The Mammoth Hunters - Jean M. Auel [42]
But unlike most games played by the children of the Camp, this was one in which Rydag excelled. Ayla couldn’t teach him fast enough. She barely had to show him once, and before long he was adding the variations himself—the nuances and finer shades of meaning. She had a sense that it was all right there inside him, filled up and bursting to come out, needing only the smallest opening, and once released, there was no holding back.
It was all the more exciting because the children who were near his age were learning, too. For the first time in his life, Rydag could express himself fully, and he couldn’t get enough of it. The youngsters he had grown up with easily accepted his ability to “speak” fluently in this new way. They had communicated with him before. They knew he was different, he had trouble talking, but they hadn’t yet acquired the adult bias that assumed he was, therefore, lacking in intelligence. And Latie, as older sisters often do, had been translating his “gibberish” to the adult members of the Camp for years.
By the time they had all had enough of learning and went off to put the new game into serious play, Ayla noticed Rydag was correcting them and they turned to him for confirmation of the meaning of the hand signs and gestures. He had found a new place among his peers.
Still sitting beside Nezzie, Ayla watched them flashing silent signals to each other. She smiled, imagining what Iza would have thought of children of the Others speaking like the Clan, shouting and laughing at the same time. Somehow, Ayla thought, the old medicine woman would have understood.
“You must be right. That is his way to speak,” Nezzie said. “I’ve never seen him so quick to learn anything. I didn’t know flathe—What do you call them?”
“Clan. They say Clan. It means … family … the people … humans. The Clan of the Cave Bear, people who honor Great Cave Bear; you say Mamutoi, Mammoth Hunters who honor Mother,” Ayla replied.
“Clan … I didn’t know they could talk like that, I didn’t know anyone could say so much with hands.… I’ve never seen Rydag so happy.” The woman hesitated, and Ayla sensed she was trying to find a way to say something more. She waited to give her a chance to gather her thoughts. “I’m surprised you took to him so quickly,” Nezzie continued. “Some people object because he’s mixed, and most people are a little uncomfortable around him. But you seem to know him.”
Ayla paused before she spoke, while she studied the older woman, not sure what to say. Then, making a decision, she said, “I knew someone like him once … my son. My son, Durc.”
“Your son!” There was surprise in Nezzie’s voice, but Ayla did not detect any sign of the revulsion that had been so apparent in Frebec’s voice when he spoke of flatheads and Rydag the night before. “You had a mixed son? Where is he? What happened to him?”
Anguish darkened Ayla’s face. She had kept thoughts of her son buried deep while she was alone in her valley, but seeing Rydag had awakened them. Nezzie’s questions jolted painful memories and emotions to the surface, and caught her by surprise. Now she had to confront them.
Nezzie was as open and frank as the rest of her people, and her questions had come spontaneously, but she was not without sensitivity. “I’m sorry, Ayla. I should have thought …”
“Do not have concern, Nezzie,” Ayla said, blinking to hold back tears. “I know questions come when I speak of son. It … pains … to think of Durc.”
“You don’t have to talk about him.”
“Sometime must talk about Durc.” Ayla paused, then