The Plains of Passage - Jean M. Auel [272]
“Ayla?”
“Didn’t you see her? She is the woman I have been traveling with.”
Attaroa laughed. “You were traveling with a woman who rides on the backs of horses? If you are not a traveling storyteller, you have missed your calling.” Then she leaned forward and, jabbing her finger at him for emphasis, said, “Everything you’ve said is untrue. You are a liar and a thief!”
“I am neither a liar nor a thief! I have told the truth and I have stolen nothing,” Jondalar said with conviction. But in his heart he couldn’t really blame her for not believing him. Unless someone had seen Ayla, who would believe that they had traveled by riding on the backs of horses? He began to worry about how he would ever convince Attaroa that he wasn’t lying, that he had not intentionally interfered with their hunt. If he’d known the full extent of his plight, he would have been more than concerned.
Attaroa studied the tall, muscular, handsome man standing in front of her, wrapped in the hides he had torn from his cage. She noticed that his blond beard was a shade darker than his hair and that his eyes, an unbelievably vivid shade of blue, were compelling. She felt strongly attracted to him, but the very strength of her response dredged up painful memories long suppressed and provoked a powerful but strangely twisted reaction. She would not allow herself to be attracted to any man, because to have feelings for one might give him control over her—and never again would she allow anyone, particularly a man, to have control over her.
She had taken his parka and left him standing in the cold for the same reason she had withheld food and water. Deprivation made men easier to control. While they still had the strength to resist, it was necessary to keep them tied. But the Zelandonii man, wrapped in those hides he was not supposed to have, showed no fear, she thought. Look at him standing there, so sure of himself.
He was so defiant and cocky, he had even dared to criticize her in front of everyone, including the men in the Holding. He did not cringe, or plead, or hurry to please her as they did. But she vowed that he would before she was through with him. She was determined to bring him down. She would show them all how to handle a man like that, and then … he would die.
But before I break him, she said to herself, I will play with him for a while. Besides, he’s a strong man, and he’ll be hard to control if he decides to resist. He’s suspicious now, so I need to make him lower his guard. He needs to be weakened. S’Armuna will know of something. Attaroa beckoned to the shaman and spoke to her privately. Then she looked at the man and smiled, but the smile held such malice that it sent a chill up his spine.
Jondalar not only threatened her leadership, he threatened the fragile world that her sick mind had led her to create. He even threatened her tenuous hold on reality, which had recently been stretched very thin.
“Come with me,” S’Armuna said when she left Attaroa.
“Where are we going?” Jondalar asked, as he stepped in beside her. Two women with spears followed behind.
“Attaroa wants me to treat your wound.”
She led Jondalar to a dwelling on the far edge of the settlement, similar to the big earthlodge that Attaroa had been seated near, but smaller and more dome-shaped. A low, narrow entrance led through a short passageway to another low opening. Jondalar had to bend over and walk bent-kneed for a few paces, then step down three stairs. No one, except a child, could enter her dwelling easily, but once inside, the man was able to stand to his full height with room to spare. The two women who had followed stayed outside.
After his eyes adjusted to the dim interior, he noticed a bed platform against the far wall. It was covered with a white fur of some kind … the rare and unusual white animals were held sacred among his people and, he had discovered in his travels, by many others as well. Dried herbs hung from roof supports and racks, and many of the baskets and bowls on shelves along the walls probably contained more.