Suddenly, in the haze of dust and smoke, Ayla saw a horse slow, try to turn away and resist the urgings of the panicked horses racing past her, communicating their fear of the fire. Though her coat was the color of the choking air, Ayla knew it was Whinney. She whistled again to encourage her, and she saw her beloved mare stop, undecided. The instinct to run with the herd was strong in her, but that whistle had always meant safety, security, love, and she was not as frightened of the fire. She had been raised with the smell of smoke nearby. It had only signaled the proximity of people.
Ayla saw Whinney standing her ground while other horses brushed close or bumped her while trying to avoid her. The woman urged Racer forward. The marc started to turn back toward the woman, but a light-colored horse suddenly appeared, seemingly out of the dust. The big herd stallion tried to head her off, screaming a warning challenge at Racer, even in his panic, trying to keep his new mare away from the younger male. This time Racer screamed a response, then pranced and pawed the ground and started for the bigger animal, forgetting in all the excitement that he was too young and inexperienced to fight a mature stallion.
Then, for some reason—a sudden change of mind or contagion of fear—the stallion wheeled and pounded away. Whinney started to follow, and Racer rushed to overtake her. As the herd raced closer and closer to the edge of the cliff and the sure death waiting below, the mare with a coat the color of sun-ripened hay and the young brown stallion she had foaled, with the woman on his back, were being carried along with them! With fierce determination, Ayla pulled Racer to a stop in front of his dam. He whinnied with fear, wanting to run in panic with the rest of the horses, but he was held in check by the woman and the commands he was trained to obey.
Then all the horses had passed her by. As Whinney and Racer stood shivering with fear, the last of the herd disappeared over the edge of the cliff. Ayla shuddered at the distant sound of neighing, screaming, whinnying horses, and then she was stunned by the silence. Whinney and Racer and she, herself, could have been with them. She breathed deeply at the close call, then looked around for Jondalar.
She didn't see him. The fire was moving south but east; the wind was blowing away from the southwestern edge of the field—but the flames had served their purpose. She looked in all directions, but Jondalar was nowhere in sight. Ayla and the two horses were alone on the smoking field. She felt a lump of fear and anxiety rise in her throat. What happened to Jondalar?
She slid off Racer and, still holding his lead rope, leaped easily onto Whinney's back, then headed back to the place where they had separated. She scanned the area carefully, walking back and forth, looking for tracks, but the ground was covered with hoofprints. Then, out of the corner of her eye, she spied something and ran to see what it was. With her heart pounding in her throat, she picked up Jondalar's spear-thrower!
Looking more closely, she saw footprints, obviously many people, but distinctive among them were the imprints of Jondalar's large feet encased in his well-worn boots. She had seen those prints too many times at their campsites to be mistaken. Then she saw a dark spot on the ground. She reached down to touch it and pulled back a fingertip red with blood.
Her eyes opened wide, and fear caught in her throat. Standing where she was, so as not to disturb the signs, she carefully looked around, trying to piece together some sense of what had happened. She was an experienced tracker, and to her trained eye, it soon became clear that someone had hurt Jondalar and dragged him away. She followed the tracks north for a while. Then she took note of her surroundings, so she could pick up the trail again, mounted Whinney, with Racer's lead firmly in hand, and turned west to retrieve the backpack.
As she rode toward the west, she was scowling, and the hard angry frown expressed exactly how she felt, but she had to think things out and decide what to do. Someone had hurt Jondalar and taken him away, and no one had the right to do that. Perhaps she didn't understand all the ways of the Others, but that was one thing she knew. She knew something else, too. She didn't know how yet, but she was going to get him back.
She was relieved when she saw the backpack still leaning against the rock, just as they'd left it. She dumped everything out of it and made a few adjustments so Racer could carry it on his back, then began to repack. She had left off her carrying belt that morning—it had felt rather clumsy—and stuffed everything into the backpack. She lifted the belt and examined the sharp ceremonial dagger that was still in the loop, accidentally pricking herself with the point. She stared at the tiny drop of blood beading up, and for some strange reason she felt like crying. She was alone again. Someone had taken Jondalar away.
Suddenly she put the belt on again and stuffed her dagger, knife, hatchet, and hunting weapons back into it. He wasn't going to be gone for long! She packed the tent on Racer's back, but she kept the sleeping roll with her. Who could tell what kind of weather she might run into? She kept a waterbag, too. Then she took out a cake of traveling food and sat down on the rock. It wasn't so much that she was hungry, but she knew she had to keep her strength up if she was going to follow the trail and find Jondalar.
The other nagging worry that had been bothering her besides the missing man, was the missing wolf. She couldn't leave to find Jondalar until she found Wolf. He was more than just an animal companion that she loved, he could be essential in following the trail. She hoped he would appear before nightfall, and she wondered if she could backtrack over their trail until she found him. But what if he was hunting? She might miss him. As impatient as it made her feel, she decided it was best to wait.
She tried to think about what she could do, but she couldn't even think of possible courses of action. The very act of hurting someone and taking him away was so alien to her that it was hard to think beyond it. It seemed such an unreasonable, illogical thing to do.
Intruding on her thoughts she heard a whine and then a yip. She turned to see Wolf running toward her, obviously happy to see her. She was greatly relieved.
"Wolf!" she cried with joy. "You made it, and much earlier than yesterday. Are you better?" After greeting him affectionately, she examined him and was glad when she confirmed again that although he was definitely bruised, nothing was broken, and he seemed much improved.
She decided to leave immediately, so she could pick up the trail while it was still light. She tied Racer's lead to a strap that held Whinney's riding blanket on, then mounted the mare. Calling Wolf to follow her, she started back toward the trail, then rode all the way to the place where she had found his footprints along with the others, his spear-thrower, and the spot of blood, now a slightly brownish stain on the ground. She dismounted to examine the place again.
"We have to find Jondalar, Wolf," she said. The animal looked at her quizzically.
She lowered herself and, sitting comfortably on her haunches, looked more closely at the footprints, making an effort to identify individuals so she could estimate how many there were, and to commit the size and shapes of them to memory. The wolf waited, sitting on his haunches and staring at her, sensing something unusual and important. Finally she pointed to the bloodstain.
"Someone hurt Jondalar and carried him away. We need to find him." The wolf sniffed the blood, then wagged his tail and yipped. "That's Jondalar's footprint," she said, pointing to the distinctive large impression among the smaller ones. Wolf again sniffed where she pointed, then looked at her, as if waiting for her next move. "They took him away," she said, indicating the other imprints of human feet.
Suddenly she stood up and walked over to Racer. She took Jondalar's spear-thrower out of the pack on Racer's back and knelt to let the wolf sniff it. "We have to find Jondalar, Wolf! Someone took him away, and we're going to get him back!"
26
Jondalar slowly became aware that he was awake, but caution made him lie still until he could sort out what was wrong, because something most certainly was. For one thing, his head was throbbing. He opened his eyes a crack. There was only dim light, but enough to see t
he cold, hard-packed dirt he was lying on. Something felt dry and caked on the side of his face, but when he attempted to reach up and find out what it was, he discovered that his hands were tied together behind his back. His feet were tied together, too.
He rolled to his side and looked around. He was inside a small round structure, a kind of wooden frame covered with skins, which he sensed was inside a larger enclosure. There were no sounds of wind, no drafts, no billowing of the hides as there would have been if he had been outside, and though it was cool, it wasn't freezing. And he suddenly realized that he was no longer wearing his fur parka.
Jondalar struggled to sit up, and a wave of dizziness washed over him. The throbbing in his head localized to a sharp pain above his left temple, near the dry, caked residue. He stopped when he heard the sound of voices drawing near. Two women were speaking an unfamiliar language, though he thought he detected a few words that sounded vaguely Mamutoi.
"Hello out there. I'm awake," he called out, in the language of the Mammoth Hunters. "Will someone come and untie me? These ropes aren't necessary. I'm sure there has been a misunderstanding. I mean no harm." The voices stopped for a moment, then continued, but no one either answered or came.
Jondalar, lying facedown on the dirt, tried to remember how he had gotten there, and what he might have done that would have prompted someone to tie him up. In his experience, the only time people were tied up was when they behaved wildly and tried to hurt someone. He recalled a wall of fire—and horses racing toward the drop-off at the edge of the field. People must have been hunting the horses, and he'd been caught up in the middle of it.
Then he remembered seeing Ayla riding Racer, but having trouble controlling him. He wondered how the stallion had ended up in the middle of the stampeding herd when he had left him tied to a bush.
Jondalar had almost panicked then, afraid the horse would respond to his herding instinct and follow the others over the edge, taking Ayla with him. He remembered running toward them with his spear ready in his spear-thrower. As much as he loved that brown stallion, he would have killed Racer before allowing him to carry Ayla over the cliff. That was the last thing he remembered, except for a fleeting recollection of a sharp pain before everything went dark.
Someone must have hit me with something, Jondalar thought. It was a hard blow, too, because I don't remember anything about being brought here, and my head still hurts. Did they think I was spoiling their hunting strategy? The first time he'd met Jeren and his hunters, it had been under similar circumstances. He and Thonolan had inadvertently run off a herd of horses the hunters had been driving toward a trap. But Jeren had understood, once he got over his anger, that it wasn't intentional, and they had become friends. I didn't spoil the hunt of these people, did I?
He tried again to sit up. Bracing himself on his side, he pulled his knees up, then strained to roll and bob up into a sitting position. It took a few tries and left his head throbbing from the effort, but he finally succeeded. He sat with his eyes closed, hoping the pain would soon subside. But as it eased off, his concern for Ayla and the animals grew. Had Whinney and Racer been swept over the edge with the herd, and had Racer taken Ayla with him?
Was she dead? He felt his heart beat with fear just thinking about it. Were they all gone, Ayla and the horses? What about Wolf? When the injured animal finally reached the field, he would find no one. Jondalar imagined him sniffing around, trying to follow a trail that went nowhere. What would he do? Wolf was a good hunter, but he was hurt. How well could he hunt for himself with his injury? He would miss Ayla and the rest of his "pack." He wasn't used to living alone. How would he get along? What would happen when he came up against a pack of wild wolves? Would he be able to defend himself?
Isn't anyone going to come? I'd like a drink of water, Jondalar thought. They must have heard me. I'm hungry, too, but mostly thirsty. His mouth felt drier and drier, and his craving for water grew stronger. "Hey, out there! I'm thirsty! Can't someone bring a man a drink of water?" he shouted. "What kind of people are you? Tying a man up and not even giving him a drink of water!"
No one answered. After shouting a few more times, he decided to save his breath. It was only making him more thirsty, and his head still hurt. He considered lying down, but it had taken so much effort to get up that he wasn't sure if he could do it again.
As more time passed, he began to feel morose. He was weak, bordering on delirious, and he imagined the worst, vividly. He convinced himself that Ayla was dead, and both the horses as well. When he thought of Wolf, he pictured the poor beast wandering alone, injured and unable to hunt, looking for Ayla and open to attack by local wolves or hyenas or some other animal ... better, perhaps, than dying of starvation. He wondered if he was going to be left to die of thirst, and then almost hoped he would, if Ayla was gone. Identifying with the plight he envisioned for the wolf, the man decided that he and Wolf must be the last surviving members of their unusual band of travelers, and that they would soon be gone.
He was pulled out of his despair by the sound of people approaching. The entrance flap of the small structure was thrown back, and through the opening he saw a figure standing, feet apart and hands on hips, silhouetted by torchlight. She issued a sharp command. Two women entered the enclosed space, walked to either side of him, lifted him up, and dragged him out. They propped him up on his knees in front of her, his hands and feet still bound. His head was throbbing again, and he leaned unsteadily against one of the women. She pushed him away.
The woman who had ordered him to be brought forward looked down at him for a moment or two and then she laughed. It was harsh and dissonant, a demented, jarring curse of a sound. Jondalar recoiled involuntarily and felt a shudder of fear. She spoke a few sharp words at him. He didn't understand, but he tried to straighten up and look at her. His vision blurred, and he weaved unsteadily. The woman scowled, barked more orders, then turned on her heel and stalked out. The women who were holding him up dropped him and followed her, along with several others. Jondalar toppled over on his side, dizzy and weak.
He felt the bindings on his feet being cut, and then water was poured on his mouth. It almost choked him, but he tried eagerly to swallow some. The woman who was holding the waterbag spoke a few words in tones of disgust, and then she thrust the bladder of liquid at an older man. He came forward and held the waterbag to Jondalar's mouth, then tipped it up, not more gently, exactly, but with more patience, so that Jondalar could swallow and finally slake his ravenous thirst.
Before he was fully satisfied, the woman impatiently spat out a word, and the man took the water away. Then she pulled Jondalar to his feet. He staggered with dizziness as she pushed him ahead, out of the shelter, and in with a group of other men. It was cold, but no one offered him his fur parka or even untied his hands so he could rub them together.
But the cool air revived him, and he noticed that some of the other men had their hands tied behind their backs, too. He looked more closely at the people among whom he had been thrust. They were all ages, from young men—more like boys actually—to oldsters. All of them looked thin, weak, and dirty, with tattered, inadequate clothes and matted hair. A few had untended wounds, full of dried blood and dirt.
Jondalar tried to speak to the man standing next to him in Mamutoi, but he just shook his head. Jondalar thought he didn't understand, so he tried Sharamudoi. The man looked away just as a woman holding a spear came and threatened Jondalar with it, barking a sharp command. He didn't know her words, but her actions were plain enough, and he wondered if the reason the man had not spoken was that he didn't understand him, or if he had, had not wanted to speak.
Several women with spears spaced themselves around the group of men. One of them shouted some words and the men started walking. Jondalar used the opportunity to look around and try to get a sense of where he was. The settlement, consisting of several rounded dwellings, felt vaguely familiar, which was strange because the countryside was totally unknown to him. Then he reali
zed it was the dwellings. They resembled Mamutoi earthlodges. Though they were not exactly the same, they appeared to be constructed in a similar fashion, probably using the bones of mammoths as structural supports that were covered with thatch, then sod and clay.
They started walking uphill, which afforded Jondalar a broader view. The countryside was mostly grassy steppeland or tundra—treeless plains on land with frozen subsoil that thawed to a black mucky surface in summer. Tundra was able to support only dwarfed herbs, but in spring their conspicuous blossoms added color and beauty, and they fed musk-oxen, reindeer, and other animals that could digest them. There were also stretches of taiga, low-growing evergreen trees so uniform in height that their tops could have been sheared off by some gigantic cutting tool, and in fact they were. Icy winds driving needles of sleet or sharp bits of gritty loess cut short any individual twig or tip that dared to strive above its brethren.
As they trudged higher, Jondalar saw a herd of mammoths grazing far to the north, and somewhat closer, reindeer. He knew horses roamed nearby—the people had been hunting them—and he guessed that bison and bear frequented the region in the warmer seasons. The land resembled his own country more than it did the dry grassy steppes to the east, at least in the types of plants that grew, although the dominant vegetation was different, and probably the proportional mix of animals, too.
Out of the corner of his eye, Jondalar caught movement to the left. He turned in time to see a white hare dash across the hill chased by an arctic fox. As he watched, the large rabbit suddenly bounded in another direction, passing by the partially decomposed skull of a woolly rhinoceros, then scooted into its hole.
Where there are mammoths and rhinoceroses, Jondalar thought, there are cave lions, and with the other herding animals, probably hyenas, and certainly wolves. Plenty of meat and fur-bearing animals, and food that grows. This is a bountiful land. Making such an assessment was second nature to him, as it was to some degree to most people. They lived off the land, and careful observations about its resources were necessary.