The valley of horses_ a novel - Jean M. Auel [235]
“I know it is not necessary. I know you are a Woman Who Heals, but it is important to me that you know how I feel. People say thank you to each other for help. It’s courtesy, a custom.”
They ascended the path single file. She didn’t answer him, but his comment made her think of Creb trying to explain that it was discourteous to look past the boundary stones into another man’s hearth. She had had more difficulty learning the customs than the language of the Clan. Jondalar was saying it was a custom to express gratitude to each other among his people, a courtesy, but that confused her more.
Why would he want to express gratitude when he had just shamed her? If a man of the Clan had offered her such contempt, she would cease to exist for him. His customs were going to be hard to learn, too, she realized, but that did not make her feel less humiliated.
He tried to get through the barrier that had sprung up between them and stopped her before she went into the cave. “Ayla, I’m sorry if I’ve offended you in some way.”
“Offended? I don’t understand that word.”
“I think I have made you angry, made you feel bad.”
“Not angry, but yes, you have made me feel bad.”
The admission startled him. “I’m sorry,” he said.
“Sorry. That is courtesy, right? Custom? Jondalar, what good are words like sorry? It doesn’t change anything, it doesn’t make me feel any better.”
He pulled his hand through his hair. She was right. Whatever he had done—and he thought he knew what it was—being sorry didn’t help. It also didn’t help that he had been evading the issue, not facing it directly for fear he would open himself to further embarrassment.
She went into the cave, took off her picking basket, and stirred up the fire to begin an evening meal. He followed her, put his basket next to hers, and pulled up a mat to the fireplace to sit and watch her.
She used some of the tools he had given her after he cut up the deer, and liked them, but for some tasks she preferred to use the handheld knife she was accustomed to. He thought she wielded the crude knife, shaped on flake of flint that was much heavier than his blades, with as much skill as anyone he knew used with the smaller, finer, hafted knives. His flint-knapper mind was judging, evaluating, comparing the merits of each type. It’s not so much that one is easier to use than the other, he was thinking. Any sharp knife will cut, but think how much more raw flint it must take to make tools for everyone. Just hauling the stone could be a problem.
It made Ayla nervous to have him sitting there watching her so closely. Finally she got up to get some chamomile for tea, hoping it would divert his attention, and to calm herself. It only made him realize he had been putting off facing the problem again. He gathered up his fortitude and decided on a direct approach.
“You’re right, Ayla. Saying I’m sorry doesn’t mean much, but I don’t know what else to say. I don’t know what I did that offended you. Please tell me, why do you feel bad?”
He must be saying words that were untrue again, she thought. How could he not know? Yet he seemed troubled. She looked down, wishing he hadn’t asked. It was bad enough having to suffer such humiliation, without having to talk about it. But he had asked.
“I feel bad because … because I’m not acceptable.” She said it to the hands in her lap holding her tea.
“What do you mean you are not acceptable? I don’t understand.”
Why was he asking her these questions? Was he trying to make her feel worse? Ayla glanced up at him. He was leaning forward, and she read sincerity and anxiety in his posture and eyes.
“No man of the Clan would ever relieve his need himself if there was an acceptable woman around.” She blushed with the recitation of her failing and looked down at her hands. “You were full with need, but you ran away