The shelters of stone - Jean M. Auel [143]
“No, no. Shevonar, Shevonaaar,” Relona cried. She laid her head on his chest and heaved great sobs of sorrow and grief. Ranokol was standing beside her with tears miming down his cheeks, looking bewildered, dazed, at a loss. He didn’t know what to do.
Suddenly they were startled by a loud and eerie howl at close quarters that sent shivers down their backs. As one, they looked at Wolf. He was standing on all four legs with his head thrown back, wailing a spine-tingling wolf song.
“What’s he doing?” Ranokol said, quite upset.
“He is grieving for your brother,” said the familiar voice of Zelandoni. “As we all do.”
Everyone was relieved to see her. She had arrived with Relona and several others, but had stayed back to observe when Shevonar’s mate rushed ahead. Relona’s sobs turned to a wailing moan, a keening of her grief. Zelandoni joined her in her anguished lament, then several others. Wolf howled along with them. Finally, Ranokol broke down sobbing and threw himself across the man on the bed. An instant later he and Relona were clinging together, rocking and keening their sorrow.
Ayla thought it was good for both of them. To alleviate his pain and anger, she knew Ranokol needed to let his grief out, and Relona had helped him. When Wolf howled again, she joined him in a howl so realistic, many thought at first it was another wolf. Then, to the surprise of those who had kept a vigil for the man in the shelter, from a distance they heard another wolf howl, joining in the keening wolf song of grief.
After a while, the donier helped Relona up and led her to a fur that had been spread on the ground near the fire. Joharran helped the man’s brother to a place on the other side of the hearth. The woman sat there rocking back and forth, making a low moaning sound, indifferent to everything around her. Ranokol just sat staring blankly at the fire.
The Zelandoni of the Third spoke quietly with the huge Zelandoni from the Ninth Cave, and shortly after returned with a steaming cup of liquid in each hand. The donier of the Ninth Gave took one cup from the Third and urged it on Relona, who drank it without objection, as though she didn’t know, or care, what she did. The Third’s other cup was brought to Ranokol, who ignored the proffered drink, but after some urging he finally drank it. Soon both of them were lying on the furs near the fire, asleep.
“I’m glad to see her quieted,” Joharran said, “and him, too.”
“They needed to grieve,” Ayla said.
“Yes, they did, but now they need to rest,” Zelandoni said. “And so do you, Ayla.”
“Have something to eat first,” Proleva said. Joharran’s mate had come with Relona and Zelandoni and a few others from the Ninth Cave. “We roasted some bison meat, and the Third Cave brought other food.”
“I’m not hungry,” Ayla said.
“But you must be tired,” Joharran said. “You hardly left his side for a moment.”
“I wish I could have done more for him. I couldn’t think of anything to help him,” Ayla said, shaking her head and looking dejected.
“But you did,” said the older man who was the Zelandoni of the Third. “You eased his pain. No one could have done more, and he wouldn’t have field on to life without your help. I would not have used a poultice in that way. To ease aches or bruises, yes, but for internal injuries? I don’t think I would have thought of it. Yet it did seem to help.”
“Yes. It was a perceptive way to treat him,” the Ninth’s Zelandoni said. “Have you done that before?”
“No. And I wasn’t sure it would help, but I had to try something,” Ayla said.
“You did well,” the donier said. “But now you should have something to eat, and rest.”
“No, nothing to eat, but I think I will lie down for a while,” Ayla said. “Where’s Jondalar?”
“He went