The Plains of Passage

  When the group reached a high, level place on the side of the hill, they stopped. Jondalar looked down the hillside and saw that the hunters who lived in this area had a unique advantage. Not only could the animals be seen from a distance, the vast and various herds that roamed the land had to pass through a narrow corridor below that lay between steep walls of limestone and a river. They would be easy to hunt right here. It made him wonder why they had been hunting horses near the Great Mother River.

  A keening wail brought Jondalar's attention back to his immediate surroundings. A woman with long, stringy, disheveled gray hair was being supported by two somewhat younger women as she wailed and cried in obvious grief. Suddenly she broke free, fell on her knees, and draped herself over something on the ground. Jondalar edged forward to get a closer look. He was a good head taller than most of the other men, and with a few steps he understood the woman's grief.

  This was obviously a funeral. Stretched out on the ground were three people—young, probably late teens or early twenties, he guessed. Two of them were definitely male; they were bearded. The biggest one was probably the youngest. His light facial hair was still somewhat sparse. The gray-haired woman was sobbing over the body of the other male, whose brown hair and short beard were more apparent. The third one was fairly tall but thin, and something about the body and the way it lay made him wonder if that person had had some physical problem. He could see no facial hair, which made him think it was a woman at first, but it also could have been a rather tall young man who shaved, just as easily.

  The details of clothing were not much help. They were all dressed in leg coverings and loose tunics that disguised distinguishing characteristics. The clothes appeared to be new, but lacked decoration. It was almost as though someone didn't want them recognized in the next world and had attempted to make them anonymous.

  The gray-haired woman was lifted, almost dragged—though not roughly—away from the body of the young man by the two women who had tried to support her. Then another woman stepped forward, and something about her made Jondalar look again. Her face was strangely skewed, oddly unsymmetrical, with one side seemingly pushed back and slightly smaller than the other. She made no attempt to hide it. Her hair was light-colored, perhaps gray, pulled back and piled up into a bun on top of her head.

  Jondalar thought she was about his mother's age, and she moved with the same grace and dignity, although there was no physical resemblance to Marthona. In spite of her slight deformity, the woman was not unattractive, and her face commanded attention. When she caught his eye, he realized he had been staring, but she looked away first, rather quickly, he thought. As she began to speak, he realized that she was conducting the funeral ceremony. She must be a mamut, he thought, a woman who communicates with the spirit world, a zelandonii for these people.

  Something made him turn and look to the side of the congregation. Another woman was staring at him. She was tall, quite muscular and strong featured, but a handsome woman with light brown hair and, interestingly, very dark eyes. She did not turn away when he looked at her, but appraised him quite frankly. She had the size and shape, the general appearance of a woman that he would ordinarily be attracted to, he thought, but her smile made him uneasy.

  Then he noticed she was standing with her legs apart and her hands on her hips, and suddenly he knew who she was: the woman who had laughed so menacingly. He fought an urge to move back and hide among the other men, knowing he couldn't even if he tried. He was not only a head taller, he was far healthier and more muscular than they. He would be conspicuous no matter where he stood.

  The ceremony seemed rather perfunctory, as if it were an unpleasant necessity, rather than a solemn, important occasion. With no burial shrouds, the bodies were simply carried to a single shallow grave one at a time. They were limp when they were picked up, Jondalar noted. They could not have been dead very long; no stiffness had set in yet and there was no smell. The tall, thin body went in first, placed on its back, and powdered red ochre was sprinkled on the head and, strangely, over the pelvis, the powerful generative area, making Jondalar wonder if, perhaps, it was indeed a woman.

  The other two were handled differently, but even more strangely. The brown-haired male was put in the common grave, to the left of the first corpse from Jondalar's viewpoint, but on the figure's right, and placed on his side, facing the first body. Then his arm was stretched out so that his hand rested on the red-ochred pubic region of the other. The third body was almost thrown into the grave, facedown, on the right side of the body that had been put in first. Red ochre was also sprinkled on both of their heads. The sacred red powder was obviously meant for protection, but for whom? And against what? Jondalar wondered.

  Just as the loosely piled dirt was being scooped back into the shallow grave, the gray-haired woman broke loose again. She ran to the grave and threw something in it. Jondalar saw a couple of stone knives and a few flint spear points.

  The dark-eyed woman strode forward, clearly incensed. She cracked an order to one of the men, pointing at the grave. He cringed but did not move. Then the shaman stepped forward and spoke, shaking her head. The other woman screamed at her in anger and frustration, but the shaman stood her ground and continued to shake her head. The woman pulled back and slapped her face with the back of her hand. There was a collective gasp, and then the angry woman stalked off, with a coterie of spear-carrying females following her.

  The shaman did not acknowledge the blow, not even to put her hand to her cheek, though Jondalar could see the growing redness even from where he stood. The grave was hurriedly filled in, with soil that had several pieces of loose charcoal and partially burned wood mixed in. Large bonfires must have burned here, Jondalar thought. He glanced down at the narrow corridor below. With dawning insight, it occurred to him that this high ground was a perfect lookout from which fires could be used to signal when animals—or anything else—approached.

  As soon as the bodies were covered, the men were marched back down the hill and taken to an area surrounded by a high palisade of trimmed tree trunks placed side by side and lashed together. Mammoth bones were piled against a section of the fence, and Jondalar wondered why. Perhaps the bones helped to prop it up. He was separated from the others and taken back to the earthlodge, then shoved toward the small, circular, hide-covered enclosure again. But before he went in, he noted how it was made.

  The sturdy frame was constructed of poles made from slender trees. The thicker butt ends had been buried in the ground; the tops were bent together and joined. Leather hides covered the frame on the outside, but the entrance flap he had seen from inside was barred on the outside with a gatelike closure that could be secured shut with lashings.

  Once inside, he continued his examination of the structure. It was completely bare, lacking even a sleeping pallet. He could not stand up straight, except in the very middle, but he bent over to get close to the side, then walked slowly around the small, dark space, studying it very carefully. He noticed that the hides were old and torn, some in such shreds that they seemed almost rotten, and they had been only roughly sewn together, as though done in a hurry. There were gaps at the seams through which he could see some of the area beyond his cramped quarters. He lowered himself to the ground and sat watching the entrance of the earthlodge, which was open. A few people walked past, but none entered.

  After a time, he began to feel an urge to pass his water. With his hands tied, he could not even bare his member to relieve himself. If someone didn't come and untie him soon, he would wet himself. Besides that, his wrists were getting raw where the ropes were rubbing. He was getting angry. This was ridiculous! It had gone far enough!

  "Hey, out there!" he shouted. "Why am I being held like this? Like an animal in a trap? I have done nothing to harm anyone. I need my hands free. If someone doesn't untie me soon, I will wet myself." He waited for a while, then shouted again. "Someone out there, come and untie me! What strange kind of people are you?"

  He
stood up and leaned against the structure. It was well made, but it gave a little. He stepped back and, aiming with his shoulder, ran into the framing, trying to break it down. It gave a little more, and he rammed it again. With a feeling of satisfaction, he heard a piece of wood crack. He stepped back, ready to try again, when he heard people running into the earthlodge.

  "It's about time someone came! Let me out of here! Let me out of here now!" he shouted.

  He heard the rustlings of someone unlashing the gate. Then the entrance flap was thrown back to reveal several women holding spears aimed at him. Jondalar ignored them and pushed his way out of the opening.

  "Untie me!" he said, turning to the side so they could see him raising up the hands that were tied behind his back. "Get these ropes off me!"

  The older man who had helped him drink water stepped forward. "Zelandonii! You ... far ... away," he said, obviously struggling to remember the words.

  Jondalar hadn't realized that in his anger, he had been speaking in his native tongue. "You speak Zelandonii?" he said to the man with surprise, but his overwhelming need came first. "Then tell them to get these ropes off me before I make a mess all over myself!"

  The man spoke to one of the women. She answered, shaking her head, but he spoke again. Finally she took a knife out of a sheath at her waist, and with a command that made the rest of the women surround him with pointing spears, she stepped forward and motioned him around. He turned his back to her and waited while she hacked at his bindings. They must need a good flint knapper around here, he couldn't help but think. Her knife is dull.

  After what seemed forever, he felt the ropes fall away. Immediately he reached to unfasten his closure flap, and, too much in need to be embarrassed, he pulled out his organ and frantically looked for a corner or some out-of-the-way place to go. But the spear-holding women would not let him move. In anger and defiance, he purposely turned to face them and, with a great sigh of relief, let his water come.

  He watched them all as the long yellow stream slowly emptied his bladder, steaming as it hit the cold ground and raising up a strong smell. The woman in command seemed appalled, though she tried not to show it. A couple of the women turned their heads or averted their eyes; others stared in fascination, as if they'd never seen a man pass his water before. The older man was trying very hard not to smile, though he couldn't hide his delight.

  When Jondalar was through, he tucked himself back in and then faced his tormentors, determined not to let them tie his hands again. He addressed himself to the man. "I am Jondalar of the Zelandonii, and I am on a Journey."

  "You Journey far, Zelandonii. Maybe ... too far."

  "I have traveled much farther. I wintered last year with the Mamutoi. I am returning home now."

  "That's what I thought I heard you speaking before," the old man said, shifting into the language in which he was much more fluent. "There are a few here who understand the language of the Mammoth Hunters, but the Mamutoi usually come from the north. You came from the south."

  "If you heard me speaking before, why didn't you come? I'm sure there's been some misunderstanding. Why was I tied up?"

  The old man shook his head, Jondalar thought with sadness. "You will find out soon enough, Zelandonii."

  Suddenly the woman interrupted with a spate of angry words. The old man started to limp away, leaning on a staff.

  "Wait! Don't go! Who are you? Who are these people? And who is that woman who told them to take me here?" Jondalar asked.

  The old man halted and looked back. "Here, I am called Ardemun. The people are the S'Armunai. And the woman is ... Attaroa."

  Jondalar missed the emphasis that had been put on the name of the woman. "S'Armunai? Where have I heard that name before ... wait ... I remember. Laduni, the leader of the Losadunai..."

  "Laduni is leader?" Ardemun said.

  "Yes. He told me about the Sarmunai when we were traveling east, but my brother didn't want to stop," Jondalar said.

  "It's well you didn't, and too bad you are here now."

  "Why?"

  The woman in command of the spear holders interrupted again with a sharp order.

  "Once I was a Losadunai. Unfortunately, I made a Journey," Ardemun said as he limped out of the earthlodge.

  After he left, the woman in command said some sharp words to Jondalar. He guessed that she wanted to lead him someplace, but he decided to feign complete ignorance.

  "I don't understand you," Jondalar said. "You'll have to call Ardemun back."

  She spoke to him again, more angrily, then poked her spear at him. It broke the skin, and a line of blood trickled down his arm. Anger flared in his eyes. He reached over and touched the cut, then looked at his bloody fingers.

  "That wasn't necess—" he started to say.

  She interrupted with more angry words. The other women circled him with their weapons as the woman walked out of the earthlodge; then they prodded Jondalar to follow. Outside, the cold made him shiver. They went past the palisaded enclosure, and though he couldn't see in, he sensed that he was being watched through the cracks by those inside. The whole idea puzzled him. Animals were sometimes driven into surrounds like that, so they couldn't get away. It was a way of hunting them, but why were people kept there? And how many were in there?

  It's not all that large, he thought, there can't be too many in there. He imagined how much work it must have taken to fence in even a small area with wooden stakes. Trees were scarce on the hillside. There was some woody vegetation in the form of brush, but the trees for the fence had to come from the valley below. They had to chop the trees down, trim them of branches, carry them up the hill, dig holes deep enough to hold them upright, make rope and cord, and then tie the trees together with it. Why had these people been willing to put forth so much effort for something that made so little sense?

  He was led toward a small creek, largely frozen over, where Attaroa and several women were overseeing some young men who were carrying large, heavy mammoth bones. The men all looked half-starved, and he wondered where they found the strength to work so hard.

  Attaroa eyed him up and down once, her only acknowledgment of him, then ignored him. Jondalar waited, still wondering about the behavior of these strange people. After a while he became chilled, and he began moving around, jumping up and down and beating his arms trying to warm himself. He was getting more and more angry at the stupidity of it all, and, finally deciding he wasn't going to stand there any longer, he turned on his heel and started back. In the earthlodge, at least he'd be out of the wind. His sudden movement caught the spear wielders by surprise, and when they put up their phalanx of points, he pushed them aside with his arm and kept on going. He heard shouts, which he ignored.

  He was still cold when he got inside the earthlodge. Looking around for something to warm himself, he strode to the round structure, ripped off the leather cover, and wrapped it around him. Just then several women burst in, brandishing their weapons again. The woman who'd pricked him before was among them, and she was obviously furious. She lunged at him with her spear. He ducked aside and grabbed for it, but they were all stopped in their tracks by harsh and sinister laughter.

  "Zelandonii!" Attaroa sneered, then spoke other words that he didn't understand.

  "She wants you to come outside," Ardemun said. Jondalar hadn't noticed him near the entrance. "She thinks you are clever, too clever. I think she wants you where she can have her women surround you."

  "What if I don't want to go outside?" Jondalar said.

  "Then she'll probably have you killed here and now." The words were said by a woman, speaking in perfect Zelandonii, without even a trace of an accent! Jondalar shot a look of surprise in the direction of the speaker. It was the shaman! "If you go outside, Attaroa will probably let you live a little longer. You interest her, but eventually she'll kill you anyway."

  "Why? What am I to her?" Jondalar asked.

  "A threat."

  "A threat? I've never threatened her."
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  "You threaten her control. She'll want to make an example of you."

  Attaroa interrupted, and though Jondalar didn't understand her, the barely restrained fury of her words seemed to be directed at the shaman. The older woman's response was reserved but showed no fear. After the exchange, she spoke again to Jondalar. "She wanted to know what I said to you. I told her."

  "Tell her I'll come outside," he said.

  When the message was relayed, Attaroa laughed, said something, then sauntered out.

  "What did she say?" Jondalar asked.

  "She said she knew it. Men will do anything for one more heartbeat of their miserable lives."

  "Perhaps not anything," Jondalar said, starting out, then he turned back to the shaman. "What is your name?"

  "I am called S'Armuna," she said.

  "I thought you might be. Where did you learn to speak my language so well?"

  "I lived among your people for a time," S'Armuna said, but then she cut off his obvious desire to know more. "It's a long story."

  Though the man had rather expected to be asked to give his identity in return, S'Armuna simply turned her back. He volunteered the information. "I am Jondalar of the Ninth Cave of the Zelandonii," he said.

  S'Armuna's eyes opened with surprise. "The Ninth Cave?" she said.

  "Yes," he said. He would have continued to name his ties, but he was stopped by the look on her face, though he could not fathom its meaning. A moment later her expression showed nothing, and Jondalar wondered if he had imagined it.

  "She's waiting," S'Armuna said, leaving the earthlodge.

  Outside, Attaroa was sitting on a fur-covered seat on a raised platform of earth, which had been dug from the floor of the large semisubterranean earthlodge just behind her. She was opposite the fenced area, and, as he walked past it, Jondalar sensed again that he was being watched through the cracks.