"Do you know how old you are, Ayla? How many years you have lived?" Jondalar suddenly asked.
"Let me think about it," she said. She held up one hand with her fingers outstretched. "Creb said Iza thought I was about this many… five years… when they found me." Jondalar made five marks on the ground. "Durc was born the spring of the year we went to the Clan Gathering. I took him with me. Creb said there are this many years between Clan Gatherings." She held up two fingers in addition to the full hand.
"That's seven," Jondalar said.
"There was a Clan Gathering the summer before they found me."
"That's one less – let me think," he said, making more marks in the dirt. Then he shook his head. "Are you sure? That means your son was born when you were eleven!"
"I'm sure, Jondalar."
"I've heard of a few women giving birth that young, but not many. Thirteen or fourteen is more usual, and some think that's too young. You were hardly more than a child yourself."
"No, I was not a child. I had not been a child for several years by then. I was too big to be a child, taller than everyone, including the men. And I was already older than most Clan girls are when they become women." Her mouth drew up in a skewed smile. "I don't think I could have waited any longer. Some thought I would never become a woman because I have such a strong male totem. Iza was so glad when… when the moon times started. So was I, until…" Her smile faded. "That was Broud's year. The next one was Durc's year."
"The year before your son was born – ten! Ten years when he forced you? How could he do it?"
"I was a woman, taller than most women. Taller than he."
"But not bigger than he! I've seen some of those flatheads! They may not be tall, but they're powerful. I wouldn't want to fight one hand to hand."
"They are men, Jondalar," she corrected gently. "They are not flatheads – they are men of the Clan."
It stopped him. For all her soft-spoken tones, there was a stubborn set to her jaw.
"After what happened, you still insist he isn't an animal?"
"You might say Broud was an animal for forcing me, but then what do you call the men who force women of the Clan?"
He hadn't thought of it in quite that way.
"Not all the men were like Broud, Jondalar. Most of them were not. Creb was not – he was gentle and kind, even though he was a powerful Mog-ur. Brun was not, even though he was leader. He was strong-willed, but he was fair. He accepted me into his clan. Some things he had to do – it was the Clan way – but he honored me with his gratitude. Men of the Clan do not often show gratitude to women in front of everyone. He let me hunt; he accepted Durc. When I left, he promised to protect him."
"When did you leave?"
She stopped to think Birth year, walking year, weaning year. "Durc was three years when I left," she said.
Jondalar added three more lines. "You were fourteen? Only fourteen? And you've lived here alone since then? For three years?" He counted up all the lines. "You are seventeen years, Ayla. You have lived a lifetime in your seventeen years," he said.
Ayla sat silently for a time, pensively – then she spoke. "Durc is six years now. The men will be taking him with them to the practice field by now. Grod will make him a spear, his size, and Brun will teach him to use it. And if he's still alive, old Zoug will show him how to use a sling. Durc will practice hunting small animals with his friend, Grev – Durc is younger but he's taller than Grev. He always was tall for his age – he gets that from me. He can run fast; no one can run faster. And he's good with the sling. And Uba loves him. She loves him as much as I do."
Ayla didn't notice the tears falling until she took a breath that was a sob, and she didn't know how she found herself in Jondalar's arms with her head on his shoulder.
"It's all right, Ayla," the man said, patting her gently. Mother at eleven, torn away from her son at fourteen. Not able to watch him grow, not even sure if he's alive. She's sure someone loves him and is taking care of him, and teaching him to hunt… like any child.
Ayla felt wrung out when she finally lifted her head from the man's shoulder, but she felt lighter, too, as though her grief rested less heavily on her. It was the first time since she had left the clan that she had shared her loss with another human soul. She smiled at him with gratitude.
He smiled back with tenderness and compassion, and something more that welled up from the unconscious source of his inner self and showed in the blue depths of his eyes. It found a responsive chord within the woman. They spent a long moment locked in the intimate embrace of outspoken eyes, declaring in silence that which they would not say aloud.
The intensity was too much for Ayla; she was still not entirely comfortable with a direct stare. She wrenched her eyes away and began gathering up her marked sticks. It took a moment for Jondalar to gather himself together and help her tie the sticks into bundles. Working beside her made him more aware of her warm fullness and pleasant female scent than when he was comforting her in his arms. And Ayla felt an aftersense of the places their bodies had met, where his gentle hands had touched her, and the taste of the salt of his skin mingled with her tears.
They both realized they had touched each other and neither had been offended, but they carefully avoided looking too directly at each other or brushing too close, fearful that it might disturb their unplanned moment of tenderness.
Ayla picked up her bundles, then turned to the man. "How many years are you, Jondalar?"
"I was eighteen years when I started my Journey. Thonolan was fifteen… and eighteen when he died. So young." His face showed his pain; then he continued: "I am twenty and one years now… and I've yet to mate. I'm old for an unmated man. Most men have found a woman and made a hearth at a much younger age. Even Thonolan. He was sixteen at his Matrimonial."
"I found only two men, where is his mate?"
"She died. While giving birth. Her son died, too." Compassion filled Ayla's eyes. "That's why we were traveling again. He couldn't stay there. This was his Journey more than mine from the beginning. He was always the one after adventure, always reckless. He'd dare anything, but everyone was his friend. I just traveled with him. Thonolan was my brother, and the best friend I had. After Jetamio died, I tried to convince him to go back home with me, but he wouldn't. He was so full of grief that he wanted to follow her to the next world."
Ayla recalled the depth of Jondalar's desolation when he had first comprehended that his brother was dead, and she saw the ache that still lingered. "Perhaps he's happier, if it's what he wanted. It's difficult to go on living when you lose someone you love so much," she said gently.
Jondalar thought of his brother's inconsolable sorrow and understood it more now. Maybe Ayla was right. She ought to know; she had suffered enough grief and hardship. But she chose to live. Thonolan had courage, rash and impetuous; Ayla's is the courage to endure.
Ayla didn't sleep well, and the turnings and shufflings she heard from the other side of the fireplace made her wonder if Jondalar was lying awake, too. She wanted to get up and go to him, but the mood of caring tenderness that had grown out of shared griefs seemed so fragile that she was afraid to spoil it by wanting more than he was willing to give.
In the dim red light of the banked fire, she could see the shape of his body wrapped in sleeping furs with a tanned arm flung out and a muscular calf with a heel in the dirt. She saw him more distinctly when she closed her eyes than when she opened them to the breathing mound across the hearth. His straight yellow hair tied back with a piece of thong, his beard, darker and curly; his startling eyes that said more than his words, and his large, sensitive, long-fingered hands went deeper than vision. They filled her with inner sight. He always knew what to do with his hands, whether holding a piece of flint, or finding just the right place to scratch the colt. Racer. It was a good name. The man had named him.