The shelters of stone - Jean M. Auel [61]
“I think I’ll wear my hair loose,” Ayla said as she began to take out the combs, pins, and bindings. “Jondalar likes it that way.” When she had removed all the paraphernalia, she picked up the comb and pulled it through her long, thick, dark blond hair, springy with a fresh-washed natural wave.
She adjusted her amulet around her neck—she never liked to be without it, though she often wore it under her clothes—then looked at herself in the reflector. Maybe someday she’d learn to fix her own hair, but for now she liked it much better the way it fell naturally. She glanced at Wylopa and wondered why the woman hadn’t seen how peculiar her hair had looked.
Ayla noticed her leather amulet bag in the reflector and tried to see it the way someone else might. It was lumpy with the objects it contained, and the color was much darker from sweat and wear than it had been. The small decorated bag had originally been intended as a sewing kit. Now, only dark quill-shafts remained of what had once been white feathers decorating the rounded bottom edge, but the ivory-beaded design was still intact and added an interesting look with the simple leather tunic. She decided to let it show.
She remembered that it was her friend Deegie who had persuaded her to use it as her amulet when she saw the plain and grimy pouch Ayla had worn before. Now this one was old and worn. She thought she ought to make a new one soon to replace it, but she would not throw this one away. It held too many memories.
She could hear activity outside and was getting very tired of watching the women adding insignificant little finishing touches to each other’s face or hair that had no visible effect that she could discern. Finally there was a scratch on the rawhide panel beside the opening of the living structure.
“Everyone’s waiting for Ayla,” a voice called. It sounded like Folara.
“Tell them she’ll be out soon,” Marona answered. “Are you sure you won’t let me paint your face a little, Ayla? After all, it is a celebration for you.”
“No, I really don’t want to.”
“Well, since they’re waiting for you, maybe you should go ahead. We’ll be along in a while,” Marona said. “We still have to change.”
“I think I will,” Ayla said, glad to have an excuse to leave. They had been inside for a long time, it seemed to her. “Thank you for your gifts,” she remembered to say. “This is really a very comfortable outfit.” She picked up her worn tunic and short pants and went out.
She saw no one under the overhanging shelter; Folara had gone ahead without waiting for her. Ayla quickly veered toward Marthona’s dwelling and left her old clothing inside the entrance. Then she walked rapidly toward the crowd of people she saw outside, beyond the shadow of the high stone shelf that protected the structures nestled beneath it.
As she came out into the light of the late afternoon sun, a few people nearby noticed her and stopped talking to gape. Then a few more noticed her and stared, jostling their neighbors to look, too. Ayla slowed down and then stopped, looking back at the people who were looking at her. Soon all the talking stopped. Suddenly, into the stillness, someone let out a stifled guffaw. Then another person laughed, and another. Soon everyone was laughing.
Why were they laughing? Were they laughing at her? Was something wrong? Her face reddened with embarrassment. Had she committed some terrible blunder? She looked around, wanting to run away but not knowing which way to turn.
She saw Jondalar striding toward her, his face an angry scowl. Marthona was hurrying toward her, too, from another direction.
“Jondalar!” Ayla called out as he approached. “Why is everyone laughing at me? What’s wrong? What have I done?” She was speaking in Mamutoi and didn’t realize