The Plains of Passage - Jean M. Auel [149]
Mounted on their horses, they stared into each other’s eyes, transfixed by something they could not explain but felt the force of: their evenly matched, though unique, emotions; the power of a charisma each possessed, aimed at the other; and the strength of their mutual love. Unthinking, they reached out to each other—which the horses misinterpreted. Whinney started walking downhill and Racer followed. The movement brought the woman and man back to an awareness of where they were. Feeling an inexplicable warmth and tenderness, and just a touch foolish because they didn’t quite know what had happened, they smiled at each other with a look that held a promise, and they continued down the hill, turning northwest to follow the plateau.
The morning that Jondalar thought they might reach the Sharamudoi settlement brought a crisp breath of frost to the air, foretelling the changing of seasons, and Ayla welcomed it. As they rode through the wooded hillsides, she could almost believe she had been there before, if she hadn’t known better. For some reason, she kept expecting to recognize a landmark. Everything seemed so familiar: the trees, the plants, the slopes, the lay of the land. The more she saw, the more at home she felt.
When she saw hazelnuts, still on the tree in their green prickly casings, but nearly ripe, the way she liked them, she had to stop and pick some. As she cracked a few with her teeth, suddenly it struck her. The reason she felt that she knew the area, that it felt like home, was that it resembled the mountainous region at the tip of the peninsula, around the cave of Brun’s clan. She had grown up in a place very much like this.
The area was becoming more familiar to Jondalar, too, with good reason, and when he found a clearly marked trail that he recognized, descending toward a path that led to the outside edge of a cliff face, he knew they weren’t far. He could feel the excitement growing inside him. When Ayla found a big thorny briar mound, high in the middle with long prickly runners, and branches weighted down with ripe, juicy blackberries, he felt an edge of irritation that she wanted to delay their arrival just to pick some.
“Jondalar! Stop. Look. Blackberries!” Ayla said, sliding off Whinney and rushing to the briar patch.
“But we’re almost there.”
“We can bring them some.” Her mouth was full. “I haven’t had blackberries like this since I left the Clan. Taste them, Jondalar! Have you ever tasted anything so sweet and good?” Her hands and mouth were purple from picking small handfuls and popping them all in her mouth at one time.
Watching her, Jondalar suddenly laughed. “You should see yourself,” he said. “You look like a little girl, full of berry stains and all excited.” He shook his head and chuckled. She didn’t answer. Her mouth was too full.
He picked some, decided that they were very sweet and good, and picked some more. After a few more handfuls, he stopped. “I thought you said we were going to pick some to take to them. We don’t even have anything to put them in.”
Ayla stopped for a moment, then smiled. “Yes, we do,” she said, taking off her sweat-stained, woven conical hat, and looking for some leaves to line it. “Use your hat.”
They had each filled a hat nearly three-quarters full when they heard Wolf give a warning growl. They looked up and saw a tall youth, almost a man, who had come along the trail, gaping at them and the wolf who was so near, eyes open wide with fear. Jondalar looked again.
“Darvo? Darvo, is it you? It’s me, Jondalar. Jondalar of the Zelandonii,” he said, striding toward the lad.
Jondalar was speaking a language Ayla wasn’t familiar with, though she heard some words and tones that were reminiscent