The Plains of Passage - Jean M. Auel [323]
The way she said the name was the gentle nicker that was the sound made by a horse. Traveling alone with only Jondalar and the animals for so long, she had slipped back into the habit of saying Whinney’s name in its original form. The nicker coming from the woman’s mouth startled S’Armuna, and the very idea of being the friend of a horse was beyond comprehension. It didn’t matter that Ayla had said it wasn’t magic. She had just convinced S’Armuna that it was.
“Perhaps,” the woman said. But she thought, No matter how simple you try to make it, you can’t stop people from wondering who you really are, and why you have come here. “People want to think, and hope, that you have come to help them,” she continued. “They fear Attaroa, but I think with your help, and Jondalar’s, they may be willing to stand up to her and make her free the men. They may refuse to let her intimidate them any more.”
Ayla was again feeling a strong need to get out of the lodge, which was more uncomfortable. “All this tea,” she said, standing up. “I need to pass water. Can you tell me where to go, S’Armuna?” After she listened to the directions, she added, “We need to see to the horses while we’re out, make sure they are comfortable. Is it all right to leave these bowls here for a while?” She had lifted a lid and was checking the contents. “It’s cooling off fast. It’s too bad this can’t be served hot. It would be better.”
“Of course, leave it,” S’Armuna said, picking up her cup and drinking the last of her tea as she watched the two strangers leave.
Perhaps Ayla wasn’t an incarnation of the Great Mother, and Jondalar really was Marthona’s son, but the idea that someday the Mother would exact Her retribution had been weighing heavily on the One Who Served Her. After all, she was S’Armuna. She had exchanged her personal identity for the power of the spirit world, and this Camp was her charge, all the people, women and men. She had been entrusted with the care of the spiritual essence of the Camp, and Her children depended on her. Looking from the view of outsiders, of the man who had served to remind her of her calling, and the woman with unusual powers, S’Armuna knew she had failed them. She only hoped it was still possible to redeem herself and to help the Camp recover a normal, healthy life.
32
S’Armuna stepped outside her lodge and watched the two visitors as they walked away toward the edge of the Camp. She saw that Attaroa and Epadoa, standing in front of the headwoman’s lodge, had turned to watch them, too. The shaman was about to go back in when she noticed Ayla suddenly changing direction and heading for the palisade. Attaroa and her chief Wolf Woman also saw her veer, and both moved forward in quick strides to intercept the blond woman. They reached the fenced enclosure almost simultaneously. The older woman arrived a moment later.
Through the cracks, Ayla looked directly into the eyes and faces of silent watchers on the other side of the sturdy poles. On close inspection, they were a sorry sight, dirty and unkempt, and dressed in ragged skins, but even worse was the stench emanating from the Holding. It was not only malodorous; to the perceptive nose of the medicine woman it was revealing. Normal body odors of healthy individuals did not bother her, even a certain amount of normal bodily wastes was not offensive, but she smelled sickness. The foetid breath of starvation, the noisome filth of excrement resulting from stomach ailments and fever, the foul odor of pus from infected, suppurating wounds, and even the putrid rot of progressed gangrene, all assaulted her senses and infuriated her.
Epadoa stepped in front of Ayla, trying to block her view, but she had seen enough. She turned and confronted Attaroa. “Why are these people held here behind this fence, like animals in a surround?”
There was a gasp of surprise from the people who were watching when they heard the translation, and they held their breaths waiting for the headwoman’s reaction. No one had ever dared to ask her before.