The Mammoth Hunters - Jean M. Auel [16]
Jondalar. The first one of the Others she had ever seen, that she could remember; the first with a face like hers, blue eyes like hers—only more so; his eyes were so blue it was hard to believe they were real.
Jondalar. The first man she’d ever met who was taller than she; the first one who ever laughed with her, and the first to cry tears of grief—for the brother he had lost.
Jondalar. The man who had been brought as a gift from her totem, she was sure, to the valley where she had settled after she left the Clan when she grew weary of searching for the Others like herself.
Jondalar. The man who had taught her to speak again, with words, not just the sign language of the Clan. Jondalar, whose sensitive hands could shape a tool, or scratch a young horse, or pick up a child and put him on his back. Jondalar, who taught her the joys of her body—and his—and who loved her, and whom she loved more than she ever thought it was possible to love anyone.
She walked toward the river and around a bend, where Racer was tied to a stunted tree by a long rope. She wiped wet eyes with the back of her hand, overcome with the emotion that was still so new to her. She reached for her amulet, a small leather pouch attached to a thong around her neck. She felt the lumpy objects it contained, and made a thought to her totem.
“Spirit of the Great Cave Lion, Creb always said a powerful totem was hard to live with. He was right. Always the testing has been difficult, but always it has been worth it. This woman is grateful for the protection, and for the gifts of her powerful totem. The gifts inside, of things learned, and the gifts of those to care about like Whinney and Racer, and Baby, and most of all, for Jondalar.”
Whinney came to her when she reached the colt and blew a soft greeting. She laid her head on the mare’s neck. The woman felt tired, drained. She wasn’t used to so many people, so much going on, and people who spoke a language were so noisy. She had a headache, her temples were pounding, and her neck and shoulders hurt. Whinney was leaning on her and Racer, joining them, added pressure from his side, until she was feeling squeezed between them, but she didn’t mind.
“Enough!” she said, finally, slapping the colt’s flank. “You’re getting too big, Racer, to get me in the middle like that. Look at you! Look how big you are. You’re almost as big as your dam!” She scratched him, then rubbed and patted Whinney, noticing dried sweat. “It’s hard for you, too, isn’t it? I’ll give you a good rubdown and brush you with a teasel later, but people are coming now so you’re probably going to get more attention. It won’t be so bad once they get used to you.”
Ayla didn’t notice that she had slipped into the private language she had developed during her years alone with only animals for company. It was composed partly of Clan gestures, partly of verbalizations of some of the few words the Clan spoke, imitations of animals, and the nonsense words she and her son had begun to use. To anyone else, it was likely the hand signals would not have been noticed, and she would have seemed to be murmuring a most peculiar set of sounds, grunts and growls and repetitive syllables. It might not have been thought of as a language.
“Maybe Jondalar will brush Racer, too.” Suddenly she stopped as a troubling thought occurred to her. She reached for her amulet again and tried to frame her thoughts. “Great Cave Lion, Jondalar is now your chosen, too, he bears the scars on his leg of your marking, just as I do.” She shifted her thoughts into the ancient silent language spoken only with hands; the proper language for addressing the spirit world.
“Spirit of the Great Cave Lion, that man who has been chosen has not a knowledge of totems. That man knows not of testing, knows not the trials of a powerful totem, or the gifts and the learning. Even this woman who knows has found them difficult. This woman would beg the Spirit of the Cave Lion … would beg for that man …”
Ayla stopped. She wasn’t sure what she was asking for. She didn’t want to ask the spirit