The Plains of Passage - Jean M. Auel [330]
S’Armuna translated, adding a cautionary, “Be careful.”
But Ayla needed neither the translation nor the warning. “I don’t want any mushrooms right now,” she said.
Attaroa laughed when she heard Ayla’s words repeated, as though she had expected such an answer. “Too bad,” she said, dipping into the bowl with her hand and lifting out a large mouthful. When she had swallowed enough to speak, she added, “These are delicious!” She ate several more mouthfals, then handed the bowl to Epadoa, smiled knowingly, and downed her cup of birch brew.
As the meal progressed, she drank several more cups and was beginning to show the effects; she was becoming loud and insulting. One of the Wolf Women who’d been left guarding the Holding—they had exchanged places with other guards so that everyone could share in the feast—approached Epadoa, who then came to Attaroa and spoke to her in a whisper.
“It seems Ardemun wants to come out and bring thanks from the men for this feast,” Attaroa said, and she laughed with derision. “I’m sure I am not the one they want to thank. It is our most honored visitor.” She turned to Epadoa. “Bring the old man out.”
The guard went back and soon Ardemun was limping toward the fire from the gate of the wooden fence. Jondalar was surprised at how glad he was to see him, and he realized that he hadn’t seen any men since he had left the Holding. He wondered how they all were.
“So the men want to thank me for this feast?” the headwoman said.
“Yes, S’Attaroa. They asked me to come and tell you.”
“Tell me, old man, why do I have trouble believing you?”
Ardemun knew better than to reply. He simply stood there, looking down at the ground, as though he wished he could disappear.
“Worthless! He’s worthless! No fight in him at all,” Attaroa spat with disgust. “Just like all of them. They’re all worthless.” She turned to Ayla. “Why do you keep yourself tied to that man?” she said, indicating Jondalar. “Are you not strong enough to be free of him?”
Ayla waited until S’Armuna translated, which gave her time to consider her answer. “I choose to be with him. I lived alone long enough,” Ayla replied.
“What good will he be to you when he becomes weak and feeble like Ardemun there,” Attaroa said, casting a sneering glance at the old man. “When his tool is too limp to give you Pleasure, he’ll be as worthless as the rest of them.”
Again Ayla waited for the older woman, though she understood the headwoman. “No one stays young forever. There is more to a man than his tool.”
“But you should get rid of that one; he won’t last long.” She motioned toward the tall blond man. “He looks strong, but it’s all show. He did not have the strength to take Attaroa, or perhaps he was just afraid.” She laughed and swallowed another cupful of brew, then turned to Jondalar. “That was it! Admit it, you fear me. That’s why you couldn’t take me.”
Jondalar also understood her, and it made him angry. “There is a difference between fear and lack of desire, Attaroa. You cannot force desire. I did not share the Mother’s Gift because I did not want you,” Jondalar said.
S’Armuna glanced at Attaroa and cringed before she began the translation, almost forcing herself not to modify his words.
“That’s a lie!” Attaroa screamed, incensed. She stood up and hovered over him. “You feared me, Zelandonii. I could see it. I’ve fought men before, and you were even afraid to fight me.”
Jondalar stood up, too, and Ayla with him. Several of her women closed in around them.
“These people are our guests,” S’Armuna said, also getting up. “They were invited to share our feast. Have we forgotten how to treat visitors?”
“Yes, of course. Our guests,” Attaroa said scornfully. “We must be courteous and hospitable to visitors, or the woman won’t think well of us. I’ll show you how much I care what she thinks of us. You both left here without my permission. Do you know what we do to people who run away from here? We kill them! Just like I will kill you,” the head-woman screeched, as she lunged for Ayla with a sharpened