The Plains of Passage - Jean M. Auel [410]
“Ask his permission, but not hers? Why do the women allow themselves to be treated as though they are less important than men?” Jondalar asked.
“They don’t think of it that way. They know, within themselves, that women and men are just as important, but men and women of the Clan are very different from each other,” Ayla tried to explain.
“Of course they are different. All men and women are different … I’m glad to say.”
“I don’t just mean different in the way you can see. You can do anything a woman can do, Jondalar, except have a baby, and although you are stronger, I can do almost everything you can do. But men of the Clan cannot do many things that women do, just as women cannot do the things that men do. They don’t have the memories for it. When I taught myself to hunt, many people were more surprised that I had the ability to learn, or even the desire, than that I had gone against the way of the Clan. It wouldn’t have astounded them any more if you had given birth to a baby. I think the women were more surprised than the men. The idea would never occur to a Clan woman.”
“I thought you said the people of the Clan and the Others are very much alike,” Jondalar said.
“They are. But in some ways, they are more different than you can imagine. Even I can’t imagine it, and I was one of them, for a while,” Ayla said. “Are you ready to talk to him now?”
“I think so,” he said.
The tall, blond man walked toward the powerful, stocky man who was still sitting on the ground, with his thigh bent at an unnatural angle. Ayla followed. Jondalar lowered himself to sit in front of the man, glancing at Ayla, who nodded approval.
He had never been so close to an adult flathead male before, and his first thought was a memory of Rydag. Looking at this man, it was even more obvious that the boy had not been full Clan. As Jondalar recalled the strange, bright, sickly child, he realized that Rydag’s features had been greatly modified in comparison—softened was the word that came to him. This man’s face was large, both long and wide, and jutted out somewhat, led by a sizable, protruding, sharp nose. His fine-haired beard, which showed signs of having been recently trimmed to a uniform length, did not entirely succeed in hiding a rather receding jaw, with no chin.
His facial hair blended into a mass of thick, softly curled, light brown hair covering a huge, long head, that was full and rounded at the back. But the man’s heavy brow ridges took up most of his forehead, which sloped back into a hairline that started low. Jondalar had to restrain an urge to reach up and touch his own sharply rising high forehead and domed head. He could understand why they were called flatheads. It was as if someone had taken a head that was shaped like his, but somewhat larger, and made of material as malleable as wet clay, then reshaped it by pushing down and flattening his forehead, forcing the bulk of the size toward the back.
The man’s heavy brows were accentuated by bushy eyebrows, and his gold-flecked, almost hazel eyes showed curiosity, intelligence, and an undercurrent of pain. Jondalar could understand why Ayla wanted to help him.
Jondalar felt clumsy making the gesture for greeting; but he was heartened by the look of surprise on the face of the man of the Clan, who returned the gesture. Jondalar wasn’t sure what to do next. He thought about what he would do if he were meeting any stranger from another Cave or Camp, and he tried to remember the signs he had learned to make with Rydag.
He gestured, “This man is called…” then spoke his name and primary affiliation, “Jondalar of the Zelandonii.”
It was too melodic, too full of syllables, too much