The valley of horses_ a novel - Jean M. Auel [239]
Ayla certainly had not denied it. She openly admitted it, stood there and defended the child … as vehemently as any mother would if her child had been maligned. She was insulted, angry that he had spoken of any of them in derogatory terms. Had she really been raised by a pack of flatheads?
He’d met a few flatheads on his Journey. He’d even questioned in his own mind whether they were animals. He recalled the incident with the young male and the older female. Come to think of it, hadn’t the youngster used a knife made on a heavy flake to cut the fish in half, just like the one Ayla used? And his dam wore a hide wrapped around her, as Ayla did. Ayla even had the same mannerisms, especially in the beginning; that tendency to look down, to efface herself so she wouldn’t be noticed. The furs on her bed, they had the same soft texture as the wolfskin they had given him. And her spear! That heavy primitive spear—wasn’t it like the spears carried by that pack of flatheads he and Thonolan had met coming off the glacier?
It was right there in front of him all the time, if he’d only looked. Why had he made up that story about her being One Who Serves the Mother testing herself to perfect her skills? She was as skilled as any healer, perhaps more. Had Ayla really learned her healing skill from a flathead?
He watched her riding off in the distance. She had been magnificent in her rage. He knew many women who raised their voices at the least provocation. Marona could be a shrill, contentious, foul-tempered shrew, he recalled, thinking about the woman to whom he had been promised. But there was a strength in someone so demanding that had appealed to him. He liked strong women. They were a challenge, and they could hold their own and not be so easily overwhelmed by his own passions on the rare occasions when they were expressed. He’d suspected there was a rock-hard core to Ayla in spite of her composure. Look at her on that horse, he thought. She is a remarkable, beautiful woman.
Suddenly, like a splash of icy water, he realized what he had done. The blood drained from his face. She had saved his life, and he had drawn away from her as if she were filth! She had lavished care on him, and he had repaid her with vile disgust. He had called her child an abomination, a child she obviously loved. He was mortified by his insensitivity.
He ran back into the cave and threw himself on the bed. Her bed. He had been sleeping on the bed of a woman from whom he had just cringed in contempt.
“Oh, Doni!” he cried. “How could you let me do it? Why didn’t you help me? Why didn’t you stop me?”
He buried his head under the furs. He hadn’t felt so wretched since he was young. He thought he was over that. He’d acted without thinking then, too. Would he never learn? Why hadn’t he exercised some discretion? He would be leaving soon; his leg was healed. Why couldn’t he have controlled himself until he left?
In fact, why was he still here? Why hadn’t he thanked her and gone? There was nothing holding him. Why had he stayed and pressed her for answers to questions that were not his concern? Then he could have remembered her as the beautiful, mysterious woman who lived alone in a valley, and charmed animals, and saved his life.
Because you could nor walk away from a beautiful, mysterious woman, Jondalar, and you know it!
Why should it bother you so much? What difference does it make that she … lived with flatheads?
Because you wanted her. And then you thought she wasn’t good enough for you because she had … she had let …
You idiot! You weren’t listening. She didn’t let him, he forced her! With no First Rites. And you blame her! She was telling you, opening up and reliving the hurt, and what did you do?
You are worse than he was, Jondalar. At least she knew how he felt. He hated her, he wanted to hurt her. But you! She trusted you. She told you how she felt about you. You wanted her so much, Jondalar, and you could have had