THE SHELTERS OF STONE

The leather drape across the entrance moved and Jondalar felt a tingle of surprise when he saw his mother, since he had just been thinking about her. Marthona entered, carrying the preserved stomach of some middle-size animal full of a liquid that had seeped through the nearly waterproof container enough to stain it a deep purple. Jondalar's face lit up with a grin.

"Mother, you brought out some of your wine!" he said. 'Ayla, do you remember the drink that we had when we stayed with the Sharamudoi? The bilberry wine? Now you'll get a chance to taste Marthona's wine. She's known for it. No matter what fruit most people use, their juice often turns sour, but mother has a way with it." He smiled at her and added, "Maybe someday she'll tell me her secret."

Marthona smiled back at the tall man, but made no comment. From her expression, Ayla sensed that she did have a secret technique, and that she was good at keeping secrets, not only her own. She probably knew many. There were layers and hidden depths to the woman, for all that she was forthright and honest in what she said. And for all that she was friendly and welcoming, Ayla knew that Jondalar's mother would reserve judgment before fully accepting her.

Suddenly Ayla was reminded of Iza, the woman of the Clan who had been like a mother to her. Iza also knew many secrets, yet, like the rest of the Clan, she didn't lie. With a language of gestures, and nuances conveyed by postures and expressions, they couldn't lie. It would be known immediately. But they could refrain from mentioning. Though it might be understood that something was held back, it was allowed, for the sake of privacy.

This was not the first time she had been reminded of the Clan recently, she realized. The Ninth Cave's leader, Jondalar's brother Joharran, had reminded her of Brun, her clan's leader. Why did Jondalar's kin remind her of the Clan? she wondered.

"You must be hungry," Marthona said, including both of them in her glance.

Jondalar smiled. "Yes, I am hungry! We haven't eaten since early this morning. I was in such a hurry to get here, and we were so close, I didn't want to stop."

"If you've brought all your things in, sit and rest while I prepare some food for you." Marthona led them to a low table, indicated cushions for them to sit on, and poured some of the deep red liquid into cups for each of them. She looked around. "I don't see your wolf-animal, Ayla. I know you brought him in. Does he also need food? What does he eat?"

"I usually feed him whatever we eat, but he also hunts for himself. I brought him in so he would know where his place is, but he came with me the first time I went back down to the valley where the horses are, and decided to stay. He comes and goes on his own, unless I want him," Ayla said.

"How does he know when you want him?"

"She has a special whistle to call him," Jondalar said. "We call the horses with whistles, too." He picked up his cup, tasted, then smiled and sighed with appreciation. "Now I know I'm home." He tasted again, then closed his eyes and savored. "What fruit is this made from, mother?"

"Mostly from those round berries that grow in clusters on long vines only on protected south-facing slopes," Marthona explained for Ayla's benefit. "There's an area several miles southeast of here that I always check. Some years it doesn't grow well at all, but we had a fairly warm winter a few years back, and the following autumn the clusters were huge, very fruity, sweet but not too sweet. I added a little elderberry, and some blackberry juice, but not much. This wine was a favorite. It's a little stronger than usual. I don't have much left."

Ayla sniffed the aroma of fruit as she held the cup to her lips to taste. The liquid was tart and tangy, dry, not the sweet taste she had expected from the fruity smell. She sensed the alcoholic character she had first tasted in the birch beer made by Talut, the Lion Camp's headman, but this was more like the fermented bilberry juice made by the Sharamudoi, except that that had been sweeter, as she recalled.

She hadn't liked the harsh bite of alcohol when she first experienced it, but the rest of the Lion Camp seemed to enjoy the birch beer so much, and she wanted to fit in and be like them, so she made herself drink it. After a time, she got more used to it, though she suspected that the reason people liked it was not as much for its taste as for the heady, if disorienting, feeling it caused. Too much usually made her feel giddy and too friendly, but some people became sad, or angry, or even violent.

This beverage had something more, however. Elusive complexities altered the simple character of the fruit juice in an extraordinary way. It was a drink she could learn to enjoy.