The Mammoth Hunters by Jean M. Auel
“He doesn’t have Talut’s strength yet, but Danug has the stamina,” Ranec said. He had finally caught his breath enough to contribute to the commentary. Though still suffering from the exertion, he saw their contest as a way to make his competition with Jondalar seem less than the dead serious effort it had been.
“Come on, Danug!” Druwez shouted.
“You can do it!” Latie added, caught up in the enthusiasm, though she wasn’t sure if she meant it for Danug or Talut.
Suddenly, with a hard bang from Danug, the foot bone cracked.
“That’s just enough!” Nezzie scolded. “You don’t have to pound so hard you break the mortar. Now we need a new one, and I think you should make it, Talut.”
“I think you are right!” Talut said, beaming with delight. “That was a good match, Danug. You have grown strong while you were away. Did you see that boy, Nezzie?”
“Look at this!” Nezzie said, removing the contents of the mortar. “This grain has been beaten to powder! I just wanted it cracked. I was going to parch it and store it. You can’t parch this to keep it.”
“What kind of grain is it? I’ll ask Wymez, but I think my mother’s people made something from grain pounded to dust,” Ranec said. “I’ll take some of it, if no one else wants it.”
“It’s mostly wheat, but some rye and oats are mixed in. Tulie already has enough for little loaves of ground grain everyone likes, they just have to be cooked. Talut wanted some grain to mix with the cattail root starch for his bouza. But you can have it all, if you want it. You worked for it.”
“Talut worked for it, too. If he wants some he can have it,” Ranec said.
“Use what you want, Ranec. I’ll take what’s left,” Talut said. “The cattail root starch I have soaking is starting to ferment. I don’t know what would happen if I put this in it, but it might be interesting to try it and see.”
Ayla watched both Jondalar and Ranec to assure herself that they were all right. When she saw Jondalar pull off his sweaty tunic, slosh water over himself, and go into the lodge, she knew he had suffered no ill effects. Then she felt a little foolish for worrying about him so much. He was a strong, vigorous man, after all, certainly a little exertion wouldn’t hurt him, or Ranec. But she avoided both of them. She was confused by their actions, and her feelings, and she wanted some time to think.
Tronie came out of the arched doorway of the lodge, looking harried. She was holding Hartal on one hip and a shallow bone dish piled with baskets and implements on the other. Ayla hurried toward her.
“I help? Hold Hartal?” she asked.
“Oh, would you?” the young mother said, handing the baby over to Ayla. “Everyone has been cooking and making special food today, and I wanted to make something for the feast, too, but I kept getting distracted. And then Hartal woke up. I fed him, but he’s not in any mood to go back to sleep yet.”
Tronie found a place to spread out near the big outside fireplace. Holding the baby, Ayla watched Tronie pour shelled sunflower seeds into the shallow bone dish from one of the baskets. With a piece of knucklebone—Ayla thought it came from a woolly rhinoceros—Tronie mashed the seeds to a paste. After a few more batches of seeds had been mashed, she filled another basket with water. She picked up two straight bone sticks, which had been carved and shaped for the purpose, and with one hand, she deftly plucked hot cooking stones from the fire. With a hiss and a cloud of steam, she plunked the stones in the water, pulled out cooled ones and added more hot until it came to a boil. Then she added the sunflower nut paste. Ayla was intrigued.
The cooking released the oil from the seeds, and with a large ladle, Tronie skimmed it and poured it into another container, this time made of birchbark. When she had skimmed off as much as she could, she added cracked wild grain of some indistinguishable variety and small black pigweed seeds to the boiling water, flavoring it with herbs, and added more cooking stones to keep it boiling. The birchbark containers were set off to the side to cool until the sunflower seed butter congealed. She gave Ayla a taste from the tip of the ladle, and she decided it was delicious.
“It’s especially good on Tulie’s loaf cakes,” Tronie said. “That’s why I wanted to make it. While I had boiling water, I thought I might as well make something for breakfast tomorrow. No one feels much like cooking the morning after a big festival, but children, at least, like to eat. Thanks so much for helping with Hartal.”
“No give thanks. Is my pleasure. I not hold baby in long time,” Ayla said, and realized it was true. She found herself looking at Hartal closely, comparing him in her mind with the babies of the Clan. Hartal had no brow ridges, but they weren’t fully developed in Clan babies, either. His forehead was straighter and his head rounder, but they were not really so very different at this young age, she thought, except that Hartal laughed and giggled and cooed, and Clan babies did not make as many sounds.
The baby started to fuss a bit, when his mother went to wash off the implements. Ayla bounced him on her knee, then changed his position until she was looking at him. She talked to him and watched his interested response. That satisfied him for a while, but not long. When he got ready to cry again, Ayla whistled at him. The sound surprised him and he stopped crying to listen. She whistled again, this time making a birdsong.
Ayla had spent many long afternoons when she was alone in her valley practicing bird whistles and calls. She had become so adept at mimicking birdsong, that certain varieties came to her whistle, but those birds were not unique to the valley.
As she whistled to entertain the baby, a few birds landed nearby, and began pecking at some of the grain and seeds that had fallen from Tronie’s baskets. Ayla noticed them, whistled again, and held out a finger. After some initial wariness, one brave finch hopped on her finger. Carefully, with whistles that calmed and intrigued the little creature, Ayla picked it up and brought the bird close for the baby to see. A delighted giggle and a reaching chubby fist scared it off.
Then, to her surprise, Ayla heard applause. The sound of thigh slapping caused her to look up and see the faces of most of the people of the Lion Camp smiling at her.
“How do you do it, Ayla? I know some people can imitate a bird, or an animal, but you do it so well it fools them,” Tronie said. “I’ve never met anyone with so much control over animals.”
Ayla blushed, as though she had been caught in the act of doing something … not right, caught in the act of being different. For all the smiles and approval, she felt uncomfortable. She didn’t know how to answer Tronic’s question. She didn’t know how to explain that when you are entirely alone, you have all the time in the world to practice whistling like a bird. When there is no one in the world you can turn to, a horse or even a lion may give you companionship. When you don’t know if there is anyone in the world like you, you seek contact with something living however you can.
10
There was a lull in the activities of the Lion Camp in the early afternoon. Though their largest meal of the day was usually around noon, most people skipped the midday meal, or picked at leftovers from the morning, in anticipation of a feast that promised to be delicious for all that it was unplanned. People were relaxing; some were napping, others checked on food now and then, a few were talking quietly, but there was a feeling of excitement in the air and everyone was looking forward to a special evening.
Inside the earthlodge, Ayla and Tronie were listening to Deegie, who was telling them the details of her visit to Branag’s Camp, and the arrangements for their joining. Ayla listened with interest at first, but when the two young Mamutoi women began speaking about this relative or that friend, none of whom she knew, she got up, with a comment about checking the ptarmigan, and went out. Deegie’s talk of Branag and her coming Matrimonial made Ayla think of her relationship with Jondalar. He had said he loved her, but he had never proposed a joining to her, or spoken of Matrimoniais, and she wondered about it.
She went to the pit where her birds were cooking, checked to mak
While she was not an expert, until Jondalar came Ayla had made her own stone tools, which adequately served her needs. When she was young, she had often watched Droog, the clan toolmaker, and learned by copying his techniques. But Ayla had known the first time she watched Jondalar that his skill far surpassed hers, and while there was a similarity in feeling toward the craft, and perhaps even in relative ability, Jondalar’s methods and the tools he produced far outstripped the Clan’s. She was curious about the methods Wymez used, and had meant to ask if she could watch sometime. She decided this was a good time.
Jondalar was aware of her the moment she came out of the lodge, but he tried not to show it. He was sure she had been avoiding him ever since her sling demonstration on the steppes, and he didn’t want to force his attentions on her if she didn’t want him around. When she started in their direction, he felt a great knot of anxiety in his stomach, afraid she would change her mind, or that she only seemed to be coming toward them.
“If not disturb, I like to watch toolmaking,” Ayla said.
“Of course. Sit down,” Wymez said, smiling a welcome.
Jondalar visibly relaxed; his furrowed brow smoothed and the tightness of his jaws eased. Danug tried to say something when she sat down next to him, but her presence rendered him speechless. Jondalar recognized the look of adoration in his eyes, and stifled an indulgent smile. He had developed a real fondness for the youngster, and he knew calf-eyed young love was no threat to him. He could afford to feel a bit like a patronizing older brother.
“Is your technique commonly used, Jondalar?” Wymez asked, obviously continuing a discussion that Ayla had interrupted.
“More or less. Most people detach blades from a prepared core to make into other tools—chisels, knives, scrapers, or points for smaller spears.”
“What about bigger spears? Do you hunt mammoth?”
“Some,” Jondalar said. “We don’t specialize in it the way you do. Points for bigger spears are made out of bone—I like to use the foreleg of deer. A chisel is used to rough it out by cutting grooves in the general outline and going over them until it breaks free. Then it is shaved to the right shape with a scraper made on the side of a blade. They can be brought to a strong, sharp point with wet sandstone.”
Ayla, who had helped him make the bone spear points they used, was impressed by their effectiveness. They were long and deadly, and pierced deep when the spears were thrown with force, particularly with the spear-thrower. Much lighter weight than the ones she had used, which were patterned after the heavy spear of the Clan, Jondalar’s spears were all meant for throwing, not thrusting.
“A bone point punctures deep,” Wymez said. “If you hit a vital spot, it’s a quick kill, but there’s not much blood. It’s harder to get to a vital spot on a mammoth or rhinoceros. The fur is deep, skin is thick, if you get between ribs, there is still a lot of fat and muscle to go through. The eye is a good target, but it’s small, and always moving. A mammoth can be killed with a spear in the throat, but that’s dangerous. You have to get too close. A flint spear point has sharp edges. It cuts through tough skin easier, and it draws blood, and that weakens an animal. If you can make them bleed, the gut or the bladder is the best place to aim. It’s not quite as quick, but a lot safer.”
Ayla was fascinated. Toolmaking was interesting enough, but she had never hunted mammoth.
“You are right,” Jondalar said, “but how do you make a big spear point straight? No matter what technique you use to detach a blade, it’s always curved. That’s the nature of the stone. You can’t throw a spear with a curved point, you’d lose accuracy, you’d lose penetration, and probably half your force. That’s why flint points are small. By the time you pressure flake off enough of the underside to shape a straight point, there isn’t much left.”
Wymez was smiling, nodding his head in agreement. “That’s true, Jondalar, but let me show you something.” The older man got a heavy hide-wrapped bundle from behind him and opened it up. He picked up a huge axe head, a gigantolith the size of a sledgehammer, made from a whole nodule of flint. It had a rounded butt, and had been shaped to a rather thick cutting end that came to a point. “You’ve made something like this, I’m sure.”
Jondalar smiled. “Yes, I’ve made axes, but nothing as big as that. That must be for Talut.”
“Yes, I was going to haft this to a long bone for Talut … or maybe Danug,” Wymez said, smiling at the young man. “These are used to break mammoth bones or to sever tusks. It takes a powerful man to wield one. Talut handles it like a stick. I think Danug can do the same by now.”
“He can. He cut poles for me,” Ayla said, looking at Danug with appreciation, which brought on a flush and a shy smile. She, too, had made and used hand axes, but not of that size.
“How do you make an axe?” Wymez continued.
“I usually start by breaking off a thick flake with a hammerstone, and retouching on both sides to give it an edge and a point.”
“Ranec’s mother’s people, the Aterians, make a spear point with bifacial retouch.”
“Bifacial? Knapped on both sides like an axe? To get it reasonably straight, you’d have to start with a big slab of a flake, not a fine, thin blade. Wouldn’t that be too clumsy for a spear point?”
“It was somewhat thick and heavy, but a definite improvement over an axe. And very effective for the animals they hunted. It’s true, though. To pierce a mammoth or a rhino, you need a flint point that is long and straight, and strong, and thin. How would you do it?” Wymez asked.
“Bifacially. It’s the only way. On a flake that thick, I’d use flat pressure retouch to remove fine slivers from both sides,” Jondalar said thoughtfully, trying to imagine how he would make such a weapon, “but that would take tremendous control.”
“Exactly. The problem is control, and the quality of the stone.”
“Yes. It would have to be fresh. Dalanar, the man who taught me, lives near an exposed cliff of chalk that bears flint at ground level. Maybe some of his stone would work. But even then, it would be hard. We’ve made some fine axes, but I don’t know how you’d make a decent spear point that way.”
Wymez reached for another package wrapped in fine soft leather. He opened it carefully and exposed several flint points.
Jondalar’s eyes opened in surprise. He looked up at Wymez, then at Danug, who was smiling with pride for his mentor, then he picked up one of the points. He turned it over in his hands tenderly, almost caressing the beautifully worked stone.
The flint had a slippery feel, a smooth, not-quite-oily quality, and a sheen that glistened from the many facets in the sunlight. The object had the shape of a willow leaf, with near perfect symmetry in all dimensions, and it extended the full length of his hand from the base of his palm to his fingertips. Starting at one end in a point, it spread out to the breadth of four fingers in the middle, then back to a point at the other end. Turning it on edge, Jondalar saw that it did indeed lack the characteristic bowed shape of the blade tools. It was perfectly straight, with a cross section about the thickness of his small finger.
He felt the edge professionally. Very sharp, just slightly denticulated by the scars of the many tiny flakes that had been removed. He ran his fingertips lightly over the surface and felt the small ridges left behind by the many similar tiny flakes that had been detached to give the flint point such a fine, precise shape.
“This is too beautiful to use for a weapon,” Jondalar said. “This is a work of art.”
“That one is not used for a weapon,” Wymez said, pleased by the praise of a fellow craftsman. “I made it as a model to show the technique.”
Ayla was craning her neck to look at the exquisitely crafted tools nestled in the soft leather on the ground, not daring to touch. She had never seen such beautifully made points. They were of variable sizes and types. Besides the leaf-shaped ones, there were asymmetrical shouldered points that tapered sharply back on one side to a projecting shank, which would be inserted in a handle so it could be used as a knife, and more symmetrical stemmed points with a centered tang that might be spear points or knives of another kind.
“Would you like to examine them closer?” Wymez asked.
Her eyes gleaming with wonder, she picked each one up, handling them as though they were precious jewels. They very nearly were.
“Flint is … smooth … alive,” Ayla said. “Not see flint like this before.”
Wymez smiled. “You have discovered the secret, Ayla,” he said. “That is what makes these points possible.”
“Do you have flint like this nearby?” Jondalar asked, incredulous. “I’ve never seen any quite like it, either.”
“No, I’m afraid not. Oh, we can get good-quality flint. A large Camp to the north lives near a good flint mine. That’s where Danug has been. But this stone has been specially treated … by fire.”
“By fire!?” Jondalar exclaimed.
“Yes. By fire. Heating changes the stone. Heating is what makes it feel so smooth”—Wymez looked at Ayla—“so alive. And heating is what gives the stone its special qualities.” While he was talking, he picked up a nodule of flint that showed definite signs of having been in a fire. It was sooty and charred, and the chalky outer cortex was a much deeper color when he cracked it open with a blow from a hammerstone. “It was an accident the first time. A piece of flint fell in a fireplace. It was a big, hot fire—you know how hot a fire it takes to burn bone?”
Ayla nodded her head knowingly. Jondalar shrugged, he hadn’t paid much attention, but since Ayla seemed to know, he was willing to accept it.