But why? It was such a waste to keep people inactive like this when they could all be contributing to the welfare and benefit of the entire community. He thought of the prosperous Lion Camp of the Mamutoi, with Talut and Tulie organizing the necessary activities of the Camp for the benefit of everyone. They all contributed, and they still had plenty of time to work on their own individual projects.
Attaroa! How much was her doing? She was obviously the head-woman or leader of this Camp. If she wasn't entirely responsible, at the least, she seemed determined to maintain the peculiar situation.
These men should be hunting and collecting food, Jondalar thought, and digging storage pits, making new shelters and repairing old ones; contributing, not huddling together trying to keep warm. No wonder these people were out hunting horses this late in the season. Did they even have enough food stored to last through the winter? And why did they hunt so far away when they had such a perfect hunting opportunity so close at hand?
"You're the one they call the Zelandonii man," one of the men said, speaking Mamutoi. Jondalar thought he recognized him as one whose hands had been tied when they marched up to the funeral.
"Yes. I am Jondalar of the Zelandonii."
"I am Ebulan of the S'Armunai," he said, then added sardonically, "In the name of Muna, the Mother of All, let me welcome you to the Holding, as Attaroa likes to call this place. We have other names: the Men's Camp, the Mother's Frozen Underworld, and Attaroa's Man Trap. Take your pick."
"I don't understand. Why are you… all of you, here?" Jondalar asked.
"It's a long story, but essentially we were all tricked, one way or another," Ebulan said. Then, with an ironic grimace, he continued, "We were even tricked into building this place. Or most of it."
"Why don't you just climb over the wall and get out?" Jondalar said.
"And get pierced by Epadoa and her spear-stickers?" another man said.
"Olamun is right. Besides, I'm not sure how many could make the effort, any more," Ebulan added. "Attaroa likes to keep us weak… or worse."
"Worse?" Jondalar said, frowning.
"Show him, S'Amodun," Ebulan said to a tall, cadaverously thin man with gray matted hair and a long beard that was almost white. He had a strong, craggy face with a long, high-bridged beak of a nose and heavy brows that were accented by his gaunt face, but it was his eyes that captured the attention. They were compelling, as dark as Attaroa's, but rather than malice they held depths of ancient wisdom, mystery, and compassion. Jondalar wasn't sure what it was about him, some quality of carriage or demeanor, but he sensed that this was a man who commanded great respect, even in these wretched conditions.
The old man nodded and led the way to the lean-to. As they neared, Jondalar could see that a few people were still inside. As he ducked under the sloping roof, an overpowering stench assaulted him. A man was lying on a plank that might have been torn from the roof, and he was covered with only a ripped piece of hide. The old man pulled back the cover and exposed a putrefying wound in his side.
Jondalar was aghast. "Why is this man here?"
"Epadoa's spear-stickers did that," Ebulan said.
"Does S'Armuna know about this? She could do something for him."
"S'Armuna! Hah! What makes you think she would do anything?" said Olamun, who was among those who had followed them. "Who do you think helped Attaroa in the first place?"
"But she cleaned the wound on my head," Jondalar said.
"Then Attaroa must have plans for you," Ebulan said.
"Plans for me? What do you mean?"
"She likes to put the men who are young and strong enough to work, as long as she can control them," Olamun said.
"What if someone doesn't want to do her work?" Jondalar asked. "How can she control them?"
"By withholding food or water. If that doesn't work, by threatening kin," Ebulan said. "If you know that the man of your hearth or your brother will be put in the cage without food or water, you'll usually do what she wants."
"The cage?"
"The place you were kept," Ebulan said. Then he smiled wryly. "Where you got that magnificent cloak." Other men were smiling, too.
Jondalar looked at the ragged hide he had torn from the structure inside the earthlodge and wrapped around him.
"That was a good one!" Olamun said. "Ardemun told us how you almost broke down the cage, too. I don't think she expected that."
"Next time, she make stronger cage," said another man. It was obvious that he was not entirely familiar with the language. Ebulan and Olamun were so fluent that Jondalar had forgotten that Mamutoi was not the native language of these people. But apparently others knew some, and most seemed to understand what was being said.
The man on the ground moaned, and the old man knelt to comfort him. Jondalar noticed a couple of other figures stirring, farther back under the lean-to.
"It won't matter. If she doesn't have a cage, she'll threaten to hurt your kin to make you do what she wants. If you were mated before she became headwoman, and were unlucky enough to have a son born to your hearth, she can make you do anything," Ebulan said.
Jondalar didn't like the implication, and he frowned deeply. "Why should it be unlucky to have a son born to your hearth?"
Ebulan glanced toward the old man. "S'Amodun?"
"I will ask if they want to meet the Zelandonii," he said.
It was the first time S'Amodun had spoken, and Jondalar wondered how a voice so deep and rich could emanate from so spare a man. He went to the back of the lean-to, bending down to talk to the figures huddled in the space where the slanting roof reached the ground. They could hear the deep mellow tones of his voice, but not his words, and then the sound of younger voices. With the old man's help, one of the younger figures got up and hobbled toward them.
"This is Ardoban," the old man announced.
"I am Jondalar of the Ninth Cave of the Zelandonii, and in the name of Doni, the Great Earth Mother, I greet you, Ardoban," he said with great formality, holding out both his hands to the youngster, somehow feeling that the boy needed to be treated with dignity.
The boy tried to stand straighter and take his hands, but Jondalar saw him wince with pain. He started to reach for him to support him, but caught himself.
"I really prefer to be called Jondalar," he said, with a smile, trying to gloss over the awkward moment.
"I called Doban. Not like Ardoban. Attaroa always say Ardoban. She wants me say S'Attaroa. I not say anymore."
Jondalar looked puzzled.
"It's hard to translate. It's a form of respect," Ebulan said. "It means someone held in the highest regard."
"And Doban does not respect Attaroa anymore."
"Doban hate Attaroa!" the youngster said, his voice rising to the edge of tears as he tried to turn away and hobble back. S'Amodun waved them out as he helped the youngster.
"What happened to him?" Jondalar asked after they were outside and somewhat away from the lean-to.
"His leg was pulled until it became dislocated at the hip," Ebulan said. "Attaroa did it, or rather, she told Epadoa to do it."
"What!" Jondalar said, his eyes open wide in disbelief. "Are you saying she purposely dislocated the leg of that child? What kind of abomination is this woman?"
"She did the same thing to the other boy, and Odevan's younger."
"What possible justification can she even give to herself for doing such a thing?"
"With the younger one, it was to make an example. The boy's mother didn't like the way Attaroa was treating us, and she wanted her mate back at her hearth. Avanoa even managed to get in here sometimes and spend the night with him, and she used to sneak extra food to us. She's not the only woman who does that sometimes, but she was stirring up the other women, and Armodan, her man, was… resisting Attaroa, refusing to work. She took it out on the boy. She said at seven years he was old enough to leave his mother and live with the men, but she dislocated his leg first."