The Mammoth Hunters by Jean M. Auel
He clutched her suddenly, and held her so tightly she could hardly breathe. “Ayla, Ayla,” he cried in a hoarse whisper, his head buried in her neck, “I thought I’d never fall in love. Everyone was finding a woman to mate, setting up a hearth and a family. I was just getting older. Even Thonolan found a woman on the Journey. That’s why we stayed with the Sharamudoi. I knew many women. I liked many women, but there was always something missing. I thought it was me. I thought the Mother wouldn’t let me fall in love. I thought it was my punishment.”
“Punishment? For what?” Ayla asked.
“For … for something that happened a long time ago.”
She didn’t press. That was also part of her upbringing.
15
A voice called to him, his mother’s voice, but distant, wavering across a fitful wind. Jondalar was home, but home was strange; familiar, yet unfamiliar. He reached beside him. The place was empty! In a panic, he bolted up, fully awake.
Looking around, Jondalar recognized Ayla’s cave. The windbreak across the entrance had come loose at one end and was flapping in the wind. Chill gusts of air were blowing into the small cave, but the sun was streaming in through the entrance and the hole above it. He quickly drew on trousers and tunic, and then noticed the steaming cup of tea near the fireplace and beside it, a fresh twig stripped of its bark.
He smiled. How did she do it? he thought. How did she always manage to have hot tea ready and waiting for him when he woke up? At least here, at her cave, she did. At the Lion Camp, there was always something going on, and meals were usually shared with others. He as often took his morning drink at the Lion Hearth or the cooking hearth as the Mammoth Hearth, and then, someone else usually joined them. He didn’t notice, there, whether she always had a hot drink waiting for him when he woke up, but when he thought about it, he knew she did. It was never her way to make an issue of it. It was just always there, like so many other things she did for him without his ever having to ask.
He picked up the cup and sipped. There was mint in it—she knew he liked mint in the morning—chamomile, too, and something else he couldn’t quite discern. The tea had a reddish tinge, rose hips perhaps?
How easy it is to fall into old habits, he thought. He had always made a game out of trying to guess what was in her morning tea. He picked up the twig and chewed on an end as he went outside, and used the chewed end to scrub his teeth. He swished his mouth out with a drink of tea, as he walked to the far end of the ledge to pass his water. He tossed the twig and spat out the tea, then stood at the edge, musing, watching his steaming stream arc down.
The wind was not strong, and the morning sun reflecting off the light-colored rock gave an impression of warmth. He walked across the uneven surface to the jutting tip and looked down at the small river below. Ice was building up along its edges, but it still ran swiftly around the sharp bend, which shifted its generally southward direction to the east for a few miles before turning back to its southerly course. On his left, the peaceful valley stretched out alongside the river, and he noticed Whinney and Racer grazing nearby. The view upstream, on his right, was entirely different. Beyond the bone pile, at the foot of the wall, and the rocky beach, high stone walls closed in and the river flowed at the bottom of a deep gorge. He remembered swimming upstream once, as far as he could go, to the foot of a tumultuous waterfall.
He saw Ayla come into view as she ascended the steep path, and smiled. “Where have you been?”
A few more steps up and his question was answered, without her saying a word. She was carrying two fat, almost white, ptarmigan by their feathered feet. “I was standing right where you are and saw them in the meadow,” she said, holding them out. “I thought fresh meat might be nice for a change. I started a fire in my cooking pit down on the beach. I’ll pluck them and start them cooking after we finish breakfast. Oh, here’s another firestone I found.”
“Are there many on the beach?” he asked.
“Maybe not as many as before. I had to look for this.”
“I think I’ll go down and look for some later.”
Ayla went in to finish preparing breakfast. The meal included grains cooked with red huckleberries that she had found still clinging to bushes that were bare of leaves. The birds had not left many, and she had to pick diligently to gather a few handfuls, but she was pleased to find them.
“That’s what it was!” Jondalar said, as he was finishing another cup of tea. “You put red huckleberries in the tea! Mint, chamomile, and red huckleberries.”
She smiled agreement, and he felt pleased with himself for solving the little puzzle.
After the morning meal, they both went down to the beach, and while Ayla prepared the birds for roasting in the stone oven, Jondalar began searching for the small nodules of iron pyrite that were scattered on the beach. He was still searching when she went back up to the cave. He also found some good-sized chunks of flint, and set them aside. By midmorning, he had accumulated a pile of the firestones, and was bored with staring at the stony beach. He walked around the jutting wall, and seeing the mare and the young horse some distance down the valley, he started toward them.
As he got closer, he noticed that they were both looking in the direction of the steppes. Several horses were at the top of the slope looking back at them. Racer took a few steps toward the wild herd, his neck arched and his nose quivering. Jondalar reacted without thinking.
“Go on! Get away from here!” he shouted, racing toward them, waving his arms.
Startled, the horses jumped back, neighing and snorting, and raced off. The last, a hay-colored stallion, charged toward the man, then reared as if in warning, before galloping after the rest.
Jondalar turned and walked back to Whinney and Racer. Both were nervous. They, too, had been startled, and they had sensed the herd’s panic. He patted Whinney and put his arm around Racer’s neck.
“It’s all right, boy,” he said to the young horse, “I didn’t mean to scare you. I just didn’t want them enticing you away before we had a chance to become good friends.” He scratched and stroked the animal with affection. “Imagine what it would be like to ride a stallion like that yellow one,” he mused aloud. “He would be difficult to ride, but then he wouldn’t let me scratch him like this, either, would he? What would I have to do for you to let me ride your back and go where I want you to go? When should I begin? Should I try to ride you now, or should I wait? You’re not full grown yet, but you will be soon. I’d better ask Ayla. She must know. Whinney always seems to understand her. I wonder, do you understand me at all, Racer?”
When Jondalar finally started back to the cave, Racer followed him, bumping him playfully and nuzzling his hand, which greatly pleased the man. The young horse did seem to want to be friends. Racer trailed him all the way back, and up the path into the cave.
“Ayla, do you have anything I can give Racer? Like some grain or something?” he asked as soon as he went in.
Ayla was sitting near the bed with an assortment of piles and mounds of objects arrayed around her. “Why don’t you give him some of those little apples in that bowl over there? I looked over some, and those have bruises,” she said.
Jondalar scooped out a handful of the small, round tart fruits, and fed them to Racer one at a time. After a few more pats, the man walked over to Ayla. He was followed by the friendly horse.
“Jondalar, push Racer out of there! He might step on something!”
He turned around and bumped into the young animal. “That’s enough, now, Racer,” the man said, walking back with him to the other side of the cave opening, where the young stallion and his dam customarily stayed. But when Jondalar went to leave, he was followed again. He took Racer back to his place again, but had no more luck getting him to stay. “Now that he’s so friendly, how do I get him to stop?”
Ayla had been watching the antics, smiling. “You might try pouring a little water in his bowl, or putting some grain in his feeding tray.”
Jo
“I’m trying to decide what to take with me and what to leave behind,” she explained. “What do you think I should give Tulie at the adoption ceremony? It has to be something especially nice.”
Jondalar looked over the piles and stacks of things Ayla had made to occupy herself during the empty nights and long cold winters she had spent alone in the cave. Even when she lived with the Clan, she had become recognized for her skill and the quality of her work, and during her years in the valley, she’d had little else to do. She gave extra time and careful attention to each project, to make it last. The results showed.
He picked up a bowl from a stack of them. It was deceptively simple. It was almost perfectly circular and had been made from a single piece of wood. The quality of the finish was so smooth it almost felt alive. She had told him how she made them. The process was essentially the same as any he knew of; the difference was the care and attention to detail. First, she gouged out the rough shape with a stone adze, then carved it closer with a hand-held flint knife. With a rounded stone and sand, she smoothed both inside and out until hardly a ripple could be felt, and gave it a final finish with scouring horsetail fern.
Her baskets, whether open weave or watertight, had the same quality of simplicity and expert craftsmanship. There was no use of dyes or colors, but textural interest had been created by changing the style of weave, and by using natural color variations of the fibers. Mats for the ground had the same characteristic. Coils of ropes and twines of sinew and bark, no matter what size, were even and uniform, as were the long thongs, cut in a spiral from a single hide.
The hides she made into leather were soft and supple, but more than anything, he was impressed with her furs. It was one thing to make buckskin pliable by scraping off the grain with the fur on the outside, as well as scraping the inside, but with the fur left on, hides were usually stiffer. Ayla’s were not only luxurious on the fur side but velvety soft and yielding on the inside.
“What are you giving Nezzie?” he asked.
“Food, like those apples, and containers to hold it.”
“That’s a good idea. What were you thinking of giving Tulie?”
“She is very proud of Deegie’s leather, so I don’t think I should give her that, and I don’t want to give her food like Nezzie. Nothing too practical. She’s headwoman. It should be something special to wear, like amber or seashells, but I don’t have anything special like that,” Ayla said.
“Yes, you do.”
“I thought about giving her the amber I found, but that’s a sign from my totem. I can’t give that away.”
“I don’t mean the amber. She probably has plenty of amber. Give her fur. It was the first thing she mentioned.”
“But she must have many furs, too.”
“No furs are as beautiful and special as yours, Ayla. Only once in my life before have I ever seen anything like them. I’m sure she never has. The one I saw was made by a flathe—by a Clan woman.”
By evening, Ayla had made some hard decisions, and the accumulation of years of work was settling into two piles. The larger one was to be left behind, along with the cave and the valley. The smaller one was all she would take with her … and her memories. It was a wrenching, sometimes agonizing process that left her feeling drained. Her mood was communicated to Jondalar, who found himself thinking more of his home and his past and his life than he had for many years. His mind kept straying to painful memories he thought he’d forgotten, and wished he could. He wondered why he kept remembering now.
The evening meal was quiet. They made sporadic comments, and often lapsed into silence, each occupied with private thoughts.
“The birds are delicious, as usual,” Jondalar remarked.
“Creb liked them that way.”
She had mentioned that before. It was still hard to believe, sometimes, that she had learned so much from the flatheads she lived with. When he thought of it, though, why wouldn’t they know how to cook as well as anyone?
“My mother is a good cook. She would probably like them, too.”
Jondalar has been thinking a lot about his mother lately, Ayla thought. He said he woke up this morning dreaming about her.
“When I was growing up, she had special foods she liked to make … when she wasn’t busy with the matters of the Cave.”
“Matters of the Cave?”
“She was the leader of the Ninth Cave.”
“You told me that, but I didn’t understand. You mean she was like Tulie? A headwoman?”
“Yes, something like that. But there was no Talut, and the Ninth Cave is much bigger than the Lion Camp. Many more people.” He stopped and closed his eyes in concentration. “Maybe as many as four people for every one.
Ayla tried to think about how many that would be, then decided she would work it out later with marks on the ground, but she wondered how so many people could live together all the time. It seemed to be almost enough for a Clan Gathering.
“In the Clan, no women were leaders,” she said.
“Marthona became leader after Joconnan. Zelandoni told me she was so much a part of his leadership that after he died, everyone just turned to her. My brother, Joharran, was born to his hearth. He’s leader now, but Marthona is still an adviser … or she was when I left.”
Ayla frowned. He had spoken of them before, but she hadn’t quite understood all his relationships. “Your mother was the mate of … how did you say it? Joconnan?”
“Yes.”
“But you always talk of Dalanar.”
“I was born to his hearth.”
“So your mother was the mate of Dalanar, too.”
“Yes. She was already a leader when they mated. They were very close, people still tell stories about Marthona and Dalanar, and sing sad songs about their love. Zelandoni told me they cared too much. Dalanar didn’t want to share her with the Cave. He grew to hate the time she spent on leadership duties, but she felt a responsibility. Finally they severed the knot and he left. Later, Marthona made a new hearth with Willomar, and then gave birth to Thonolan and Folara. Dalanar traveled to the northeast, discovered a flint mine and met Jerika, and founded the First Cave of the Lanzadonii there.”
He was silent for a while. Jondalar seemed to feel a need to talk about his family, so Ayla listened even though he was repeating some things he’d said before. She got up, poured the last of the tea into their cups, added wood to the fire, then sat on the furs on the end of the bed and watched its flickering light move shadows across Jondalar’s pensive face. “What does it mean, Lanzadonii?” she asked.
Jondalar smiled. “It just means … people … children of Doni … children of the Great Earth Mother who live in the northeast, to be exact.”
“You lived there, didn’t you? With Dalanar?”
He closed his eyes. His jaw worked as he ground his teeth and his forehead knotted with pain. Ayla had seen that expression before, and wondered. He had spoken about that period in his life during the summer, but it upset him and she knew he held back. She felt a tension in the air, a great pressure building up centered on Jondalar, like a swelling of the earth getting ready to burst forth from great depths.
“Yes, I lived there,” he said, “for three years.” He jumped up suddenly, knocking over his tea, and strode to the back wall of the cave. “O Mother! It was terrible!” He put his arm up to the wall and leaned his head against it, in the dark, trying to keep himself under control. Finally, he walked back, looked down at the wet spot where the liquid had seeped into the hard-packed dirt floor, and hunkered down on one knee to right the cup. He turned it over in his hands and stared at the fire.
“Was it so bad living with Dalanar?” Ayla finally asked.
“Living with Dalanar? No.” He looked surprised at what she had said. “That isn’t what was s
“A word about what?”
Jondalar took a deep breath. “The reason I was sent there,” he said, and looked down at the cup in his hand.
As the silence deepened, the breathing of the horses filled the cave, and the loud reports of the fire burning and crackling rebounded off the stone walls. Jondalar put the cup down and stood up.
“I always was big for my age, and older than my years,” he began, striding the length of the cleared space around the fire, and then back again. “I matured young. I was no more than eleven years when the donii first came to me in a dream … and she had the face of Zolena.”
There was her name again. The woman who had meant so much to him. He’d talked about her, but only briefly and with obvious distress. Ayla hadn’t understood what caused him such anguish.
“All the young men wanted her for their donii-woman, they all wanted her to teach them. They were supposed to want her, or someone like her”—he whirled and faced Ayla—“but they weren’t supposed to love her! Do you know what it means to fall in love with your donii-woman?”
Ayla shook her head.
“She is supposed to show you, teach you, help you understand the Mother’s great Gift, to make you ready when it is your turn to bring a girl to womanhood. All women are supposed to be donii-women at least once, when they are older, just as all men are supposed to share a young woman’s First Rites, at least once. It is a sacred duty in honor of Doni.” He looked down. “But a donii-woman represents the Great Mother; you don’t fall in love and want her for your mate.” He looked up at her again. “Can you understand that? It’s forbidden. It’s like falling in love with your mother, like wanting to mate your own sister. Forgive me, Ayla. It’s almost like wanting to mate a flathead woman!”
He turned and in a few long paces was at the entrance. He pushed the windbreak aside, then his shoulders slumped and he changed his mind and walked back. He sat down beside her, and looked off into the distance.