The Plains of Passage - Jean M. Auel [156]
They walked to the back and under the sandstone shelf, past a central hearth that was obviously a gathering place, to a wooden structure that resembled a sloping tent. Ayla noticed its construction as they approached. A ridgepole was anchored in the ground at the back and supported by a pole in front. Tapered oak planks that had been split radially out of a large tree trunk were leaned against it, graduated in size from short at the back to long in front. When she got closer, she saw that the planks were fastened together with slender willow withes sewn through predrilled holes.
Dolando pushed back a yellow drape of soft leather and held it up while everyone entered. He tied it back to allow more light in. Inside, thin cracks of daylight could be seen between some of the planks, but leather skins lined the walls in places to ward off drafts, although there was not much wind within the baylike niche carved out of the mountain. There was a small fireplace near the front, with a shorter plank making a hole in the roof above it, but no rain cover. The overhang protected the dwelling from rain and snow. Along one wall toward the back was a bed, a wide wooden shelf, fastened to the wall on one side and supported by legs on the other, covered by stuffed leather padding and furs. In the dim light, Ayla could just make out a woman reclining on it.
Darvalo knelt beside the bed, holding out the berries. “Here are the blackberries I promised you, Roshario. But I didn’t pick them. Ayla did.”
The woman opened her eyes. She had not been sleeping, only trying to rest, but she did not know visitors had arrived. She didn’t quite catch the name Darvalo had said.
“Who picked them?” she said in a weak voice.
Dolando, bent over the bed, put his hand on her forehead. “Roshario, look who’s here! Jondalar has come back,” he said.
“Jondalar?” she said, looking at the man who was kneeling beside her bed next to Darvalo. He almost winced at the pain he saw etched on her face. “Is it really you? Sometimes I dream and think that I see my son, or Jetamio, and then I find out it’s not true. Is it you, Jondalar, or are you a dream?”
“It’s not a dream, Rosh,” Dolando said. Jondalar thought he saw tears in his eyes. “He’s really here. He brought someone with him. A Mamutoi woman. Her name is Ayla.” He beckoned her forward.
Ayla motioned Wolf to stay, and she walked toward the woman. That she was suffering great pain was immediately apparent. Her eyes were glazed and had dark circles around them, making them seem sunken; her face was flushed with fever. Even from a distance and beneath the light covering, Ayla could see that her arm, between the shoulder and elbow, was bent in a grotesque angle.
“Ayla of the Mamutoi, this is Roshario of the Sharamudoi,” Jondalar said. Darvalo moved over and Ayla took his place beside the bed.
“In the name of the Mother, you are welcome, Ayla of the Mamutoi,” Roshario said, trying to rise, then giving up and lying back again. “I am sorry I cannot greet you properly.”
“In the Mother’s name, I thank you,” Ayla said. “There is no need for you to get up.”
Jondalar translated, but Tholie had included everyone to some degree in her language instructions, and she had laid a good groundwork for understanding Mamutoi. Roshario had understood the gist of Ayla’s words, and she nodded.
“Jondalar, she’s in terrible pain. I’m afraid it could be very bad. I want to examine her arm,” Ayla said, shifting to Zelandonii so the woman wouldn’t know how serious she thought the injury was, but it did not disguise the urgency in her voice.
“Roshario, Ayla is a healer, a daughter of the Mammoth Hearth. She would like to look at your arm,” Jondalar said, then looked up at Dolando to make sure he did not disapprove. The man was willing to try anything that might help, so long as Roshario agreed.
“A healer?” the woman said. “Shamud?”
“Yes, like a shamud. Can she look?”
“I’m afraid it’s too late to help,