The shelters of stone - Jean M. Auel [332]
“Janida is an intelligent young woman,” Jondalar said after they continued on. “Peridal is lucky to get her, and I hope he appreciates her.”
“There does seem to be some real affection between them,” Levela said. “I wonder why he was resisting the mating?”
“I would guess the resistance was more from his mother than from him,” Jondecam said.
“I think you are right,” Ayla said. “Peridal is very young. His mother still has a lot of influence on him. But so is Janida. How many years can each of them count?”
“I think both can count thirteen years. She just barely, he is some moons older, closer to a fourteen-year,” Levela said.
“I am an old man next to him,” Jondalar said. “I can count a double handful more, twenty-three years. Peridal hasn’t even had a chance to live in a fa’lodge yet.”
“And I am an old woman,” Ayla said. “I can count nineteen years.”
“That’s not so old, Ayla. I can count twenty years,” Joplaya said.
“What about you. Echozar?” Jondecam said. “How many years can you count?”
“I have no idea,” he said. “No one ever told me, or even kept track, as far as I know.”
“Have you ever tried to think back and remember each year?” Levela asked.
“I have a good memory, but childhood to me is a blur, each season just fading into the next,” Echozar said.
“I can count seventeen years,” Levela said.
“I’m a twenty-year,” Jondecam volunteered. “And here’s our camp. We will see you tomorrow.” They waved farewell with the beckoning come-back-to-see-us-again motion to the four who continued toward the combined camp of Zelandonii and Lanzadonii.
Ayla woke early on the day she and Jondalar were to be mated. The faint light that preceded the rising sun glimmered feebly through the cracks between the nearly opaque panels of the lodge, highlighting the seams and outlining the opening. She lay still, trying to distinguish details in the shadowy shapes silhouetted against the walls.
She could hear Jondalar’s regular breathing. She raised up quietly and looked at the face of the man sleeping beside her in the dim light. The fine straight nose, the square jaw, the high forehead. She remembered the first time she had studied his face while he slept, in the cave of her valley. He was the first man of her own kind she had seen, that she could recall, and he had been badly wounded. She didn’t know if he would live, but she thought then that he was beautiful.
She thought so still, although she had learned since that men were not usually called beautiful. Her love for the man swelled to fill her whole being. It was almost more than she could bear, almost painful, excruciatingly full, wonderfully warm. She could hardly contain herself. She got up quietly, dressed quickly, and slipped outside.
She looked out over the camp. From the slightly higher elevation of their campsite she could see The River Valley spread out before her. In the near darkness, the lodges appeared as black mounds rising out of the shadowy earth, each round structure with its center pole supporting the multi-dwelling units. The camp was still now, so different from the bustling, noisy, boisterous place it would be later.
Ayla turned toward the small creek and followed it upstream. It was growing perceptibly lighter, blotting out more of the twinkling sparks in the sky. The horses in their fenced-in enclosure noticed her approach and nickered softly in greeting. She veered toward them, ducking under the poles strung between posts that defined their area. She put her arm around the hay-colored mare’s neck.
“Today is the day Jondalar and I will be mated, Whinney. It seems so long ago that you brought him bleeding and almost dead to the cave. We’ve