The Plains of Passage - Jean M. Auel [292]
Attaroa watched him through narrowed eyes, knowing that he feared her and enjoying it. Some of them begged. This one she knew would not, at least not immediately. She pulled her arm back as she prepared to make her throw. He closed his eyes and thought of Ayla, wondering if she was alive or dead, her body crushed and broken below a herd of horses at the bottom of the cliff. With a pain sharper than any spear could inflict, he knew that if she were dead, life had no meaning for him anyway.
He heard a thunk as a spear landed on the target, but above him, not low and painful. Suddenly he dropped to his heels as his arms were freed. He looked at his hands and saw that the short length of slack in the rope, which had been hung over the peg, was severed. Attaroa still held her spear in her hand. The spear he heard had not come from her. Jondalar looked up at the target pole and saw a neat, somewhat small, flint-tipped spear embedded beside the peg, its feathered end still quivering. The thin, finely made point had cut the cord. He knew that spear!
He turned back to look in the direction from which it had come. Directly behind Attaroa he saw movement. His vision became blurry as his eyes filled with tears of relief. He could hardly believe it. Could it really be her? Was she really alive? He glanced down to blink several times so he could see more clearly. Looking up, he saw four nearly black horse legs attached to a yellow horse with a woman on her back.
“Ayla!” he cried, “you’re alive!”
29
Attaroa spun around to see who had thrown the spear. From the far edge of the field that was just outside the Camp, she saw a woman coming toward her riding on the back of a horse. The hood of the woman’s far parka was thrown back, and her dark blond hair and the horse’s dun-yellow coat were so nearly the same color that the fearful apparition seemed truly of one flesh. Could the spear have come from the woman-horse? she wondered. But how could anyone throw a spear from that distance? Then she saw that the woman had another spear close at hand.
A chilling wash of fear crawled up Attaroa’s scalp, the sensation of her hair rising, but the cold tingling terror that she felt at that moment had little to do with anything so material as spears. The apparition she saw was not a woman; of that she was certain. In a moment of sudden lucidity, she knew the full and unspeakable atrocity of her heinous acts, and she saw the figure coming across the field as one of the spirit forms of the Mother, a munai, this one an avenging spirit sent to exact retribution. In her heart, Attaroa almost welcomed Her; it would be a relief to have the nightmare of this life ended.
The headwoman was not alone in fearing the strange woman-horse. Jondalar had tried to tell them, but no one had believed him. No one had ever conceived of a human riding a horse; even seeing it, it was hard to believe. Ayla’s sudden appearance struck each person individually. For some she was only intimidating because of the strangeness of a woman on horseback and their fear of the unknown; others looked upon her uncanny entrance as a sign of otherworldly power and were filled with foreboding. Many of them saw her as Attaroa did: their own personal nemesis, a reflection of their own consciences about their wrongdoings. Encouraged or forced by Attaroa, more than one had committed appalling brutalities, or allowed and abetted them, for which, in the quiet moments of the night, they felt deep shame or fear of retribution.
Even Jondalar wondered, for a moment, if Ayla had come back from the next world to save his life, convinced at that moment that if she had