The Plains of Passage - Jean M. Auel [421]
Jondalar felt such a fierce surge of love fill him that he thought he would burst. He reached for her and took her in his arms, feeling at that moment, with those few words, that he had experienced a Mating Ceremonial. It didn’t matter if he ever had one that would be recognized by his people. He would go through with it, to please Ayla, but he didn’t need it. He only needed to get her home safely.
A sudden gust of wind chilled Jondalar, driving away the flush of warmth he had felt and leaving him with a strange ambivalence. He got up and, walking away from the warmth of the small fire, took a deep breath. It left him gasping as the desiccating, freezing air seared his lungs. He ducked behind his fur hood and pulled it tight around his face to allow his body heat to warm the air he breathed. Though the last thing he wanted to feel was a warm wind, he knew such bitter cold was extremely dangerous.
To the north of them the great continental glacier had dipped southward, as though straining to encompass the beautiful icy mountains within its overwhelming frozen embrace. They were in the most frigid land on earth, between the glistening mountain tors and the immense northern ice, and it was the depths of winter. The air itself was sucked dry by the moisture-stealing glaciers greedily usurping every drop to increase their bloated, bedrock-crushing mass, building up reserves to withstand the onslaught of summer heat.
The battle between glacial cold and melting warmth for control of the Great Mother Earth was almost at a standstill, but the tide was turning; the glacier was gaining. It would make one more advance, and reach its farthest southward point, before it was beaten back to polar lands. But even there, it would only bide its time.
As they continued to mount the highland, each moment seemed colder than the one before. Their increasing altitude was bringing them inexorably closer to their rendezvous with ice. Fodder was getting harder for the horses to find. The sere withered grass near the stream of solid ice was flat against the frozen ground. The only snow was made up of hard dry stinging grains, whipped by driving wind.
They rode silently, but after they made camp and were cuddled together warmly within their tent, they talked.
“Yorga’s hair is beautiful,” Ayla said, snuggling into their furs.
“Yes, it is,” Jondalar said, with honest conviction.
“I wish Iza could have seen it, or anyone from Brun’s clan. They always thought my hair was so unusual, though Iza always said it was my best feature. It used to be light like hers, but it’s darker now.”
“I love the color of your hair, Ayla, and the way it falls in waves when you wear it loose,” Jondalar commented, touching a strand next to her face.
“I didn’t know people of the Clan lived so far away from the peninsula.”
Jondalar could tell her mind was not on hair, or on anything close and personal. She was thinking about the Clan people, as he had been earlier.
“Guban looks different, though. He seems … I don’t know, it’s hard to explain. His brows are heavier, his nose is bigger, his face is more … out. Everything about him seems more … pronounced, more Clan, in a way. I think he is even more muscular than Brun was. He didn’t seem to notice the cold as much, either. His skin was warm to the touch even when he was lying on the frozen ground. And his heart beat faster.”
“Maybe they’ve gotten used to cold. Laduni said a lot of them live north of here, and it hardly gets warm at all up there, even in summer,” Jondalar said.
“You may be right. They think alike, though. What made you tell Guban you were repaying a kinship debt to the Clan? It was the best argument you could have made.”
“I’m not sure. It’s true, though. I do owe my life to the Clan. If they hadn’t taken you in, you wouldn’t be alive, and then neither would I.”
“And by giving him that cave bear tooth, you could not have given him a better token. You were quick to understand their ways, Jondalar.”
“Their ways are not so different.