Ayla wasn’t sure if she wanted to be pierced, except perhaps in the earlobes so she could wear the earrings she had brought with her all the way from the Summer Meeting of the Mammoth Hunters. She watched the women add beads and pendants around their necks and bracelets on their arms.
She noticed that the women glanced from time to time
at something behind a dividing panel. Finally, a little bored with all the combing and decorating, she got up and wandered over to see what they were looking at. She heard Lorava gasp when she saw the piece of blackened shiny wood, similar to the reflector in Marthona’s dwelling, and looked at herself.
Ayla was not happy with the reflection she saw. Her hair had been dressed into braids and coils, but they seemed to be in odd unattractive placements, not in the pleasing symmetrical order of the other women. She saw Wylopa and Marona looking at each other, then look away. When she tried to catch the eye of one of the women, they avoided her. Something strange was going on, and she didn’t think she liked it. She certainly did not like what had been done to her hair.
“I think I’ll wear my hair loose,” Ayla said as she began to take out the combs, pins, and bindings. “Jondalar likes it that way.” When she had removed all the paraphernalia, she picked up the comb and pulled it through her long, thick, dark blond hair, springy with a fresh-washed natural wave.
She adjusted her amulet around her neck—she never liked to be without it, though she often wore it under her clothes—then looked at herself in the reflector. Maybe someday she’d learn to fix her own hair, but for now she liked it much better the way it fell naturally. She glanced at Wylopa and wondered why the woman hadn’t seen how peculiar her hair had looked.
Ayla noticed her leather amulet bag in the reflector and tried to see it the way someone else might. It was lumpy with the objects it contained, and the color was much darker from sweat and wear than it had been. The small decorated bag had originally been intended as a sewing kit. Now, only dark quill-shafts remained of what had once been white feathers decorating the rounded bottom edge, but the ivory-beaded design was still intact and added an interesting look with the simple leather tunic. She decided to let it show.
She remembered that it was her friend Deegie who had persuaded her to use it as her amulet when she saw the plain and grimy pouch Ayla had worn before. Now this one was
old and worn. She thought she ought to make a new one soon to replace it, but she would not throw this one away. It held too many memories.
She could hear activity outside and was getting very tired of watching the women adding insignificant little finishing touches to each other’s face or hair that had no visible effect that she could discern. Finally there was a scratch on the rawhide panel beside the opening of the living structure.
“Everyone’s waiting for Ayla,” a voice called. It sounded like Folara.
“Tell them she’ll be out soon,” Marona answered. “Are you sure you won’t let me paint your face a little, Ayla? After all, it is a celebration for you.”
“No, I really don’t want to.”
“Well, since they’re waiting for you, maybe you should go ahead. We’ll be along in a while,” Marona said. “We still have to change.”
“I think I will,” Ayla said, glad to have an excuse to leave. They had been inside for a long time, it seemed to her. “Thank you for your gifts,” she remembered to say. “This is really a very comfortable outfit.” She picked up her worn tunic and short pants and went out.
She saw no one under the overhanging shelter; Folara had gone ahead without waiting for her. Ayla quickly veered toward Marthona’s dwelling and left her old clothing inside the entrance. Then she walked rapidly toward the crowd of people she saw outside, beyond the shadow of the high stone shelf that protected the structures nestled beneath it.
As she came out into the light of the late afternoon sun, a few people nearby noticed her and stopped talking to gape. Then a few more noticed her and stared, jostling their neighbors to look, too. Ayla slowed down and then stopped, looking back at the people who were looking at her. Soon all the talking stopped. Suddenly, into the stillness, someone let out a stifled guffaw. Then another person laughed, and another. Soon everyone was laughing.
Why were they laughing? Were they laughing at her? Was something wrong? Her face reddened with embarrassment.
Had she committed some terrible blunder? She looked around, wanting to run away but not knowing which way to turn.
She saw Jondalar striding toward her, his face an angry scowl. Marthona was hurrying toward her, too, from another direction.
“Jondalar!” Ayla called out as he approached. “Why is everyone laughing at me? What’s wrong? What have I done?” She was speaking in Mamutoi and didn’t realize it.
“You are wearing a boy’s winter underwear. Your belt is one that is worn by a young man during his puberty initiation, to let people know he is ready for his donii-woman,” Jondalar said in the same language she had spoken. He was furious that Ayla had been made the butt of such a cruel joke on her first day with his people.
“Where did you get those clothes?” Marthona asked as she approached.
“Marona,” Jondalar answered for her. “When we were at The River, she came and told Ayla that she wanted to help her dress for the celebration tonight. I should have guessed she had some vicious plan in mind to get back at me.”
They all turned around and looked back under the abri toward the dwelling of Marona’s brother. Standing just inside the shadows of the overhang were the four women. They were holding their sides, leaning against each other, laughing so hard at the woman they had tricked into wearing completely inappropriate boys’ clothing, that tears were streaming down their faces, smearing their careful makeup with red and black streaks. Ayla realized they were taking great pleasure in her discomfort and embarrassment.
As she watched the women, she felt a flush of anger rise within her. This was the gift they wanted to give her? To welcome her? They wanted people to laugh at her like this? She understood then that everything they had laid out for her was inappropriate for a woman. It was obvious to her now that it all had been men’s clothing. But it wasn’t only the clothes, she realized. Was that why they had made her hair look so peculiar?
So people would laugh at her? And had they planned to paint her face to make her look laughable, too?
Ayla had always rejoiced in laughter. When she lived with the Clan, she was the only one who laughed with pleasure, until her son was born. When people of the Clan made a grimace that resembled a smile, it was not a sign of happiness. It was an expression of nervousness, or fearfulness, or it signaled a threat of possible aggression. Her son was the only baby who smiled and laughed as she did, and though it made them uneasy, she had loved Durc’s happy giggles.
When she had lived in the valley, she had laughed with delight at the antics of Whinney and Baby when they were young. Jondalar’s ready smile and rare uninhibited laughter had made her know she had met her own kind in him, had made her love him more. And it had been Talut’s welcoming smile and hearty bellow that encouraged her to visit the Lion Camp the first time they met. She had met many people in their travels, and had laughed with them many times, but she had never been laughed at before. She had never learned that laughter could be used to hurt. This was the first time laughter had caused her pain and not joy.
Marthona, too, was not happy with the nasty trick that had been played on the visitor, the guest of the Ninth Cave of the Zelandonii, whom her son had brought home to mate with him and become one of them.
“Come with me, Ayla,” Marthona said. “Let me get you something more appropriate. I’m sure we can find something of mine that you can wear.”
“Or something of mine,” Folara said. She had seen the whole incident and had come to help.
Ayla started to go with them, then stopped. “No,” she said.
Those women had given her the wrong clothes as “gifts of welcome” because they wanted to make her look outlandish, different, to show she didn’t belong. Well, she had thanked them for their “gifts” and she was going to wear them! It was not the first time she had been the object of stares. She had always been the odd one, the ugly one, the
Strange one, among the people of the Clan. They had never laughed at her—they didn’t know how to laugh like that—but they had all stared at her when she arrived at the Clan Gathering.
If she had been able to stand being the only one who was different, who did not belong, the only one who was not Clan at the entire Clan Gathering, she could certainly stand up to the Zelandonii. At least they looked the same. Ayla straightened her back, clamped her jaw shut, jutted out her chin, and glared at the laughing throng.
“Thank you, Marthona. And you, too, Folara. But this outfit will do just fine. It was given to me as a gift of welcome. I would not be so discourteous as to cast it aside.”
She glanced behind her and noticed that Marona and the others were gone. They had returned to Marona’s room. Ayla turned back to face the large gathering of people who had assembled and started walking toward them. Marthona and Folara looked at Jondalar, stunned, when she passed by, but he could only shrug and shake his head.
Ayla caught a familiar movement out of the corner of her eye as she proceeded. Wolf had appeared at the head of the path and was running toward her. When he reached her, she patted herself and he jumped up and put his paws on the front of her shoulders, then licked her throat and took it gently in his jaws. There was an audible commotion from the crowd. Ayla signaled him down, then indicated that he should follow her, closely, the way she had taught him at the Mamutoi Summer Meeting.
As Ayla moved through the group, there was something about the way she walked, something about her determination, something about her defiant look in the face of those who laughed, and something about Wolf walking at her side, that silenced them. Soon, no one felt like laughing anymore.
She walked into the midst of a group of people whom she had met before. Willamar, Joharran, and Zelandoni greeted her. She turned around to find Jondalar right behind her, followed by Marthona and Folara.
“I have not yet met some of the people here. Would you introduce me, Jondalar?” Ayla said.
Joharran stepped forward instead. “Ayla of the Mamutoi, Member of the Lion Camp, Daughter of the Mammoth Hearth, Chosen by the Spirit of the Cave Lion, and Protected by the Spirit of the Cave Bear … and Friend of horses and a wolf, this is my mate, Proleva of the Ninth Cave of the Zelandonii, Daughter of…”
Willamar grinned as formal introductions were made to close kin and friends, but his expression was in no way derisive. Marthona, more and more amazed, observed with greater interest the young woman her son had brought home with him. She caught Zelandoni’s eye, and a knowing glance passed between them; they would discuss this later.
Many people looked at her more than once—especially men, who began to notice how well the garments and belt fit the person wearing them, in spite of what they meant to them. She had been traveling for the past year, walking or riding a horse, and her muscles were firm. The close-fitting boy’s winter undergarment emphasized her lean, muscular, well-formed body. Since she hadn’t been able to lace the thongs together in front across her firm but rather ample breasts, the opening exposed her cleavage, somehow more enticing than the more familiar naked breasts they often saw. The leggings showed off her long, shapely legs and rounded buttocks, and the cinched belt, in spite of what its design symbolized, accented her waist, only slightly thickened with the early stages of pregnancy.
On Ayla the outfit took on new meaning. Although many women did wear facial ornaments and paint, her lack of them only served to highlight her natural beauty. Her long hair, tumbling loosely in the disarray of natural waves and ringlets that caught the last rays of the setting sun, was an appealing and sensuous contrast to the well-groomed coiffures of the other women. She seemed young and reminded adult men of their own youth and their first awakening to the Great Earth Mother’s Gift of Pleasure. It made them wish they were young again and that Ayla was their donii-woman.
The outlandishness of Ayla’s clothing was quickly forgotten, accepted as somehow appropriate for the beautiful stranger with the low-pitched voice and exotic accent. It was certainly no more strange than her control over horses and Wolf.
Jondalar noticed people watching Ayla and heard her name mentioned in the undercurrent of conversation. Then he overheard a man say, “That’s a remarkably beautiful woman Jondalar has brought home with him.”
“You’d expect him to bring a beautiful woman,” a woman’s voice replied, “but she has courage, too, and a strong will. I’d like to get to know her better.”
The comments made Jondalar look at Ayla again, and suddenly he saw the way she looked, not the incongruity of the costume. Few women could claim such an exceptional shape, especially women of her age, who usually had had a child or two to slacken youthful muscle tone. Few would choose to wear such a close-fitting outfit even if it had been appropriate. Most would prefer looser, more concealing, and for them more comfortable clothes. And he did love her hair worn loose like that. She is a beautiful woman, he thought, and courageous. He relaxed and smiled, remembering their afternoon ride and the stop on the high field, thinking how lucky he was.
Marona and her three confederates had returned, still laughing, to her room to repair the damage to their face paint. They had planned to make their appearance later, dressed in their best and most suitable clothing, expecting to make a grand entrance.
Marona had exchanged the loincloth skirt for a long graceful one of very soft pliable leather with a long fringed overskirt, which she wrapped around her waist and hips and tied, but she wore the same decorated short top. Portula had been wearing her favorite skirt and top. Lorava had only the short tunic dress with her, but the other women had loaned her a long fringed overskirt and several extra necklaces and bracelets, and fixed her hair and painted her face much more elaborately than she had ever worn it before. Wylopa,
laughing as she removed the decorated shirt and trousers made for a man, had changed into her own highly decorated trousers, dyed an orangy shade of red, and more deeply colored tunic with a dark fringe.