The Plains of Passage - Jean M. Auel [278]
Jondalar was aghast. “Why is this man here?”
“Epadoa’s spear-stickers did that,” Ebulan said.
“Does S’Armuna know about this? She could do something for him.”
“S’Armuna! Hah! What makes you think she would do anything?” said Olamun, who was among those who had followed them. “Who do you think helped Attaroa in the first place?”
“But she cleaned the wound on my head,” Jondalar said.
“Then Attaroa must have plans for you,” Ebulan said.
“Plans for me? What do you mean?”
“She likes to put the men who are young and strong enough to work, as long as she can control them,” Olamun said.
“What if someone doesn’t want to do her work?” Jondalar asked. “How can she control them?”
“By withholding food or water. If that doesn’t work, by threatening kin,” Ebulan said. “If you know that the man of your hearth or your brother will be put in the cage without food or water, you’ll usually do what she wants.”
“The cage?”
“The place you were kept,” Ebulan said. Then he smiled wryly. “Where you got that magnificent cloak.” Other men were smiling, too.
Jondalar looked at the ragged hide he had torn from the structure inside the earthlodge and wrapped around him.
“That was a good one!” Olamun said. “Ardemun told us how you almost broke down the cage, too. I don’t think she expected that.”
“Next time, she make stronger cage,” said another man. It was obvious that he was not entirely familiar with the language. Ebulan and Olamun were so fluent that Jondalar had forgotten that Mamutoi was not the native language of these people. But apparently others knew some, and most seemed to understand what was being said.
The man on the ground moaned, and the old man knelt to comfort him. Jondalar noticed a couple of other figures stirring, farther back under the lean-to.
“It won’t matter. If she doesn’t have a cage, she’ll threaten to hurt your kin to make you do what she wants. If you were mated before she became headwoman, and were unlucky enough to have a son born to your hearth, she can make you do anything,” Ebulan said.
Jondalar didn’t like the implication, and he frowned deeply. “Why should it be unlucky to have a son born to your hearth?”
Ebulan glanced toward the old man. “S’Amodun?”
“I will ask if they want to meet the Zelandonii,” he said.
It was the first time S’Amodun had spoken, and Jondalar wondered how a voice so deep and rich could emanate from so spare a man. He went to the back of the lean-to, bending down to talk to the figures huddled in the space where the slanting roof reached the ground. They could hear the deep mellow tones of his voice, but not his words, and then the sound of younger voices. With the old man’s help, one of the younger figures got up and hobbled toward them.
“This is Ardoban,” the old man announced.
“I am Jondalar of the Ninth Cave of the Zelandonii, and in the name of Doni, the Great Earth Mother, I greet you, Ardoban,” he said with great formality, holding out both his hands to the youngster, somehow feeling that the boy needed to be treated with dignity.
The boy tried to stand straighter and take his hands, but Jondalar saw him wince with pain. He started to reach for him to support him, but caught himself.
“I really prefer to be called Jondalar,” he said, with a smile, trying to gloss over the awkward moment.
“I called Doban. Not like Ardoban. Attaroa always say Ardoban. She wants me say S’Attaroa. I not say anymore.”
Jondalar looked puzzled.
“It’s hard to translate. It’s a form of respect,” Ebulan said. “It means someone held in the highest regard.”
“And Doban does not respect Attaroa anymore.”
“Doban hate Attaroa!” the youngster said, his voice rising to the edge of tears as he tried to turn away and hobble back. S’Amodun waved