The Plains of Passage (Earth's Children 4)

"Many people are strong. Strength doesn't make a leader," Jondalar said.

Attaroa didn't really hear him. She wasn't listening. Her pause was only to hear her own thoughts, to gather her own memories. "Brugar was such a strong leader that he had to beat me every day to prove it." She sneered. "Wasn't it a shame that the mushrooms he ate were poisonous?" Her smile was malignant. "I beat his sister's son in a fair fight to become leader. He was a weakling. He died." She looked at Jondalar. "But you are no weakling, Zelandonii. Wouldn't you like a chance to fight me for your life?"

"I have no desire to fight you, Attaroa. But I will defend myself, if I must."

"No, you will not fight me, because you know I would win. I am a woman. I have the power of Muna on my side. The Mother has honored women; they are the ones who bring forth life. They should be the leaders," Attaroa said.

"No," Jondalar said. Some of the people watching flinched when the man disagreed so openly with Attaroa. "Leadership doesn't necessarily belong to one who is blessed by the Mother any more than it does to one who is physically strong. The leader of the berry pickers, for instance, is the one who knows where the berries grow, when they will be ripe, and the best way to pick them." Jondalar was working up to a harangue of his own. "A leader has to be dependable, trustworthy; leaders have to know what they are doing."

Attaroa was scowling. His words had no effect on her, she listened only to her own counsel, but she didn't like the scolding tone of his voice, as though he thought he had the right to speak so freely, or to presume to tell her anything.

"It doesn't matter what the task is," Jondalar continued. "The leader of the hunt is the one who knows where the animals will be and when they will be there; he is the one who can track them. He's the one most skilled at hunting. Marthona always said leaders of people should care about the people they lead. If they don't, they won't be leaders for very long." Jondalar was lecturing, venting his anger, oblivious to Attaroa's glowering face. "Why should it matter if they are women or men?"

"I will not allow men to be leaders any more," Attaroa interrupted. "Here, men know that women are leaders, the young ones are raised to understand it. Women are the hunters here. We don't need men to track or lead. Do you think women cannot hunt?"

"Of course women can hunt. My mother was a hunter before she became leader, and the woman I traveled with was one of the best hunters I know. She loved to hunt and was very good at tracking. I could throw a spear farther, but she was more accurate. She could knock a bird out of the sky or kill a rabbit on the run with a single stone from her sling."

"More stories!" Attaroa snorted. "It's easy enough to make claims for a woman that doesn't exist. My women didn't hunt; they weren't allowed to. When Brugar was leader, no women were even allowed to touch a weapon, and it was not easy for us when I became leader. No one knew how to hunt, but I taught them. Do you see these practice targets?"

Attaroa pointed to a series of sturdy posts stuck in the ground. Jondalar had noticed them in passing before, though he hadn't known what they were for. Now he saw a large section of a horse carcass hanging from a thick wooden peg near the top of one. A few spears were sticking out of it.

"All the women must practice every day, and not just jabbing the spears hard enough to kill—throwing them, too. The best of them become my hunters. But even before we learned to make and use spears, we were able to hunt. There is a certain cliff north of here, near the place I grew up. People there chase horses off that cliff at least once every year. We learned to hunt horses like that. It is not so difficult to stampede horses off a cliff, if you can entice them up."

Attaroa looked at Epadoa with obvious pride. "Epadoa discovered how much horses like salt. She makes the women save the water they pass and uses it to lead the horses along. My hunters are my wolves," Attaroa said, smiling in the direction of the women with spears who had gathered around.

They took evident pleasure in her praise, standing taller as she spoke. Jondalar hadn't paid much attention to their clothing before, but now he realized that all of the hunters wore something that came from a wolf. Most of them had a fringe of wolf fur around their hoods and at least one wolf tooth, but often more, dangling around their necks. Some of them also had a fringe of wolf fur around the cuffs of their parkas, or the hem, or both, plus additional decorative panels. Epadoa's hood was entirely wolf fur, with a portion of a wolf's head, with fangs bared, decorating the top. Both the hem and cuffs of her parka were fringed, wolf paws hung down from her shoulders in front, and a bushy tail hung behind from a center panel of wolf skin.

"Their spears are their fangs, they kill in a pack, and bring the food back. Their feet are their paws, they run steady all day, and go a long way," Attaroa said in a rhythmic meter that he felt sure had been repeated many times. "Epadoa is their leader, Zelandonii. I wouldn't try to outsmart her. She is very clever."

"I'm sure she is," Jondalar said, feeling outnumbered. But he also couldn't help feeling a touch of admiration for what they had accomplished, starting with so little knowledge. "It just seems such a waste to have men sitting idle when they could be contributing, too, helping to hunt, helping to gather food, making tools. Then the women alone But Attaroa looked stunned when she heard the translation. Most men had been more than willing to share the Gift of Pleasures with the handsome woman to gain their freedom. Visitors unfortunate enough to pass through her territory and get caught by her hunters, had usually jumped at the chance to get away from the Wolf Women of the S'Armunai so easily. Though some had hesitated, doubtful and wondering what she was up to, none had ever refused her outright. They soon found out they were right to doubt.

"You refuse..." the headwoman sputtered, unbelieving. The translation was spoken without feeling, but her reaction was clear enough. "You refuse Attaroa. How dare you refuse!" she screamed, then turned to her Wolf Women. "Strip him and tie him to the practice target."

That had been her intention all along, just not so soon. She had wanted Jondalar to keep her occupied through the whole long, dreary winter. She enjoyed tantalizing men with promises of freedom in exchange for Pleasures. To her, it was the height of irony. From that point, she led them

into further acts of humiliation or degradation, and she usually managed to get them to do whatever she wanted before she was ready to play her final game. They would even strip themselves when she told them she would let them go if they did, hoping it would please her enough.

But no man could give Attaroa Pleasure. She had been used badly when she was a girl, and she had looked forward to mating the powerful leader of another group. Then she discovered that the man she had joined with was worse than the situation she had left behind. His Pleasures were always done with painful beatings and humiliation, until she finally rebelled and caused his painful, humiliating death. But she had learned her lesson too well. Warped by the cruelty she received, she could not feel Pleasure without causing pain. Attaroa cared little for sharing the Mother's Gift with men, or even women. She gave herself Pleasures watching men die slow and painful deaths.

When there was a long time between visitors, Attaroa had even played with S'Armunai men, but after the first two or three fell to her "Pleasures," they knew her game and would not play it. They just pleaded for their lives. She usually, but not always, gave in to those who had a woman to plead their case. Some of the women were not as cooperative—they didn't understand it was for them that she needed to eliminate men—but they could usually be controlled through the males to whom they were tied, so she kept them alive.

Travelers ordinarily came during the warmer season. People seldom traveled very far in the cold of winter, especially those on a Journey, and there had been fewer travelers lately, none the previous summer. A few men, by a lucky fluke, managed to escape, and some women ran away. They warned others. Most people who heard the stories passed them on as rumors, or fantastic tales of storytellers, but the rumors of the vicious Wolf Women had been growing, and people were staying away.

Attaroa had been delighted when Jondalar was brought back, but he turned out to be worse than one of her own men. He wouldn't go along with her game, and he didn't even give her the satisfaction of watching him plead. If he had, she might have even let him live a little longer, just to savor the pleasure of seeing him bend to her will.

At her command, Attaroa's Wolf Women rushed Jondalar. He swung out wildly, knocking aside spears and landing hard blows that would have telling aftereffects. His struggles to get free were almost successful, but he was eventually overwhelmed by sheer force of numbers. He continued to fight while they cut the lashing closures of his tunic and trousers to strip him of his clothes. But they expected it and held sharp blades to his neck.

After they tore off his tunic and bared his chest, they tied his hands together with a length of slack rope between them, then lifted him up and hung him with his hands over his head from the high peg on the target post. He kicked while they pulled off his boots and trousers, landing a few strong blows that would leave bruises, but all his resistance only served to make the women want to get back at him. And they knew they could.

Once he was hanging naked from the post, they all stood back and looked him over with self-satisfied smirks, pleased with themselves. Big and strong as he was, his fighting had done him no good. Jondalar's toes touched the ground, but just barely, and it was clear that most men would have dangled there. It gave him some slight feeling of security to touch the earth, and he sent a vague, unvoiced appeal to the Great Earth Mother to somehow deliver him from this unexpected and fearful predicament.

Attaroa was interested in the massive scar on his upper thigh and groin. It had healed well. He had given no hint that he had sustained such a serious injury, no limping or favoring of that leg. If he was that strong, perhaps he would last longer than most. He might give her some enjoyment yet. She smiled at the thought.

Attaroa's detached appraisal gave Jondalar second thoughts. He felt a breeze raise goose bumps, and he shivered, but not only with the cold. When he looked up, he saw Attaroa smiling at him. Her face was flushed and her breathing fast; she looked pleased and strangely sensual. Her enjoyment was always greater if the man she Pleasured herself with was handsome. Attracted in her own way to the tall man with the unconscious charisma, she anticipated making this one last as long as possible.

He looked across at the fence made of poles, and he knew the men were watching through the cracks. He wondered why they hadn't warned him. It was obviously not the first time something like this had happened. Would it have done any good if they had? Would he have just anticipated with fear? Perhaps they thought he would be better off not knowing.

In truth, some of the men had talked about it. They all liked the Zelandonii and admired his toolmaking skills. With the sharp knives and tools that were his legacy, they each hoped they might find an opportunity to break away. They would always remember him for that, but each of them knew in his heart that if there was too long a time between visitors, Attaroa was likely to hang one of them from a target post. A couple of them had already been strung up once, and they knew that their abject pleadings would probably not move her to delay her deadly game again. They secretly cheered his refusal to give in to her demands, but they were afraid that any noise would call attention to themselves. Instead they watched in silence as the familiar scene unfolded, each of them feeling compassion and fear and a small stab of shame.