The Land of Painted Caves (Earth's Children 6)

Yet, in the black despair of her present state of mind, she wasn’t thinking clearly. She should have had time to regain her balance, but too much had happened too fast. Her ordeal in the cave when she was called, including

the miscarriage, had weakened her both physically and emotionally. The pain and the jealousy, and the disappointment, of finding Jondalar with another woman were intensified by her experience in the cave, and by her loss. She had been looking forward to the knowing touch of his hands and the closeness of his body, to the thought of replacing the baby she had lost, to the healing comfort of his love.

Instead she found him with another woman, and not just any woman, the woman who had viciously and knowingly tried to hurt her before. Under normal circumstances, she might have been able to take his indiscretion in stride, especially if it had been with someone else. She might not have been happy about it. They had been too close. But she understood the customs. They were not so different from those of the men of the Clan, who could choose whatever woman they wanted.

She knew how jealous Jondalar had been about her and Ranec when they lived with the Mamutoi, even though she didn’t know what was causing the barely controlled violence of his reaction. Ranec had told her to come with him, and she was raised by the Clan. She hadn’t learned yet that among the Others, she had the right to say no.

When they finally resolved the problem and she left with Jondalar back to his home, she had decided in her own mind that she would never give him cause to be jealous of her again. She never chose anyone else, even though she knew it would have been acceptable, and to her knowledge, he never did either. He certainly never did openly, as the other men did. When she was confronted with the fact that he not only had chosen someone else, but that he had been choosing that particular woman, in secret, for a long time, she felt utterly betrayed.

But Jondalar had not meant to betray her. He wanted to keep her from finding out so she wouldn’t be hurt. He knew she never chose anyone else, and at a certain level, he even knew why. Though he would have struggled to control it, he knew how jealous he would have been if she had chosen someone else. He did not want her to experience the intensity of pain that he would have felt. When she found them together, he was beside himself. He simply didn’t know what to do; he had never learned.

Jondalar was born to grow into a six-foot, six-inch tall, well-formed, incredibly handsome man, with an unconscious charisma enhanced by a vividly intense shade of blue eyes. His natural intelligence, innate manual dexterity, and intrinsic mechanical skill were discovered early, and he was encouraged to apply it in many areas until he discovered his love for knapping flint and making tools. But his powerful feelings were also stronger than most, far too intense, and his mother and those who cared about him struggled to teach him to keep them under control. Even as a child he wanted too much, cared too much, felt too much; he could be overcome with compassion, yearn with desire, rage with hate, or burn with love. He was given too much, too many Gifts, and few understood what a burden that could be.

When he was a young man, Jondalar had been taught how to please a woman, but that was a normal practice of his culture. It was something all young men were taught. The fact that he’d learned it so well was partly because he had been taught so well, and partly the result of his own natural inclination. He discovered young that he loved pleasing women, but he never had to learn how to interest a woman.

Unlike most men, he never had to find ways to make a woman notice him; he couldn’t help but be noticed; he sought ways to get away, occasionally. He never had to think about how to meet a woman; women went out of their way to meet him; some threw themselves at him. He never had to entice a woman to spend her time with him; women couldn’t get enough of him. And he never had to learn how to handle loss, or a woman’s anger, or his own blundering mistakes. No one imagined that a man with his obvious Gifts wouldn’t know how.

Jondalar’s reaction when something didn’t go right was to withdraw, try to keep his feelings under control, and hope that somehow it would sort itself out. He hoped that he would be forgiven, or his mistakes overlooked, and usually that was what happened. He didn’t know what to do when Ayla saw him with Marona, and Ayla wasn’t any more adept at handling those kinds of situations.

From the time she was first found by the Clan as a five-year, she had struggled to fit in, to make herself acceptable so they would not turn her out. The Clan didn’t cry emotional tears and hers disturbed them, so she learned to hold them back. The Clan didn’t display anger or pain or other strong emotions—it was not considered proper—so she learned not to show hers. To be a good Clan woman, she learned what was expected of her, and tried to behave the way she was expected to behave. She had tried to do the same with the Zelandonii.

But now she was at a loss. It seemed obvious to her that she had not learned how to be a good Zelandonii woman. People were upset with her, some people hated her, and Jondalar didn’t love her. He had been ignoring her, and she had tried to provoke him to respond to her, but his brutal attack on Laramar was completely unexpected, and she felt, beyond all doubt, that it was entirely her fault. She had seen his compassion, and his love, and had seen him control his strong feelings when they were living with the Mamutoi. She thought she knew him. Now she was convinced she didn’t know him at all. She had been trying to maintain a semblance of normality by sheer force of will, but she was tired from lying awake too many nights, too full of worry, pain, and anger to sleep, and what she needed desperately was calm surroundings and rest.

Perhaps Zelandoni had been a little too interested in learning about the Clan root, or she might have been more perceptive, but Ayla had always been a case apart. They didn’t have enough common points of reference. Their backgrounds were far too different. Just when she thought she really understood the young woman, she’d find out that what she thought was true about Ayla was not.

“I don’t want to make it a big issue if you really feel we shouldn’t, Ayla, but if you could tell me something about how to prepare this root, perhaps we can work out a small experiment. Just to see if it might be useful. It would be just for the zelandonia, of course. What do you think?” Zelandoni said.

In Ayla’s troubled state, even the terrifying black void struck her as a restful place, a place to get away from all the turmoil around her. And if she didn’t come back, what difference would it make? Jondalar didn’t love her anymore. She would miss her daughter—Ayla felt a tight knot grip her stomach—then thought Jonayla would probably be better off without her. The child was missing Jondalar. If she wasn’t there, he would come back and take care of her again. And there were so many people who loved her, she would be well cared for.

“It’s not that complicated, Zelandoni,” Ayla said. “Essentially the roots are chewed to a mash and spit into a bowl of water. But they are hard to chew, and it takes a long time, and the one who is preparing it is not supposed to swallow any of the juice. It could be that it’s a necessary ingredient, the juice that accumulates in the mouth,” Ayla said.

“That’s all? It seems to me if you just use a small amount, like one would test anything new, it shouldn’t be that dangerous,” Zelandoni said.

“There are some Clan rituals involved. The medicine woman who prepares the root for the mog-urs is supposed to purify herself first, bathe in a river using soaproot, and she is not supposed to wear clothing. Iza told me that was so the woman would be unsullied and open, with nothing hidden, so that she would not contaminate the holy men, the mog-urs. The Mog-ur, Creb, painted my body with red and black colors, mostly circles around the female parts, to isolate them, I think,” Ayla said. “It is a very sacred ceremony to the Clan.”

“We could use the new cave you found. It is a very Sacred Place, and private. This would be a good use for it,” the First said. “Anything else?”

“No, except when I tried the root with Mamut, he made sure that the people of the Lion Camp kept chanting so we would have something to hold on to, something that would keep us tethered to this world, and help us find our way back.” She hesitated, looked down at the empty cup still in her hands, and added softly, “I’m not sure how, but Mamut said Jondalar may have helped bring us back.”

r /> “We will make sure all the zelandonia are there. They are very good at sustained chanting. Does it make any difference what is chanted?” the First asked.

“I don’t think so. Just something familiar,” Ayla said.

“When should we plan to do it?” Zelandoni asked, more excited than she thought she would be.

“I don’t think it matters.”

“Tomorrow morning? As soon as you can get everything ready?”

Ayla shrugged, as if she didn’t care. At that moment, she didn’t. “It’s as good a time as any, I suppose,” she said.

39

Jondalar was filled with as much anxiety and despair as Ayla. He had tried to avoid everyone as much as possible since the big ceremony where everyone was told about men and why they were created. He recalled parts of that night only vaguely. He did remember smashing Laramar in the face over and over again, and he couldn’t erase from his mind the picture of that man moving up and down on top of Ayla. When he woke up the next day, his head was pounding, and he was still somewhat dizzy and very nauseous. He couldn’t remember ever being so sick the next day, and wondered what was in the drinks he consumed.

Danug was there and he thought he ought to feel grateful to him, but he didn’t know why. He asked Danug questions, trying to fill in the blanks. As Jondalar learned what he had done, he started to recall what had happened and was appalled, and full of remorse and shame. He had never much liked Laramar, but nothing he had ever done could be as bad as what Jondalar had done to him. He was so filled with self-hatred, he could not think of anything else. He was sure everyone felt the same way about him, and he was convinced that Ayla could not possibly love him anymore. How could anyone love someone so despicable?

Part of him wanted to leave everything behind and just go, as far away as he could get, but something held him back. He told himself he had to face his punishment, at least find out what it would be and somehow make amends, but it was more that things felt unfinished and he couldn’t go leaving everything so unresolved. And deep inside, he wasn’t sure he could simply walk away from Ayla and Jonayla. He couldn’t bear the thought of never seeing them again, even if only from a distance.