The whole Summer Meeting had been looking for him, waiting for him, and as he raced toward the lodge, several people actually cheered. He didn’t hear it, and he didn’t stop until he crashed through the entrance drape and saw her lying on the bed surrounded by lamps. And then, all he could do was gasp out her name.
“Ayla!”
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Jondalar could hardly breathe, and every time he gasped for air, his throat felt raw. Sweat was pouring off him. He was bent over double from the pain in his side. His legs shook and could hardly support him as he approached the bed at the back of the lodge. Wolf had pressed in beside him, and with lolling tongue was panting heavily, too.
“Here, Jondalar, sit,” Zelandoni said, standing up and giving him her own stool. She could see his extreme stress, and knew he must have run a great distance. “Get him some water,” she said to the nearest acolyte. “Some for the wolf, too.”
As he neared, he could see that Ayla’s skin had a deathly gray pallor. “Ayla, oh, Ayla, why did you do it again?” he rasped, barely able to speak. “You know you almost died last time.” He drank from the cup that was handed to him as a reflex, hardly realizing someone had given it to him. Then he literally climbed onto the bed. He pushed back the covers, picked Ayla up, and held her in his arms, shocked at how chilled she was. “She’s so cold,” he said, with a sobbing hiccup. He didn’t know tears were streaming down his face. He wouldn’t have cared if he did.
The wolf looked at the two people on the bed, lifted his muzzle into the air, and howled, a long eerie wolfsong that sent chills down the backs of the zelandonia who were in the lodge, and the people who were outside. It stunned the ones who were chanting, causing them to miss a pulse, and stop the continuous fugue for a heartbeat. It was only then that Jondalar became conscious of the zelandonia chanting. Then Wolf put his front paws on the bed, and whined for her attention.
“Ayla, Ayla, please come back to me,” Jondalar pleaded. “You can’t die. Who will give me a son? Oh, Ayla, what a thing to say. I don’t care if you give me a son. It’s you I want. I love you. I don’t even care if you never talk to me again, just so I can look at you sometimes. Please come back to me. O Great Mother, send her back. Please send her back. I’ll do anything you want, just don’t take her away from me.”
Zelandoni watched the tall, handsome man, face, chest, arms, and legs scratched and in places bleeding, sitting on the bed holding the nearly lifeless woman in his arms like a baby, rocking back and forth, tears streaming down his face, crying for her to come back. She hadn’t seen him cry since he was a small boy. Jondalar didn’t cry. He fought to control his emotions, keep them to himself. Very few people had ever gotten really close to him, except his family and her, and even then, once he reached manhood, there was always some distance, some reserve.
After he returned from his stay with Dalanar, she had often wondered if he would ever really love a woman again, and blamed herself. She knew he still loved her then, and she had been tempted, more than once, to give up the zelandonia and mate him, but as time went along and she never became pregnant, she knew she had made the right choice. She felt sure he would mate someday, and though she had often doubted that he would be capable of giving himself completely to any woman, Jondalar needed children. Children could be loved freely, completely, without reservation, and he needed to love like that.
She had been genuinely happy for him when he returned from his Journey with a woman whom he obviously loved, a woman who was worthy of his love. But she