The Plains of Passage - Jean M. Auel [277]
He recognized one or two from the walk up to the funeral, and he wondered why the men and boys were living in such a place. Suddenly several puzzling things came together: the attitude of the women with spears, the strange comments of Ardemun, the behavior of the men walking to the funeral, the reticence of S’Armuna, the belated examination of his wounds, and their generally harsh treatment of him. Maybe it wasn’t the result of a misunderstanding that would be cleared up as soon as he convinced Attaroa that he wasn’t lying.
The conclusion he was forced to seemed preposterous, but the fall realization struck him with the force to shatter his disbelief. It was so obvious that he wondered why it had taken him so long to see it. The men were kept here against their will by the women!
But why? It was such a waste to keep people inactive like this when they could all be contributing to the welfare and benefit of the entire community. He thought of the prosperous Lion Camp of the Mamutoi, with Talut and Tulie organizing the necessary activities of the Camp for the benefit of everyone. They all contributed, and they still had plenty of time to work on their own individual projects.
Attaroa! How much was her doing? She was obviously the head-woman or leader of this Camp. If she wasn’t entirely responsible, at the least, she seemed determined to maintain the peculiar situation.
These men should be hunting and collecting food, Jondalar thought, and digging storage pits, making new shelters and repairing old ones; contributing, not huddling together trying to keep warm. No wonder these people were out hunting horses this late in the season. Did they even have enough food stored to last through the winter? And why did they hunt so far away when they had such a perfect hunting opportunity so close at hand?
“You’re the one they call the Zelandonii man,” one of the men said, speaking Mamutoi. Jondalar thought he recognized him as one whose hands had been tied when they marched up to the funeral.
“Yes. I am Jondalar of the Zelandonii.”
“I am Ebulan of the S’Armunai,” he said, then added sardonically, “In the name of Muna, the Mother of All, let me welcome you to the Holding, as Attaroa likes to call this place. We have other names: the Men’s Camp, the Mother’s Frozen Underworld, and Attaroa’s Man Trap. Take your pick.”
“I don’t understand. Why are you … all of you, here?” Jondalar asked.
“It’s a long story, but essentially we were all tricked, one way or another,” Ebulan said. Then, with an ironic grimace, he continued, “We were even tricked into building this place. Or most of it.”
“Why don’t you just climb over the wall and get out?” Jondalar said.
“And get pierced by Epadoa and her spear-stickers?” another man said.
“Olamun is right. Besides, I’m not sure how many could make the effort, any more,” Ebulan added. “Attaroa likes to keep us weak … or worse.”
“Worse?” Jondalar said, frowning.
“Show him, S’Amodun,” Ebulan said to a tall, cadaverously thin man with gray matted hair and a long beard that was almost white. He had a strong, craggy face with a long, high-bridged beak of a nose and heavy brows that were accented by his gaunt face, but it was his eyes that captured the attention. They were compelling, as dark as Attaroa’s, but rather than malice they held depths of ancient wisdom, mystery, and compassion. Jondalar wasn’t sure what it was about him, some quality of carriage or demeanor, but he sensed that this was a man who commanded great respect, even in these wretched conditions.
The old man nodded and led the way