The Plains of Passage - Jean M. Auel [197]
He paused, and Ayla turned to look at him. She had known he would refuse, but that was not what she expected him to say. She noticed a subtle, nearly indiscernible nod, as though he’d thought of something else. Then he smiled at her.
“When he died, Ayla gave Thonolan’s spirit what comfort she could for his Journey through the next world, but his spirit was not laid to rest, and I am afraid, I have a feeling, that he wanders lost and alone, trying to find his way back to the Mother.”
His remark surprised Ayla, and she watched him closely as he continued.
“I cannot leave it like that. Someone needs to help him find his way, but I know of only one who might know how: Zelandoni, a shamud, a very powerful shamud, who was there when he was born. Perhaps, with the help of Marthona—his mother and mine—Zelandoni might be able to find his spirit and guide it on the right path.”
Ayla knew that wasn’t the reason he wanted to return, at least not the main reason. She sensed that what he said was perfectly true but, she suddenly realized, like the answer she had given him when he asked her about the golden thread plant, it was not complete.
“You’ve been gone a long time, Jondalar,” Tholie said, her disappointment clear. “Even if they could help him, how do you know if your mother, or this Zelandoni, are still alive?”
“I don’t know, Tholie, but I have to try. Even if they can’t help, I think Marthona and the rest of his kin would like to know how happy he was here, with Jetamio, and you and Markeno. My mother would have liked Jetamio, I’m sure, and I know she would like you, Tholie.” The woman tried not to show it, but she could not help being pleased by his comment, even if she was disappointed. “Thonolan made a great Journey—and it always was his Journey I only followed along to look out for him. I want to tell about his Journey. He traveled all the way to the end of the Great Mother River, but even more important, he found a place here, with people who loved him. It is a story that deserves to be told.”
“Jondalar, I think you are still trying to follow your brother, to look out for him even in the next world,” Roshario said. “If that is what you must do, we can only wish you well. I think Shamud would have told us that you must follow your own path.”
Ayla considered what Jondalar had done. The offer made by Tholie and the Sharamudoi, to become one of them, was not made lightly. It was generous and very much an honor, and for those reasons it was hard to refuse without offending. Only a strong need to fulfill a higher goal, to follow a more compelling quest, could make the rejection acceptable. Jondalar chose not to mention that even though he thought of them as kin, they were not the kin he was homesick for, but his incomplete truth had provided a graceful and face-saving refusal.
In the Clan, not mentioning was acceptable to allow an element of privacy in a society where it was difficult to hide anything, because emotions and thoughts could be discerned so easily from postures, expressions, and subtle gestures. Jondalar had chosen to show a necessary consideration. She had the feeling that Roshario had suspected the truth, that she had accepted his excuse for the same reason that he had given it. The subtlety was not lost on Ayla, but she wanted to think about it, and she realized that generous offers could have more than one side to them.
“How long will you stay, Jondalar?” Markeno asked.
“We have traveled farther than I thought we would by now. I did not expect to get here until fall. I think, because of the horses, we are moving faster than I expected,” he explained, “but we still have a long way to go, and there are difficult obstacles ahead. I would like to leave as soon as we can.”
“Jondalar, we can’t leave so soon,” Ayla interjected. “I can’t go until Roshario’s arm is healed.”
“How long