The Plains of Passage

  In the morning she carefully examined the wolf before entering the river. Though not especially wide, the water was cold and deep, and he would have to swim it. His bruises were still tender to the touch, but he was very much improved, and he was eager to go. He seemed to want to find Jondalar as much as she did.

  Not for the first time, she decided to remove her leggings before getting on Whinney's back, so they would not get wet. She didn't want to take the time to worry about drying clothes. Much to her surprise, Wolf did not hesitate to enter the water. Instead of pacing back and forth on the bank, he jumped in and paddled after her, as though he no more wanted to let her out of his sight than she wanted to let him out of hers.

  When they reached the other side, Ayla moved out of the way to avoid the spray from the animals shaking off excess moisture while she donned her legwear. She checked the wolf again, just to satisfy herself, though he showed no discomfort when he shook himself vigorously and then began searching for the trail. Somewhat downstream of their landing, Wolf discovered the watercraft that had been used by the ones she was tracking to make the crossing, hidden in some brush and trees that grew near the water. It took her a while, however, to understand it for what it was.

  She had assumed the people would use a boat, something similar to the Sharamudoi boats—beautifully crafted dugouts with gracefully pointed prows and sterns, or perhaps like the more pedestrian but practical bowl boat that she and Jondalar used. But the contrivance Wolf found was a platform of logs, and she was unfamiliar with a raft. Once she understood its purpose, she thought it was rather clever, if somewhat ungainly. Wolf sniffed around the crude craft curiously. When he came to a certain place, he stopped and made a low growl deep in his throat.

  "What is it, Wolf?" Ayla said. Looking more closely, she found a brown stain on one of the logs and felt a touch of panic drain her face. It was dried blood, she was sure, probably Jondalar's blood. She patted the canine's head. "We'll find him," she said, to reassure herself as much as the wolf, but she wasn't at all sure that they would find him alive.

  The trail leading from the landing ran between fields of tall dry grass intermixed with brush and was much easier to follow. The problem was that it was so well used that she couldn't be sure it had been taken by the ones she was pursuing. Wolf was in the lead, for which Ayla was soon more than grateful. They had not been on the path long when he stopped in his tracks, wrinkling his nose and baring his teeth in a snarl.

  "Wolf? What is it? Is someone coming?" Ayla said, even as she turned Whinney off the path and headed for some thick brush, signaling Wolf to follow. She slid off the mare's back as soon as they were screened by the tall, bare branches and grass, grabbed Racer's lead rope to guide him behind the mare, since he was wearing the pack, and hid between the horses herself. She knelt on one knee and put an arm around Wolf's neck to keep him quiet, then waited.

  Her assessment was not wrong. Before long, two young women ran past, obviously heading for the river. She signaled Wolf to stay and then, using the stealth she had learned when tracking carnivores as a girl, she followed them back, creeping close through the grass, then hiding behind some brush to watch.

  The two women talked to each other as they uncovered the raft, and though the language was unfamiliar, she noticed a similarity to Mamutoi. She wasn't quite able to understand them, but she thought she caught the meaning of a word or two.

  The women pushed the log platform almost into the water, then retrieved two long poles that had been underneath it. They fastened one end of a large coil of rope around a tree, then climbed on. As one began to pole across the river, the other played out the rope. When they were near the other side, where the current was not as swift, they started poling upstream until they reached the docking place. With ropes fastened to the raft, they secured it to the poles sticking up from the water and stepped off to the logs stuck into the bank. Leaving the raft, they started running back the way Ayla had just come.

  She returned to the animals, thinking about what to do. She felt sure the women would be returning soon, but "soon" could be this day, or the next, or the one after. She wanted to find Jondalar as soon as possible, but she didn't want to continue following the trail and have them catch up with her. She was also reluctant to approach them directly until she knew more about them. She finally decided to look for a place to wait for them where she could watch them coming without being seen.

  She was pleased that her wait was not too long. By afternoon she saw the two women returning, along with several other people, all carrying litters of butchered meat and sections of horse. They were moving surprisingly fast in spite of their loads. When they drew nearer, Ayla realized there was not a single man in the hunting party. All the hunters were women! She watched them load the meat on the raft, then pole across using the rope for a guide. They hid the raft after unloading it, but they left the guide rope strung across the river, which puzzled her.

  Ayla was again surprised at how fast they traveled as they started up the trail. Almost before she knew it, they were gone. She waited some time before she followed, and she kept well behind.

  Jondalar was appalled at the conditions inside the fence. The only shelter was a rather large, crude lean-to, which offered scant protection from rain or snow, and the fence of posts, itself, which blocked the wind. There were no fires, little water, and no food available. The only people within the Holding were male, and they showed the effects of the poor conditions. As they came out of the shelter to stand and stare at him, he saw that they were thin, dirty, and ill-clad. None of them had sufficient clothing for the weather, and they probably had to huddle together in the lean-to in an attempt to keep warm.

  He recognized one or two from the walk up to the funeral, and he wondered why the men and boys were living in such a place. Suddenly several puzzling things came together: the attitude of the women with spears, the strange comments of Ardemun, the behavior of the men walking to the funeral, the reticence of S'Armuna, the belated examination of his wounds, and their generally harsh treatment of him. Maybe it wasn't the result of a misunderstanding that would be cleared up as soon as he convinced Attaroa that he wasn't lying.

  The conclusion he was forced to seemed preposterous, but the full realization struck him with the force to shatter his disbelief. It was so obvious that he wondered why it had taken him so long to see it. The men were kept here against their will by the women!

  But why? It was such a waste to keep people inactive like this when they could all be contributing to the welfare and benefit of the entire community. He thought of the prosperous Lion Camp of the Mamutoi, with Talut and Tulie organizing the necessary activities of the Camp for the benefit of everyone. They all contributed, and they still had plenty of time to work on their own individual projects.

  Attaroa! How much was her doing? She was obviously the head-woman or leader of this Camp. If she wasn't entirely responsible, at the least, she seemed determined to maintain the peculiar situation.

  These men should be hunting and collecting food, Jondalar thought, and digging storage pits, making new shelters and repairing old ones; contributing, not huddling together trying to keep warm. No wonder these people were out hunting horses this late in the season. Did they even have enough food stored to last through the winter? And why did they hunt so far away when they had such a perfect hunting opportunity so close at hand?

  "You're the one they call the Zelandonii man," one of the men said, speaking Mamutoi. Jondalar thought he recognized him as one whose hands had been tied when they marched up to the funeral.

  "Yes. I am Jondalar of the Zelandonii."

  "I am Ebulan of the S'Armunai," he said, then added sardonically, "In the name of Muna, the Mother of All, let me welcome you to the Holding, as Attaroa likes to call this place. We have other names: the Men's Camp, the Mother's Frozen Underworld, and Attaroa's Man Trap. Take your pick."

  "I don't understand. Why are you ... all of you, here?" Jondalar asked.

&n
bsp; "It's a long story, but essentially we were all tricked, one way or another," Ebulan said. Then, with an ironic grimace, he continued, "We were even tricked into building this place. Or most of it."

  "Why don't you just climb over the wall and get out?" Jondalar said.

  "And get pierced by Epadoa and her spear-stickers?" another man said.

  "Olamun is right. Besides, I'm not sure how many could make the effort, any more," Ebulan added. "Attaroa likes to keep us weak ... or worse."

  "Worse?" Jondalar said, frowning.

  "Show him, S'Amodun," Ebulan said to a tall, cadaverously thin man with gray matted hair and a long beard that was almost white. He had a strong, craggy face with a long, high-bridged beak of a nose and heavy brows that were accented by his gaunt face, but it was his eyes that captured the attention. They were compelling, as dark as Attaroa's, but rather than malice they held depths of ancient wisdom, mystery, and compassion. Jondalar wasn't sure what it was about him, some quality of carriage or demeanor, but he sensed that this was a man who commanded great respect, even in these wretched conditions.

  The old man nodded and led the way to the lean-to. As they neared, Jondalar could see that a few people were still inside. As he ducked under the sloping roof, an overpowering stench assaulted him. A man was lying on a plank that might have been torn from the roof, and he was covered with only a ripped piece of hide. The old man pulled back the cover and exposed a putrefying wound in his side.

  Jondalar was aghast. "Why is this man here?"

  "Epadoa's spear-stickers did that," Ebulan said.

  "Does S'Armuna know about this? She could do something for him."

  "S'Armuna! Hah! What makes you think she would do anything?" said Olamun, who was among those who had followed them. "Who do you think helped Attaroa in the first place?"

  "But she cleaned the wound on my head," Jondalar said.

  "Then Attaroa must have plans for you," Ebulan said.

  "Plans for me? What do you mean?"

  "She likes to put the men who are young and strong enough to work, as long as she can control them," Olamun said.

  "What if someone doesn't want to do her work?" Jondalar asked. "How can she control them?"

  "By withholding food or water. If that doesn't work, by threatening kin," Ebulan said. "If you know that the man of your hearth or your brother will be put in the cage without food or water, you'll usually do what she wants."

  "The cage?"

  "The place you were kept," Ebulan said. Then he smiled wryly. "Where you got that magnificent cloak." Other men were smiling, too.

  Jondalar looked at the ragged hide he had torn from the structure inside the earthlodge and wrapped around him.

  "That was a good one!" Olamun said. "Ardemun told us how you almost broke down the cage, too. I don't think she expected that."

  "Next time, she make stronger cage," said another man. It was obvious that he was not entirely familiar with the language. Ebulan and Olamun were so fluent that Jondalar had forgotten that Mamutoi was not the native language of these people. But apparently others knew some, and most seemed to understand what was being said.

  The man on the ground moaned, and the old man knelt to comfort him. Jondalar noticed a couple of other figures stirring, farther back under the lean-to.

  "It won't matter. If she doesn't have a cage, she'll threaten to hurt your kin to make you do what she wants. If you were mated before she became headwoman, and were unlucky enough to have a son born to your hearth, she can make you do anything," Ebulan said.

  Jondalar didn't like the implication, and he frowned deeply. "Why should it be unlucky to have a son born to your hearth?"

  Ebulan glanced toward the old man. "S'Amodun?"

  "I will ask if they want to meet the Zelandonii," he said.

  It was the first time S'Amodun had spoken, and Jondalar wondered how a voice so deep and rich could emanate from so spare a man. He went to the back of the lean-to, bending down to talk to the figures huddled in the space where the slanting roof reached the ground. They could hear the deep mellow tones of his voice, but not his words, and then the sound of younger voices. With the old man's help, one of the younger figures got up and hobbled toward them.

  "This is Ardoban," the old man announced.

  "I am Jondalar of the Ninth Cave of the Zelandonii, and in the name of Doni, the Great Earth Mother, I greet you, Ardoban," he said with great formality, holding out both his hands to the youngster, somehow feeling that the boy needed to be treated with dignity.

  The boy tried to stand straighter and take his hands, but Jondalar saw him wince with pain. He started to reach for him to support him, but caught himself.

  "I really prefer to be called Jondalar," he said, with a smile, trying to gloss over the awkward moment.

  "I called Doban. Not like Ardoban. Attaroa always say Ardoban. She wants me say S'Attaroa. I not say anymore."

  Jondalar looked puzzled.

  "It's hard to translate. It's a form of respect," Ebulan said. "It means someone held in the highest regard."

  "And Doban does not respect Attaroa anymore."

  "Doban hate Attaroa!" the youngster said, his voice rising to the edge of tears as he tried to turn away and hobble back. S'Amodun waved them out as he helped the youngster.

  "What happened to him?" Jondalar asked after they were outside and somewhat away from the lean-to.

  "His leg was pulled until it became dislocated at the hip," Ebulan said. "Attaroa did it, or rather, she told Epadoa to do it."

  "What!" Jondalar said, his eyes open wide in disbelief. "Are you saying she purposely dislocated the leg of that child? What kind of abomination is this woman?"

  "She did the same thing to the other boy, and Odevan's younger."

  "What possible justification can she even give to herself for doing such a thing?"

  "With the younger one, it was to make an example. The boy's mother didn't like the way Attaroa was treating us, and she wanted her mate back at her hearth. Avanoa even managed to get in here sometimes and spend the night with him, and she used to sneak extra food to us. She's not the only woman who does that sometimes, but she was stirring up the other women, and Armodan, her man, was ... resisting Attaroa, refusing to work. She took it out on the boy. She said at seven years he was old enough to leave his mother and live with the men, but she dislocated his leg first."

  "The other boy is seven years?" Jondalar said, shaking his head and shuddering with horror. "I have never heard of anything so terrible."

  "Odevan is in pain, and he misses his mother, but Ardoban's story is worse." It was S'Amodun who spoke. He had left the lean-to and just joined the group.

  "It's hard to imagine anything worse," Jondalar said.

  "I think he suffers more from the pain of betrayal than from the physical pain," S'Amodun said. "Ardoban thought of Attaroa as his mother. His own mother died when he was young and Attaroa took him in, but she treated him more like a favored plaything than a child. She liked to dress him in girl's clothes and adorn him with silly things, but she fed him well, and she often gave him special tidbits. She even cuddled him, sometimes, and took him to her bed to sleep with her when she was in the mood. But when she got tired of him, she'd push him out and make him sleep on the ground. A few years ago, Attaroa began to think people were trying to poison her."

  "They say that's what she did to her mate," Olamun interjected.

  "She made Ardoban taste everything before she ate it," the old man continued, "and when he got older, she tied him up, sometimes, convinced he was going to run away. But she was the only mother he knew. He loved her and tried to please her. He treated the other boys the same way she treated the men, and he began telling the men what to do. Of course, she encouraged him."

  "He was insufferable," Ebulan added. "You'd think the whole Camp belonged to him, and he made the other boys' lives miserable."

  "But what happened?" Jondalar asked.

  "He reached the age of manhood," S
'Amodun said. Then, seeing Jondalar's puzzled look, he explained. "The Mother came to him in his sleep in the form of a young woman and brought his manhood to life."

  "Of course. That happens to all young men," Jondalar said.

  "Attaroa found out," S'Amodun explained, "and it was as though he had purposely turned into a man just to displease her. She was livid! She screamed at him, called him terrible names, then banished him to the Men's Camp, but not before she had his leg dislocated."

  "With Odevan, it was easier," Ebulan said. "He was younger. I'm not even sure if they originally intended to tear his joint loose. I think they just wanted to make his mother and her mate suffer by listening to his screams, but once it happened, I think Attaroa thought it would be a good way to disable a man, make him easier to control."

  "She had Ardemun as an example," Olamun said.

  "Did she dislocate his leg, too?" Jondalar asked.

  "In a way," S'Amodun said. "It was an accident, but it happened when he was trying to get away. Attaroa would not allow S'Armuna to help him, although I believe she wanted to."

  "But it was harder to disable a boy of twelve years. He fought and screamed, but it did no good," Ebulan said. "And I will tell you, after listening to his agony, no one here could be angry with him any more. He more than paid for his childish behavior."

  "Is it true that she has told the women that all children, including the one that is expected, if they are boys, will have their legs dislocated?" Olamun asked.

  "That's what Ardemun said," Ebulan confirmed.

  "Does she think she can tell the Mother what to do? Force Her to make only girl babies?" Jondalar asked. "She is tempting her fate, I think."

  "Perhaps," Ebulan said, "but it will take the Mother Herself to stop her, I'm afraid."

  "I think the Zelandonii may be right," S'Amodun said. "I think the Mother has already tried to warn her. Look how few babies have been born in the last several years. This latest outrage of hers, injuring children, may be more than She will stand for. Children are supposed to be protected, not harmed."