The Plains of Passage - Jean M. Auel [291]
Once he was hanging naked from the post, they all stood back and looked him over with self-satisfied smirks, pleased with themselves. Big and strong as he was, his fighting had done him no good. Jondalar’s toes touched the ground, but just barely, and it was clear that most men would have dangled there. It gave him some slight feeling of security to touch the earth, and he sent a vague, unvoiced appeal to the Great Earth Mother to somehow deliver him from this unexpected and fearful predicament.
Attaroa was interested in the massive scar on his upper thigh and groin. It had healed well. He had given no hint that he had sustained such a serious injury no limping or favoring of that leg. If he was that strong, perhaps he would last longer than most. He might give her some enjoyment yet. She smiled at the thought.
Attaroa’s detached appraisal gave Jondalar second thoughts. He felt a breeze raise goose bumps, and he shivered, but not only with the cold. When he looked up, he saw Attaroa smiling at him. Her face was flushed and her breathing fast; she looked pleased and strangely sensual. Her enjoyment was always greater if the man she Pleasured herself with was handsome. Attracted in her own way to the tall man with the unconscious charisma, she anticipated making this one last as long as possible.
He looked across at the fence made of poles, and he knew the men were watching through the cracks. He wondered why they hadn’t warned him. It was obviously not the first time something like this had happened. Would it have done any good if they had? Would he have just anticipated with fear? Perhaps they thought he would be better off not knowing.
In truth, some of the men had talked about it. They all liked the Zelandonii and admired his toolmaking skills. With the sharp knives and tools that were his legacy, they each hoped they might find an opportunity to break away They would always remember him for that, but each of them knew in his heart that if there was too long a time between visitors, Attaroa was likely to hang one of them from a target post. A couple of them had already been strung up once, and they knew that their abject pleadings would probably not move her to delay her deadly game again. They secretly cheered his refusal to give in to her demands, but they were afraid that any noise would call attention to themselves. Instead they watched in silence as the familiar scene unfolded, each of them feeling compassion and fear and a small stab of shame.
Not only her Wolf Women, but all the women of the Camp were expected to bear witness to the man’s ordeal. Most of them hated to watch, but they feared Attaroa, even her hunters. They stood as far back as they dared. It made some of them sick, but if they did not appear, then any man they had spoken up for in the past was the next one chosen. Some women had tried to run away, and a few had managed it, but most were caught and brought back. If there were men in the Holding they cared about—mates, brothers, sons—as punishment, the women were made to watch them suffer days in the cage without food or water. And occasionally, though rarely, they were put in the cage themselves.
The women with boys were particularly fearful, not knowing what would become of their sons, especially after what she had done to Ode-van and Ardoban, but the women who feared the most were the two with infants and the one who was pregnant. Attaroa was delighted with them, gave them special treats and asked after their welfare, but they each harbored a guilty secret and were afraid that if she ever found out, they would end up hanging from the target posts.
The headwoman stepped in front of her hunters and picked up a spear. Jondalar noticed it was rather heavy and clumsy and, in spite of himself, he thought about how he could make them a better one. But the