The Mammoth Hunters - Jean M. Auel [222]
The little wolf whimpered in his sleep, and Ayla, sitting on the edge of her bed platform, reached over and stroked him to calm him. The only time in his young life that he had felt as warm and secure as he did now was when he had been nestled beside his mother, and she had left him alone many times in the cold dark den. But Ayla’s hand had taken him out of that cheerless and frighteningly alone place, and brought him warmth and food and a feeling of safety. He settled down under her reassuring touch without even waking.
Ayla let Deegie continue the story, only adding comments and explanations. She didn’t feel much like talking, and it was interesting that the other young woman’s story was not the same one she would have told. It wasn’t less true, but seen from a different viewpoint, and Ayla was a little surprised at some of her companion’s impressions. She hadn’t seen the situation as quite so dangerous. Deegie had been much more frightened of the wolf; she didn’t seem to really understand them.
Wolves were among the gentlest of meat eaters, and very predictable, if you paid attention to their signals—weasels were far more bloodthirsty and bears more unpredictable. It was rare for wolves to attack humans.
But Deegie didn’t see them that way. She described the wolf as viciously attacking Ayla, and she had been afraid. It had been dangerous, but even if Ayla hadn’t fended it off, the attack was defensive. She might have been hurt, but she probably would not have been killed, and the wolf had backed down as soon as she could grab the dead ermine and get away. When Deegie described Ayla diving head first into the wolf’s den, the Camp looked at her in awe. She was either very brave or very foolhardy, but Ayla didn’t think she was either. She knew there were no other adult wolves around, there were no other tracks. The black had been a lone wolf, probably far from her home territory, and the black was dead.
Deegie’s vivid recounting of Ayla’s exploits did more than cause awe in one of the listeners. Jondalar had been growing more and more agitated. In his mind he embellished the story even more, envisioned Ayla not only in great danger but attacked by wolves, hurt and bleeding, and perhaps worse. He couldn’t bear the thought, and his earlier anxiety returned in redoubled force. Other people had similar feelings.
“You should not have put yourself in such danger, Ayla,” the headwoman said.
“Mother!” Deegie said. The woman had indicated earlier that she would not bring up her concerns.
People who were still caught up in the adventure scowled at her for interrupting a dramatic story, told with skill. That it was true made it more exciting, and though it would be told and retold, it would never again have the fresh impact of the first hearing. The mood was being spoiled—after all, she was back home and safe now.
Ayla looked at Tulie, then glanced at Jondalar. She had known the moment he came back to the Mammoth Hearth. He had been angry, and so, it seemed, was Tulie. “I was not in such danger,” she said.
“You do not think it is dangerous to go into a wolves’ den?” Tulie asked.
“No. There was no danger. It was the den of a lone wolf, and she was dead. I only went in to look for her babies.”
“That may be, but was it necessary to stay out so late tracking the wolf? It was almost dark before you returned,” Tulie said.
Jondalar had said the same thing. “But I knew the black had young, she was nursing. Without a mother, they would die,” Ayla explained, although she had said it before and thought it was understood.
“So you endanger your own life”—and Deegie’s, she thought, though she did not say it—“for the life of a wolf? After the black one attacked you, it was foolhardy to continue to chase