"You don't fall in love at all, Jondalar."
Jondalar started walking faster. "What do you mean? I've loved a lot of women."
"Loved them, yes. That's not the same thing."
"How would you know? Have you ever been in love?"
"A few times. Maybe it hasn't lasted, but I know the difference. Look, Brother, I don't want to pry, but I worry about you, especially when you get moody. And you don't have to run. I'll shut up if you want me to."
Jondalar slowed down. "So, maybe you're right. Maybe I've never fallen in love. Maybe it's not in me to fall in love."
"What's missing? What don't the women you know have?"
"If I knew, don't you think…" he began angrily. Then he paused. "I don't know, Thonolan. I guess I want it all. I want a woman like she is at First Rites – I think I fall in love with every woman then, at least for that night. But I want a woman, not a girl. I want her honestly eager and willing without any pretenses, but I don't want to have to be so careful with her. I want her to have spirit, to know her own mind. I want her young and old, naive and wise, all at the same time.
"That's a lot to want, Brother."
"Well, you asked." They walked in silence for a while.
"How old would you say Zelandoni is?" Thonolan asked. "A little younger than Mother, maybe?"
Jondalar stiffened. "Why?"
"They say she was really beautiful when she was younger, even just a few years ago. Some of the older men say no one could compare to her, not even come close. It's hard for me to tell, but they say she's young to be First among Those Who Serve the Mother. Tell me something, Big Brother. What they say about you and Zelandoni, is it true?"
Jondalar stopped and slowly turned to face his brother. "Tell me, what do they say about me and Zelandoni?" he asked through gritted teeth.
"Sorry. I just went too far. Forget I asked."
5
Ayla walked out of the cave and onto the stone ledge in front of it, rubbing her eyes and stretching. The sun was still low in the east and she shaded her eyes as she looked to see where the horses were, checking the horses when she awoke in the morning had already become a habit, though she had been there only a few days. It made her solitary existence a little more bearable to think she was sharing the valley with other living creatures.
She was becoming aware of their patterns of movement, where they went for water in the morning, the shade trees they favored in the afternoon, and she was noticing individuals. There was the yearling colt whose gray coat was so light that it was almost white, except where it shaded darker along the characteristic stripe down the spine and the dark gray lower legs and stiff standing mane. And there was the dun mare with her hay-colored foal, whose coat matched the stallion's. And then the proud leader himself, whose place would someday be taken by one of those yearlings he barely tolerated, or perhaps one of next year's brood, or the next. The light yellow stallion, with the deep brown feral stripe, mane, and lower legs, was in his prime, and his bearing showed it.
"Good morning, horse clan," Ayla signaled, making the gesture commonly used for any greeting purpose, with a slight nuance which shaded it to a morning greeting. "I slept late this morning. You've already had your morning drink – I think I'll get mine."
She ran lightly down to the stream, familiar enough with the steep path to be sure-footed on it. She took a drink, then doffed her wrap for her morning swim. It was the same wrap, but she had washed it and worked it with her scrapers to soften the leather again. Her own natural preference for order and cleanliness had been reinforced by Iza, whose large pharmacopoeia of medicinal herbs required order to avoid misuse, and who understood the dangers of dirt and filth and infections. It was one thing to accept a certain amount of grime while traveling, when it couldn't be avoided. But not with a sparkling stream nearby.
She ran her hands through thick blond hair that fell in waves well below her shoulders. "I'm going to wash my hair this morning," she motioned to no one in particular. Just around the bend she had found soaproot growing, and went to pull some roots. As she strolled back looking over the stream, she noticed the large rock jutting out of the shallows with smooth saucer-shaped depressions in it. She picked up a round stone and waded out to the rock. She rinsed the roots, scooped water into a depression, and pounded the soaproot to release the rich sudsy saponin. When she had worked up the foam, she wetted her hair, rubbed it in, then washed the rest of her body and dove into the water to rinse.
A large section of the jutting wall had broken off at some time in the past. Ayla climbed out on the portion that was underwater and walked across the surface that rose above the water to a place warming in the sun. A waist-deep channel on the shoreward side made the rock an island, partly shaded by an overhanging willow whose exposed roots clutched at the stream like bony fingers. She broke a twig off a small bush whose roots had found purchase in a crack, peeled it with her teeth, and used it to pull snarls out of her hair while it dried in the sun.
She was staring dreamily into the water, humming under her breath, when a flicker of movement caught her eye. Suddenly alert, she looked into the water at the silvery shape of a large trout resting beneath the roots. I haven't had fish since I left the cave, she thought, recalling she hadn't had breakfast either.
Slipping silently into the water off the far side of the rock, she swam downstream a ways, then waded toward the shallows. She put her hand in the water, letting her fingers dangle, and slowly, with infinite patience, she moved back upstream. As she approached the tree, she saw the trout with its head into the current, undulating slightly to maintain itself in its place under the root.
Ayla's eyes glistened with excitement, but she was even more cautious, placing each foot securely as she neared the fish. She moved her hand up from behind until it was just below the trout, then touched it lightly, feeling for the open gill-covers. Suddenly, she grasped the fish and, in one sure movement, lifted it out of the water and threw it on the bank. The trout flopped and struggled for a few moments, then lay still.
She smiled, pleased with herself. It had been difficult learning how to tickle a fish out of the water when she was a child, and she still felt almost as proud as she had the first time she succeeded. She would watch the spot, knowing it would be used by a succession of tenants. This one was big enough for more than breakfast, she thought, as she retrieved her catch – anticipating the taste of fresh trout baked on hot stones.
As her breakfast cooked, Ayla busied herself making a basket of beargrass she had picked the day before. It was a simple, utilitarian basket, but with small variations in the weaving she created a change in texture to please herself, giving it a subtle design. She worked quickly, but with such skill that the basket would be watertight. By adding hot rocks, it could be used for a cooking utensil, but that was not the purpose she had in mind for it. She was making a storage container, thinking about everything she had to do to make herself secure for the cold season ahead.
The currants I picked yesterday will be dry in a few days, she estimated, glancing at the round red berries spread out on grass mats on her front porch. By then, more will be ripe. There will be a lot of blueberries, but I won't get much out of that scrawny little apple tree. The cherry tree is full, but they're almost too ripe. If I'm going to get some, I'd better do it today. Sunflower seeds will be good, if the birds don't get them all first. I think those were hazelnut bushes by the apple tree, but they're so much smaller than the ones by the little cave, I'm not sure. I think those pine trees are the kind with the big nuts in the cones, though. I'll check them later. Wish that fish would cook!