The valley of horses_ a novel - Jean M. Auel [261]
“The year before your son was born—ten! Ten years when he forced you? How could he do it?”
“I was a woman, taller than most women. Taller than he.”
“But not bigger than he! I’ve seen some of those flatheads! They may not be tall, but they’re powerful. I wouldn’t want to fight one hand to hand.”
“They are men, Jondalar,” she corrected gently. “They are not flatheads—they are men of the Clan.”
It stopped him. For all her soft-spoken tones, there was a stubborn set to her jaw.
“After what happened, you still insist he isn’t an animal?”
“You might say Broud was an animal for forcing me, but then what do you call the men who force women of the Clan?”
He hadn’t thought of it in quite that way.
“Not all the men were like Broud, Jondalar. Most of them were not. Creb was not—he was gentle and kind, even though he was a powerful Mog-ur. Brun was not, even though he was leader. He was strong-willed, but he was fair. He accepted me into his clan. Some things he had to do—it was the Clan way—but he honored me with his gratitude. Men of the Clan do not often show gratitude to women in front of everyone. He let me hunt; he accepted Durc. When I left, he promised to protect him.”
“When did you leave?”
She stopped to think. Birth year, walking year, weaning year. “Durc was three years when I left,” she said.
Jondalar added three more lines. “You were fourteen? Only fourteen? And you’ve lived here alone since then? For three years?” He counted up all the lines. “You are seventeen years, Ayla. You have lived a lifetime in your seventeen years,” he said.
Ayla sat silently for a time, pensively—then she spoke. “Durc is six years now. The men will be taking him with them to the practice field by now. Grod will make him a spear, his size, and Brun will teach him to use it. And if he’s still alive, old Zoug will show him how to use a sling. Durc will practice hunting small animals with his friend, Grev—Durc is younger but he’s taller than Grev. He always was tall for his age—he gets that from me. He can run fast; no one can run faster. And he’s good with the sling. And Uba loves him. She loves him as much as I do.”
Ayla didn’t notice the tears falling until she took a breath that was a sob, and she didn’t know how she found herself in Jondalar’s arms with her head on his shoulder.
“It’s all right, Ayla,” the man said, patting her gently. Mother at eleven, torn away from her son at fourteen. Not able to watch him grow, not even sure if he’s alive. She’s sure someone loves him and is taking care of him, and teaching him to hunt … like any child.
Ayla felt wrung out when she finally lifted her head from the man’s shoulder, but she felt lighter, too, as though her grief rested less heavily on her. It was the first time since she had left the clan that she had shared her loss with another human soul. She smiled at him with gratitude.
He smiled back with tenderness and compassion, and something more that welled up from the unconscious source of his inner self and showed in the blue depths of his eyes. It found a responsive chord within the woman. They spent a long moment locked in the intimate embrace of outspoken eyes, declaring in silence that which they would not say aloud.
The intensity was too much for Ayla; she was still not entirely comfortable with a direct stare. She wrenched her eyes away and began gathering up her marked sticks. It took a moment for Jondalar to gather himself together and help her tie the sticks into bundles. Working beside her made him more aware of her warm fullness and pleasant female scent than when he was comforting her in his arms. And Ayla felt an aftersense of the places their bodies had met, where his gentle hands had touched her,