The Plains of Passage - Jean M. Auel [295]
Discourteous and inhospitable! Jondalar fought to control a derisive laugh. More like murderous and inhuman! He had been watching and listening with amazement, and he was grinning with appreciation for Ayla’s understatement. He remembered when she couldn’t even understand a joke, much less make subtle insults.
Attaroa was obviously irritated; it was all she could do to contain herself. She had felt the barb of Ayla’s “courteous” criticism. She had been scolded as if she were a mere child; a bad girl. She would have preferred the implied power of being called evil, a powerfully evil woman to be respected and greatly feared. The mildness of the words made her seem laughable. Attaroa noticed Jondalar’s grin and glared at him bale-fully, certain that everyone watching wanted to laugh with him. She vowed to herself that he would be sorry, and so would that woman!
Ayla seemed to resettle herself on Whinney, but she had actually shifted her position unobtrusively in order to get a better grip on the spear-thrower.
“I believe Jondalar needs his clothes,” Ayla continued, lifting the spear slightly, making it apparent that she held it without being overtly threatening. “Don’t forget his outer fur, the one you are wearing. And perhaps you should send someone into your lodge to get his belt, his mitts, his waterbag, his knife, and the tools he had with him.” She waited for S’Armuna to translate.
Attaroa clenched her teeth but smiled, though it was more a grimace. She signaled Epadoa with a nod. With her left arm, the one that wasn’t sore—Epadoa knew she would also have a bruise on her leg where Jondalar had kicked her—the woman who was the leader of Attaroa’s Wolves picked up the clothes they had struggled so hard to pull off the man and dropped them down in front of him; then she went inside the large earthlodge.
While they waited, the headwoman suddenly spoke up, trying to assume a friendlier tone. “You have traveled a long way, you must be tired—what did he say your name was? Ayla?”
The woman on horseback nodded, understanding her well enough. This leader cared little for formal introductions, Ayla noticed; not very subtle.
“Since you put such importance on it, you must allow me to extend the hospitality of my lodge. You will stay with me, won’t you?”
Before either Ayla or Jondalar could respond, S’Armuna spoke up. “I believe it is customary to offer visitors a place with the One Who Serves the Mother. You are welcome to share my lodge.”
While listening to Attaroa and waiting for the translation, the shivering man pulled on his trousers. Jondalar hadn’t thought too much about how cold he was before, when his life was in immediate jeopardy, but his fingers were so stiff that he fumbled to tie knots in the severed cords that held his legwear on. Though it was torn, he was grateful to have his tunic, but he stopped for a moment, surprised, when he heard S’Armuna’s offer. Looking up after he pulled the tunic over his head, he noticed that Attaroa was scowling at the shaman; then he sat down to put on his foot-coverings and boots as quickly as he could.
She will hear from me later, Attaroa thought, but she said, “Then you must allow me to share food with you, Ayla. We will prepare a feast, and you will be the honored guests. Both of you.” She included Jondalar in her glance. “We have recently had a successful hunt, and I cannot allow you to leave, thinking too badly of me.”
Jondalar thought her attempt at a friendly smile was ludicrous, and he had no desire either to eat their food or to stay in this encampment a moment longer, but before he could voice his opinion, Ayla answered.
“We will be happy to accept your hospitality, Attaroa. When do you plan to have this feast? I would like to make something to bring, but it is late in the day.”
“Yes, it is late,” Attaroa said, “and there are some things I will want to prepare,