The Valley of Horses (Earth's Children 2)

“More visitors have come than when Markeno and Tholie were mated, and I thought that gathering was large,” Serenio said. “But then, most people know of the Mamutoi, even if they haven’t all seen one. No one has heard of the Zelandonii.”

“They not think we have two eye, and two arm, and two leg, like they?” Jondalar said.

He was somewhat overwhelmed himself at the number of people. A Zelandonii Summer Meeting usually saw more, but these were all strangers, except for the residents of Dolando’s Cave and Carlono’s Dock. Word had traveled so fast that others besides Sharamudoi had even come. Some of Tholie’s Mamutoi kith and kin, plus a few others curious enough to accompany them, had been early arrivals. There were people from upriver as well, or uprivers—both the Mother and the Sister.

And many of the Mating Ceremonial customs were unfamiliar. All the Caves traveled to a prearranged meeting place for a Zelandonii Matrimonial, and several couples were formally united at one time. Jondalar was not accustomed to so many people visiting the home cave of one couple to witness their mating. As Thonolan’s only blood relative, he would have a conspicuous place in the ceremonies, and he was feeling nervous.

“Jondalar, you know most people would be surprised to learn that you are not always as confident as you appear. Don’t worry, you’ll be fine,” Serenio said, moving her body close to his and putting her arms around his neck. “You always are.”

She had done the right thing. Her nearness was a pleasant distraction—she took his mind off himself without being demanding—and her words were reassuring. He pulled her closer, pressed his warm mouth on hers and lingered, allowing himself the respite of a moment’s sensual pleasure before his apprehensions returned.

“You think I look right? This travel clothes, not for special wear,” he asked, suddenly conscious of his Zelandonii garb.

“No one here knows that. They are unique, very special. Just right for the occasion, I think. It would seem too ordinary if you wore something familiar, Jondalar. People are going to be looking for you as well as Thonolan. That’s why they have come. If they can see you from a distance, they may not all feel the need to press in closer, and you know you are comfortable in those clothes. They look good on you, too. They suit you.”

He let her go and looked out through a crack at the throng outside, grateful he didn’t have to face them yet. He walked toward the back until the sloping roof prevented him from going farther, then returned to the front and looked out again.

“Jondalar, let me make some tea for you. It’s a special blend I learned from the Shamud. It will settle your nerves.”

“Do I look nervous?”

“No, but you have a right to. It will only take a moment.” She poured water into a rectangular cooking box and added hot stones. He pulled up a wooden stool—one that was much too low—and sat down. His thoughts were elsewhere, and he stared absently at the geometric patterns carved into the box: a series of slanting parallel lines above another row slanting in the opposite direction, giving a herringbone effect. The sides of the kerfed boxes were made from a single plank in which grooves, or kerfs, were cut not quite all the way through. Using steam to make the wood pliable, the planks were bent sharply at the grooves to make corners, with the last corner pegged together. A groove was also cut near the bottom edge, into which a bottom piece was fitted. The boxes were watertight, particularly after they swelled when filled. Covered with separate removable lids, they were used for many things, from cooking to storage.

The box made him think of his brother and made him wish he could be with him at this moment before his mating. Thonolan had quickly understood the Sharamudoi way of bending and shaping wood. His craft of spearmaking utilized the same principles of heat and steam to straighten a shaft, or to bend one around for a snowshoe. Thinking of a snowshoe reminded Jondalar of the beginning of their Journey, and, with a pang of nostalgia, he wondered if he would ever see his home again. Ever since he had put on his own clothes, he’d been fighting off spasms of homesickness that had a way of sneaking up on him when he least expected it with some vivid recollection or poignant memory. This time it was Serenio’s kerfed cooking box that had brought it on.

He stood up quickly, knocked over the stool, and lunged to right it, just missing Serenio with the cup of hot tea she was bringing him. The near accident brought to mind the unfortunate incident during the Promise Feast. Both Tholie and Shamio seemed to be fine and their burns were almost healed, but he felt a twinge of uneasiness recalling the conversation he’d had with the Shamud afterward.

“Jondalar, drink your tea. I’m sure it will help.”

He had forgotten the cup in his hand, smiled, and took a sip. The tea had a pleasant taste—he thought he detected chamomile among the ingredients—and its warmth was calming. After a while he felt some of his tension drain off.

“You right, Serenio. Feel better. Not know what wrong.”

“It’s not every day one’s brother takes a mate. A little nervousness is understandable.”

He took her in his arms again and kissed her with a passion that made him wish he wouldn’t have to leave so soon. “See tonight, Serenio,” he whispered in her ear.

“Jondalar, there will be a festival to honor the Mother tonight,” she reminded him. “I don’t think either of us should make commitments with so many visitors. Why not let the evening work out its own way. We can have each other anytime.”

“I forget,” he said and nodded in agreement, but for some reason he felt rebuffed. It was strange; he had never felt that way before. In fact, he had always been the one to make sure he was free during a festival. Why should he feel hurt because Serenio had made it easy for him? On the spur of the moment, he decided he was going to spend the evening with her—Mother Festival or not.

“Jondalar!” Darvo came bursting in again. “They sent me for you. They want you.” He was breathless with excitement to be entrusted with such an important task, and dancing with impatience. “Hurry, Jondalar. They want you.”

“Be calm, Darvo,” the man said, smiling at the lad. “I come. I not miss brother’s Matrimonial.”

Darvo smiled a little sheepishly, realizing they wouldn’t start without Jondalar, but it didn’t curb his impatience. He hurried out. Jondalar took a breath and followed him.

There was a surging murmur through the crowd at his appearance, and he was glad to see the two women who were waiting for him. Roshario and Tholie conducted him to the raised mound near the side wall where the others waited. Standing on the highest part of the mound, head and shoulders above the throng, was a white-haired figure whose face was partially covered by a wooden half-mask with stylized birdlike features.

As he drew near, Thonolan flashed him a nervous smile. Jondalar tried to convey understanding when he smiled back. If he had been tense, he could just imagine how Thonolan must feel, and he was sorry the Sharamudoi customs had prevented them from being together. He noticed how well his brother seemed to fit in, and he felt a sharp, poignant stab of regret. No two people could have been closer than the two brothers while they were on their Journey, but they had begun to follow separate paths, and Jondalar felt the cleavage. For a moment he was overwhelmed with an unexpected grief.

He closed his eyes and clenched his fists to bring himself under control. He heard voices from the crowd and thought he detected some words, “tall” and “clothes.” When he opened his eyes, it struck him that one reason Thonolan fit in so well was that his clothes were entirely Shamudoi.

No wonder there were comments about his clothes, he thought, and for a moment was sorry he had chosen to wear such an outlandish outfit. But then, Thonolan was one of them now, had been adopted to facilitate the

mating. Jondalar was still Zelandonii.

The tall man joined the group of his brother’s new kin. Though he was not formally a Sharamudoi, they were his kin, too, once removed. They, along with Jetamio’s kin, were the ones who had contributed the food and gifts that would be distributed among the guests. As more people had arrived, more contributions had been brought forth. The large number of visitors accrued to the high regard and status of the young couple, but it would be most demeaning if they went away unsatisfied.

A sudden hush caused them all to turn their heads in the direction of a group making their way toward them.

“Do you see her?” Thonolan asked, standing on tiptoes.

“No, but she’s coming, you know that,” Jondalar said.

When they reached Thonolan and his kin, the protective phalanx opened a wedge to reveal its hidden treasure. Thonolan’s throat went dry when he beheld the flower-bedecked beauty within, who flashed him the most radiant smile he had ever seen. His happiness was so transparent that Jondalar beamed a smile of gentle amusement as well. As a bee is drawn toward a flower, Thonolan was drawn to the woman he loved, leading his train to the middle of her group, until Jetamio’s kin surrounded Thonolan and his kin.

The two groups merged, then paired, as the Shamud began piping a repetitive series of whistles on a flageolet. The rhythm was accented by another person with a bird half-mask playing a large, single-sided hoop drum. Another Shamud, Jondalar guessed. The woman was a stranger to him, yet there was a familiar aspect, perhaps it was just a similarity shared by all Those Who Served the Mother, but she brought on thoughts of home to him.

While members of the two sets of kin formed and reformed in patterns that appeared complicated, but were actually variations of a simple series of steps, the white-haired Shamud played the small flute. It was a long straight stick, reamed out with a hot coal, with a whistle mouthpiece, holes cut along the length, and an open-beaked bird head carved at the end. And some of the sounds emanating from the instrument mimicked exactly the sounds of birds.