The Plains of Passage - Jean M. Auel [150]
“Jondalar? Jondalar! What are you doing here? I thought you went away and were never coming back,” Darvo said.
They rushed toward each other and threw their arms around each other; then the man backed off and looked at him, holding him by the shoulders. “Let me see you! I can’t believe how you’ve grown!” Ayla stared at the young man, drawn to the sight of another person after not seeing one for so long.
Jondalar hugged him again. Ayla could see the genuine affection they shared, but after the first rush of greeting, Darvo seemed a little embarrassed. Jondalar understood the sudden reticence. Darvo was, after all, nearly a man now. Formal hugs of greeting were one thing, but exuberant displays of unrestrained affection, even for someone who had been like the man of your hearth for a time, were something else. Darvo looked at Ayla. Then he noticed the wolf she was holding back, and his eyes opened wide again. Then he saw the horses standing quietly nearby, with baskets and poles hanging on them, and his eyes opened even wider.
“I think I’d better introduce you to my … friends,” Jondalar said.
“Darvo of the Sharamudoi, this is Ayla of the Mamutoi,” Jondalar said.
Ayla recognized the cadence of the formal introduction, and enough of the words. She signaled Wolf to stay then walked toward the boy, with both hands outstretched, palms up.
“I am Darvalo of the Sharamudoi,” the young man said, taking her hands, and he said it in the Mamutoi language. “I welcome you, Ayla of the Mamutoi.”
“Tholie has taught you well! You are speaking Mamutoi as though you were born to it, Darvo. Or do I say Darvalo now?” Jondalar said.
“I am called Darvalo, now. Darvo is a child’s name,” the youngster said; then he suddenly flushed. “But you can call me Darvo, if you want. I mean, that’s the name you know.”
“I think Darvalo is a fine name,” Jondalar said. “I’m glad you kept up the lessons with Tholie.”
“Dolando thought it would be a good idea. He said I would need the language when we go to trade with the Mamutoi next spring.”
“Would you, perhaps, like to meet Wolf, Darvalo?” Ayla said.
The young man knitted his brows in consternation. In his whole life, he never expected to meet a wolf face to face, and he never wanted to. But Jondalar isn’t afraid of him, Darvalo thought, and the woman isn’t either … she’s kind of a strange woman … she talks a little strange, too. Not wrong, but not quite like Tholie, either.
“If you reach your hand over here, and let him smell it, it will give Wolf a chance to know you,” Ayla said.
Darvalo wasn’t sure if he wanted his hand to be so close to the wolf’s teeth, but he didn’t think there was any way he could back out now. He tentatively reached forward. Wolf sniffed his hand, then unexpectedly he licked it. His tongue was warm and wet, but it certainly didn’t hurt. In fact, it was rather nice. The youngster looked at the animal and the woman. She had an arm carelessly, and comfortably, draped around the wolfs neck, and she was petting his head with the other hand. What did it feel like to pet a living wolf on the head, he wondered?
“Would you like to feel his fur?” Ayla asked.
Darvalo looked surprised; then he reached out to touch, but Wolf moved to sniff him and he pulled back.
“Here,” Ayla said, taking his hand and putting it firmly on the Wolfs head. “He likes to be scratched, like this,” she said, showing him.
Wolf suddenly noticed a flea, or the tentative scratchings reminded him of one. He sat back on his haunch and, with a spasm of rapid motion, scratched behind his ear with his hind leg. Darvalo smiled. He had never seen a wolf in such a funny position, scratching fast and furious.
“I told you he likes to be scratched. So do the horses,” Ayla said, signaling Whinney forward.
Darvalo glanced at Jondalar. He was just standing and smiling, like there was nothing strange at all about a woman who scratched wolves and horses.
“Darvalo of the Sharamudoi, this is whinny,” Ayla said Whinney