The Land of Painted Caves by Jean M. Auel
The piece of red ocher that was the first object to go into the bag was worn smooth. It was given to her by Iza when she was accepted into the Clan. Ayla put it into the new amulet. The piece of black manganese dioxide that was given to her when she became a medicine woman was also worn down just from being inside the small pouch with the other objects for so long. The red and black material that was often used for coloration had left its residue on the other objects in the pouch. The mineral objects could be brushed off, such as the fossil cast of a seashell, the sign from her totem that her decision to hunt was proper for her, even though she was female.
He must have known even then that I would need to hunt if I was going to survive, she thought. My Cave Lion even told Brun to let me hunt, although then, only with the sling. The disk of mammoth ivory, her hunting talisman that had been given to her when she was declared the Woman Who Hunts, had absorbed color that couldn’t be brushed off, mostly red from the ocher.
She picked up the piece of iron pyrite and rubbed it against her tunic. It was her favorite sign; it was the one that told her she had been right to run away with Durc. If she hadn’t, he would have been exposed without anyone thinking any more about it, since he had been judged deformed. When she took him and hid, knowing she could die as well, it made Brun and Creb stop and think.
The colored dust clung to the clear quartz crystal but didn’t discolor it; that was the sign she found that told her she had made the right decision to stop looking for her people and stay in the valley of horses for a while. It always bothered her when she saw the black manganese stone. She picked it up again and held it in her closed fist. It held the spirits of all the people of the Clan. She had exchanged a piece of her spirit for it so that when she saved someone’s life they incurred no obligation to her, since she already had a piece of everyone’s spirit.
When Iza died, Creb, the Mog-ur, had taken her medicine woman stone from her before she was buried so she would not take the entire Clan to the spirit world with her, but no one took her stone when Broud cursed her with death. Goov had not been Mog-ur for very long, and it came as such a shock to everyone when Broud did it; no one remembered to get the stone from her, and she forgot to return it. What would happen to the Clan if she still had the stone when she passed to the next world?
She put all of her totem’s signs into the new pouch, and knew she would keep them there from then on. It felt right for her Clan totem signs to be in a Clan amulet pouch. As she pulled the drawstring tight, she wondered, as she often had, why she had never been given a sign from her totem when she decided to leave the Mamutoi and go with Jondalar. Had she already become a child of the Mother? Had the Mother told her totem she didn’t need a sign? Had she been given a more subtle sign that she didn’t recognize? Or—a new and more frightening thought came to her—had she made the wrong decision? She felt a cold chill. For the first time in a long time, Ayla clutched her amulet and sent a silent thought asking for his protection to the spirit of the Great Cave Lion.
When she left the temporary dwelling, Ayla was carrying a folded-up buckskin hide, a leather rucksack lumpy with the objects it held, and her Clan medicine bag. There were several more people around the campfire, and she waved to them as she left, but it wasn’t the usual beckoning, “come-back” motion with her palm facing inward, toward herself, which commonly signified a temporary separation, acknowledging that she would see them soon. She had raised her hand, palm facing out, and moved it slightly from side to side. Marthona frowned at the signal.
As she started walking upstream along the small river, a quicker way toward the cave she had found a few years before, Ayla was beginning to wonder whether she should go through with this ceremony. Yes, Zelandoni would be disappointed, and so would the rest of the zelandonia who were preparing to assist, but it was more dangerous than they realized. When she agreed to the ceremony the day before, she had been so depressed, she didn’t care if she got lost in the black void, but she was feeling better this morning, especially after her bath in The River, and seeing Jonayla, and Wolf, not to mention Marthona and Proleva. She wasn’t as ready to face that terrifying black void now. Maybe she should tell Zelandoni that she had changed her mind.
She hadn’t thought about the danger she was facing while she was making her preliminary preparations, but she had felt uncomfortable about her inability to perform all of the rituals in the proper way. That was a very important aspect of Clan ceremony, unlike the Zelandonii, who were more tolerant of deviation. Even the words of the Mother’s Song varied slightly from Cave to Cave, which was a favored topic of discussion among the zelandonia, and that was the most important Elder Legend of all.
If such a Legend had been a sacred part of Clan ceremonies, it would have been memorized and recited in precisely the same way every time it was repeated, at least among the clans that had regular direct contact with each other. Even those clans from distant regions would have had a version that was very close. That was why she could communicate in the sacred sign language of the Clan with the clans in this region though it was a year’s travel away from the clan she grew up with. There were minor differences, but it was amazingly similar.
Since it was a Clan ceremony she would be performing, using powerful roots prepared according to Clan procedures, she felt everything should be done as close as possible according to Clan tradition. She believed it was the only way she could hope to maintain any control, and she was beginning to have doubts if even that would help.
She was walking past the wooded area with her mind deep in thought, when she nearly bumped into someone coming out from behind a tree. She was startled to find herself practically in Jondalar’s arms. He was even more surprised and at a complete loss about what to do. His first impulse was to finish what the accident had started and put his arms around her. He’d been longing to do it for so long, but catching a glimpse of her shocked expression, he jumped back, assuming somehow that her surprise meant revulsion, that she didn’t want him to touch her. Her reaction to his instant avoidance was that he didn’t want her, couldn’t stand to be near her.
They stared at each other for a long moment. It was the closest they had been since she found him with Marona, and in their hearts, each yearned to prolong that moment, to broach the emotional distance that seemed to separate them. But a child running down the path they were on distracted them. They looked away for a moment and then couldn’t quite look back.
“Uh, sorry,” Jondalar said, aching to hold her but afraid she would rebuff him. He was so completely at a loss, he was looking around wildly, like an animal caught in a trap.
“Doesn’t matter,” Ayla said, looking down to hide the tears that were just too ready to flow these days. She didn’t want him to see how terrible it made her feel to think that he couldn’t stand to be close to her, that he couldn’t wait to get away. Without looking up, she started walking again, hurrying before her overflowing eyes gave her away. Jondalar had to fight his own tears as he watched her almost running along the path in her hurry to get away from him.
Ayla continued along what had become a faint path toward the new cave. Although it was likely that every one of the entire family of Zelandonii people had been inside the new cave at least once, it wasn’t used often. Because it was so beautiful and so unusual with its nearly white stone walls, it was considered a very spiritual, very sacred place, and still rather inviolable. The zelandonia and Cave leaders were still working out the appropriate times and ways to use it. Traditions hadn’t been developed yet, it was too new.
As she approached the base of the small hill that held the cave, she noticed that the obstructing brush and the fallen tree, whose uplifted roots had originally exposed the opening to the underground chambers, were cleared away. Dirt and stones around the opening had also been removed, which enlarged the entrance.
Although she wasn’t looking forward to the ceremony she had been preparing for, she had been excited about seeing the cave again, but the lighter mood t
She took a shallow stone bowl from her leather sack, and a fur package. Inside was a small, nearly watertight bag of fat with a stoppered end, which was wrapped and tied in the piece of fur to keep any seeping grease from damaging anything nearby. She found her package of lichen wicks, poured a little oil in the bowl, soaked a wick in it for a few moments, then pulled it out and leaned it against the edge of the bowl-shaped lamp. She was preparing to use her firestone to light it when she saw two more zelandonia walking up the path.
The sight of the zelandonia brought Ayla an added measure of composure. She was still new to their ranks, and wanted to keep their respect. They greeted each other and spoke of inconsequential matters; then one of them held the lamp while watching Ayla start a small fire on the ground with her firestone. Once the lamp was lit, she smothered the fire with dirt and all three entered the cave.
Once they passed through the warmth of the entrance area, and entered the total darkness of the inside, the temperature cooled to the ambient temperature of most caves, about fifty-five degrees. There was little conversation as they picked their way along exposed rocks and slippery clay with only a single lamp to show the way. By the time they reached a larger chamber, their eyes were so accustomed to the dark that the lights from many stone lamps seemed almost bright. Most of the zelandonia had already arrived and were waiting for Ayla.
“There you are, Zelandoni of the Ninth Cave,” the First said. “Have you made all the preparations you think are necessary?”
“Not quite,” Ayla said. “I still have to change. During the Clan ceremony, I would be naked except for my amulet and the colors painted on my body by the Mog-ur, when I make the drink. But it’s too cold in the cave to be naked for very long, and besides, the mog-urs who drank the liquid wore clothes, so I will, too. I think it’s important to stay as close to the Clan ceremony as possible, so I’ve decided to wear a wrap in the style of a Clan woman. I made a Clan amulet for my totem symbols, and to show that I am a medicine woman, I will wear my Clan medicine bag, although it is the objects in my amulet that are more important. It will enable the the Clan spirits to recognize me not only as a woman of the Clan, but as a medicine woman.”
With all the zelandonia looking on with great curiosity, Ayla removed her clothing and began wrapping the soft, pliable deerhide around her, tying it on her with a long cord in such a way as to leave pouches and folds to hold things. She thought about all the things she was doing that were not Clan, starting with her preparing the drink for herself instead of for the mog-urs. She was not a mog-ur—no woman of the Clan could be one—and she didn’t know the rituals they performed to ready themselves for this ceremony, but she was a Zelandoni and she hoped that would make a difference once she reached the spirit world.
She took a small pouch out of her medicine bag. There was enough light from the many lamps to show its deep red ocher color, the color most sacred to the Clan, and then she took a wooden bowl out of the leather packframe. She had made the bowl some time ago in the style of the Clan to show Marthona, who, with her aesthetic sense, appreciated the simplicity and craftsmanship. Ayla had planned to give it to the woman and now she was glad she still had it. If it wasn’t the special bowl that had been used only for this root for the many generations of Iza’s ancestors, it was at least a wooden bowl made in the painstaking way the Clan made them.
“I will need some water,” Ayla said as she undid the knots of the red pouch. She emptied the bag of roots into her hand.
“May I see them?” Zelandoni asked.
Ayla held them out to her, but there was nothing distinctive about them. They were just dried roots. “I’m not sure how much to use,” she said, picking out two small pieces, hoping it would be correct. “I’ve only done this twice before, and I don’t have Iza’s memories.”
A few of the zelandonia there had heard her speak about Clan memories, but most had no idea what she meant. She had tried to explain them to Zelandoni Who Was First, but since she didn’t know exactly what they were herself, it was hard to explain to someone else.
Someone poured water into her wooden bowl, and Ayla drank a little to wet her mouth. She remembered how dry the roots were and how hard they were to chew. “I am ready,” she said, and before she could change her mind, she put the roots in her mouth and began to chew.
It took a long time to soften them up enough to bite through, and though she did try to avoid swallowing her own saliva, it was difficult, and she thought to herself, since I’m the one who’s going to drink it, maybe it doesn’t matter too much. She chewed and chewed and chewed and chewed. It seemed to take forever, but finally her mouth held a soggy pulp, which she spit into the bowl. She stirred it with her finger, and watched the liquid turn a milky white.
Zelandoni was looking over her shoulder. “Is that what it’s supposed to do?” She seemed to be trying to detect its odor.
“Yes,” Ayla said. She could feel its primeval taste in her mouth. “Would you like to smell it?”
“It smells ancient,” the woman said, “like a deep cool wet forest full of moss and mushrooms. May I taste it?”
She was going to refuse. It was so sacred to the Clan, Iza couldn’t even make some just to show her how, and for a moment, Ayla was appalled that Zelandoni would ask. But then she realized this whole experiment was so far from anything the Clan would do that it could hardly matter if Zelandoni took a drink. Ayla held the bowl to the woman’s lips and watched her take much more than a sip, and pulled it back before she took too much.
Then she held it to her own mouth and drank it down quickly, making sure there was none left for anyone else to sample. That was how she got in trouble the first time. Iza had told her there was not supposed to be any left, but she had made too much, and after his first taste, The Mog-ur knew it was too strong. He controlled how much each man drank, and left some in the bottom of the bowl. Ayla had found it later, after she had ingested too much from chewing the root and had too much of the women’s drink besides. She was in such a confused state, she drank the rest down so none would be left. This time, she would make sure no one else would inadvertently be tempted to try it.
“When should we start to chant for you?” the First asked.
Ayla almost forgot about the chanting. “Probably should have started already,” she said, a slight slur in her voice already.
The First was feeling the effects of her rather large taste as well, and struggled to keep her control as she signaled the zelandonia to begin chanting. That is a powerful root, she thought, and I only had one drink. What must Ayla be feeling now after all she drank? Zelandoni thought.
The ancient taste was familiar, and it brought on feelings Ayla would never forget, memories and associations of the other times she had tasted the drink, and of times long past. She felt the cool and damp of a deep forest, as though she were enveloped within it, with trees so huge it was difficult to find a way around and between them as she climbed up the steep side of a mountain followed by the horse. Lichen, damply soft and silvery grayish green, draped the trees, and moss covered the ground and rocks and logs of dead trees in a continuous carpet that ranged in shades from bright true green to deep pine green to rich earthy brownish green and all shades in between.
Ayla could smell fungus, mushrooms of every size and shape: fragile white wings sprouting from fallen trees, thick woody shelves attached to old stumps, large dense sponge-like brown capped, tiny delicate thin stemmed. There were honey-colored tight clusters, compact round spheres, shiny red tops with white spots, tall smooth caps that melted to black ooze, ghostly white perfect caps of death, and many more. She knew them all, tasted
She was in a great delta of a huge river, carried by a stream of muddy brown water, breaking through thick stands of tall phragmite reeds and cattails, and floating islands with trees and wolves that climbed them, spinning round and round in a small leather-covered bowl boat, rising up and floating on a cushion of air.
Ayla didn’t know her knees had buckled as she went limp and dropped to the ground. She was picked up by several zelandonia and carried to a resting place that Zelandoni had thought to have brought into the cave for her. The First almost wished she had one as well as she reached for her strong padded wicker stool. She struggled to stay aware, to watch Ayla, and felt a dark tinge of worry start to develop in the back of her mind.
Ayla was feeling peaceful, quiet, sinking into a soft mist that was drawing her deeper in, until she was surrounded. It thickened around her into a fog that obscured all vision, then became a heavy damp cloud. She felt swallowed by it. She was suffocating, struggled to breathe, gasped for air, then felt herself begin to move.
She was moving faster and faster, caught in the middle of the suffocating cloud, rushing so fast it took her breath away, left her with no air. The cloud wrapped itself around her, squeezed her, pushing in from all sides, contracting, expanding, contracting, like something alive. It forced her to move with accelerating velocity until she fell into a deep, black empty space, a place as black as the inside of a cave, mindless, terrifying.