The Plains of Passage - Jean M. Auel [273]
He watched her stir up the fire, add dried dung and a few sticks of wood, and pour water into a blackened, pouchlike container, formerly the stomach of an animal, attached to a frame of bone. From a basket on one of her shelves, she added a small handful of some dried material, and when the water began to soak through the container, she moved it directly over the flames. As long as there was liquid in it, even if it was boiling, the pouch could not catch fire.
Though Jondalar did not know what it was, the odor that rose from the pot was familiar and, strangely, made him think of home. With a sudden flash of memory, he knew why. It was a smell that had often emanated from a zelandoni’s fire. They used the decoction to wash wounds and injuries.
“You speak the language very well. Did you live among the Zelandonii long?” Jondalar asked.
S’Armuna looked up at him and seemed to consider her reply. “Several years,” she said.
“Then you know that the Zelandonii welcome their visitors. I don’t understand these people. What could I possibly have done to deserve such treatment?” Jondalar said. “You shared the hospitality of the Zelandonii—why don’t you explain to them about rights of passage and courtesy to visitors? It’s really more than a courtesy, it’s an obligation.”
S’Armuna’s only response was a sardonic glance.
He knew he wasn’t handling the situation well, but he was still so incredulous over his recent experiences that he found himself with an almost childish need to explain how things should be, as if that would put them right. He decided to try another approach.
“I wonder, since you lived there so long, if you knew my mother. I am the son of Marthona…” He would have continued, but the expression on her somewhat misshapen face stopped him. She registered such shock that it contorted her features even more.
“You are the son of Marthona, born to the hearth of Joconan?” she finally said, more as a question.
“No, that’s my brother Joharran. I was born to Dalanar’s hearth, the man she mated later. Did you know Joconan?”
“Yes,” S’Armuna said, looking down, then turning her attention back to the skin pot that was almost boiling.
“Then you must have known my mother, too!” Jondalar was excited. “If you knew Marthona, then you know I’m not a liar. She would never put up with that in a child of hers. I know it sounds unbelievable—I’m not even sure I’d believe it, if I didn’t know better—but the woman I was traveling with was sitting on the back of one of those horses that was being chased over the cliff. It was one she raised from a foal, not one that really belonged to that herd. Now I don’t even know if she’s alive. You must tell Attaroa I’m not lying! I’ve got to look for her. I’ve got to know if she’s still alive!”
Jondalar’s impassioned plea elicited no response from the woman. She did not even look up from the pouch of boiling water she was stirring. But, unlike Attaroa, she did not doubt him. One of Attaroa’s hunters had come to her with a story about seeing a woman riding on one of the horses, afraid because she thought it was a spirit. S’Armuna thought there could be something to Jondalar’s story, but she wondered whether it was real or supernatural.
“You did know Marthona, didn’t you?” Jondalar asked, walking to the fire to get her attention. He had gotten her to respond before by invoking his mother.
When she looked up, her face was impassive. “Yes, I knew Marthona, once. I was sent, when I was young, to be trained by the Zelandoni of the Ninth Cave. Sit here,” she said. Then she moved the frame back from the fire, turned away from him, and