The valley of horses_ a novel - Jean M. Auel [114]
There was a yielding gentleness about her, an ageless acceptance that had nothing to do with age—she was only a few years older than he. Neither was it giving in. Rather that she made no demands, had no expectations. The death of her first mate, of a second love before there was time to mate, and the miscarriage of a second child that would have blessed the mating, had tempered her with grief. In learning to live with hers, she had developed an ability to absorb the pain of others. Whatever their sorrow or disappointment, people turned to her and always came away relieved because she imposed no burden of obligation on them for her compassion.
Because of her calming effect on distraught loved ones or fearful patients, she often assisted the Shamud and had learned some medical skills from the association. That was how Jondalar had come to know her first, when she was helping the healer nurse Thonolan back to health. When his brother was up and recovered enough to move to the hearth of Dolando and Roshario, and most especially, Jetamio, Jondalar had moved in with Serenio and her son, Darvo. He hadn’t asked. She hadn’t expected him to.
Her eyes always seemed to reflect, he thought, as he leaned over to kiss her lightly in greeting before they started toward the glowing fire. He never saw into their depths. He pushed away an unbidden thought that he was grateful for it. It was as though she knew him better than he knew himself; knew of his inability to give of himself completely, to fall in love as Thonolan had done. She even seemed to know that his way of making up for the lack of emotional depth was to make love to her with such consummate skill that it left her gasping. She accepted it, as she accepted his occasional black moods, without inflicting guilt on him for it.
She wasn’t reserved, exactly—she smiled and talked with easy comfort—just composed and not quite reachable. The only time he caught a glimpse of something more was when she looked at her son.
“What took you so long?” the boy said with relief when he saw them coming. “We’re ready to eat, but everyone’s been waiting for you.”
Darvo had seen Jondalar and his mother together at the far edge but didn’t want to interrupt them. Initially, he had been resentful of having to share his mother’s undivided attention at the hearth. But he found that rather than having to share his mother’s time, there was now someone else who paid attention to him. Jondalar talked to him, told him of his adventures on his Journey, discussed hunting and the ways of his people, and listened to him with unfeigned interest. Even more exciting, Jondalar had begun to show him some techniques of toolmaking, which the lad picked up with an aptitude that surprised them both.
The youngster had been overjoyed when Jondalar’s brother had decided to mate Jetamio and stay, because he fervently hoped it might mean Jondalar would decide to stay and mate his mother. He had become very conscious of staying out of the way when they were together, trying in his own way not to impede their relationship. He didn’t realize that, if anything, he encouraged it.
In fact, the idea had been on Jondalar’s mind all day. He found himself appraising Serenio. Her hair was lighter than her son’s, more a dark blond than brown. She wasn’t thin, but so tall she gave that impression. She was one of the few women he’d met who reached his chin, and he found that a comfortable height. There was a strong resemblance between mother and son, even to the hazel of their eyes, though his lacked her impassiveness. And on her the fine features were beautiful.
I could be happy with her, he thought. Why don’t I just ask her? And at that moment, he truly wanted her, wanted to live with her.
“Serenio?”
She looked at him and was held by the magnetism of his unbelievably blue eyes. His need, his desire focused on her. The force of his charisma—unconscious and all the more powerful for it—caught her unaware and broke through the defenses she had so carefully erected to avoid pain.