The Plains of Passage - Jean M. Auel [406]
Now he wished the other two would go. Their actions had been so unexpected that they made him uncomfortable. He just wanted to get back to his clan, although he didn’t know how he was going to do it with a broken leg. Ayla’s next gesture took both the man and woman completely by surprise. Even Jondalar could see their stunned confusion. She gracefully lowered herself to a cross-legged position in front of the man and looked demurely down at the ground.
Jondalar was surprised himself. She had done that to him on occasion, usually when she had something important to say to him and was frustrated because she couldn’t find the words to express herself, but this was the first time he had ever seen her use that posture in its proper context. It was a gesture of respect. She was requesting permission to address him, but it astonished the tall man to see Ayla, who was so capable and independent, approach this flathead, this man of the Clan, with such deference. She had tried to explain to him once that it was courtesy, tradition, their manner of speaking, and not necessarily denigrating, but Jondalar knew that no Zelandonii woman, or any other woman he knew, would ever approach anyone, man or woman, in that way.
As Ayla sat patiently waiting for the man to tap her shoulder, she wasn’t even sure if the sign language of these Clan people was the same as the language of the clan that had raised her. The distance between them was great, and these people had a different look. But she had noticed similarities of spoken languages, although the farther apart people lived, the less alike the language was. She could only hope that the sign language of these people would also be similar.
She thought their gestural language, like much of their knowledge and patterns of activities, came from their memories; the racial memories, akin to instinct, that each child was born with. If these people of the Clan came from the same ancient beginnings as the ones she had known, their language should be, at least, similar.
As she waited nervously, she began to wonder if the man had any idea what she was trying to do. Then she felt a tap on her shoulder and took a deep breath. It had been a long time since she had spoken with people of the Clan, not since she had been cursed—She had to forget about that. She couldn’t let these people know that she was dead as far as the Clan was concerned or they would cease to see her, just as though she didn’t exist. She looked up at the man, and they studied each other.
He could see no hint of Clan in her. She was a woman of the Others. She was not like one of those that seemed oddly deformed by a mixture of spirits, the way so many were born these days. But where had this woman of the Others learned the correct way to address a man?
Ayla had not seen a Clan face for many years, and his was a true Clan face, but it was not quite like the faces of the people she had known. His hair and beard were a lighter brown and appeared soft, and not quite as curly. His eyes were lighter, too, brown, but not the deep, liquid, almost black eyes of her people. His features were stronger, more accentuated: his brow ridges were heavier, his nose sharper, his face jutted out farther, his forehead even seemed to sweep back more abruptly, and his head was longer. He seemed somehow more Clan than her Clan.
Ayla started speaking with the gestures and words of the everyday language of Brun’s clan, the language of the Clan she had learned as a child. It was immediately apparent that he did not understand. Then the man made some sounds. They had the tone and quality of voice of the Clan, rather guttural with the vowels almost swallowed, and she strained to understand.
The man had a broken leg and she wanted to help him, but she also wanted to know more about these Clan people. In a certain way, she felt more comfortable around them than the people of the Others. But to help him, she needed to communicate with him, to make him understand. He spoke again and made signs.