by Jean M. Auel
Jondalar went after her. “Where are you going?”
“If Rydag is going to be Clan, I have to make him an amulet,” she said.
Ayla stalked through the encampment, obviously angry, marching past the Camp of the Mammoth Hearth without even a glance, and straight to the flint-workers’ area. Jondalar followed behind. He had some idea what she was up to. She asked for a flint nodule, which no one was ready to refuse her. Then she looked around and found a hammerstone, and cleared herself a place to work.
As she began to preshape the flint in the Clan way, and the Mamutoi flint knappers realized what she was doing, they were eager to watch, and crowded as close as they dared. No one wanted to raise her ire even more, but this was a rare opportunity. Jondalar had tried to explain the Clan techniques once, after Ayla’s background became generally known, but his training was different. He didn’t have the necessary control using their methods. Even when he succeeded, they thought it was his own skill, not the unusual process.
Ayla decided to make two separate tools, a sharp knife and a pointed awl, and bring them both back to Cattail Camp to make the amulet. She managed to make a serviceable knife, but she was so full of grief and anger, her hands shook. The first time she tried to make the more difficult narrow, sharp point, she shattered it, and then noticed that many people were watching her, which made her nervous. She felt that the Mamutoi flint workers were judging the Clan way of making tools, and she was not representing them well, and then was angry that she should even care. The second time she tried, she broke it, too. Her frustration brought angry tears, which she kept trying to wipe away. Suddenly, Jondalar was kneeling in front of her.
“Is this what you want, Ayla?” he asked, holding up the piercing tool she had made for the special Spring Festival ceremony.
“That’s a Clan tool! Where did you get … that’s the one I made!” she said.
“I know. I went back and got it that day. I hope you don’t mind.”
She was surprised, puzzled, and strangely pleased. “No, I don’t mind. I’m glad you did, but why?”
“I wanted … to study it,” he replied. He couldn’t quite bring himself to say he wanted it to remember her by, to tell her he thought he would be leaving without her. He didn’t want to leave without her.
She took her tools back to Cattail Camp, and asked Nezzie for a piece of soft leather. After she got it, the woman watched her make the simple, gathered pouch.
“They look a little more crude, but those tools really work very well,” Nezzie remarked. “What is the pouch for?”
“It’s Rydag’s amulet, like the one I made for the Spring Festival. I have to put a piece of red ochre in it, and name him the way the Clan does. He should have a totem, too, to protect him on his way to the world of the spirits.” She paused, and wrinkled her brow. “I don’t know what Creb did to discover a person’s totem, but it was always right … maybe I can share my totem with Rydag. The Cave Lion is a powerful totem, difficult to live with sometimes, but he was tested many times. Rydag deserves a strong, protective totem.”
“Is there anything I can do? Does he need to be prepared? Dressed?” Nezzie asked.
“Yes, I’d like to help, too,” Latie said. She was standing at the entrance with Tulie.
“And so would I,” Mamut added.
Ayla looked up and saw almost the entire Lion Camp wanting to help and looking to her for direction. Only the hunters were missing. She was filled with a great warmth for these people who had taken in a strange orphaned child and accepted him as their own, and a righteous anger at the members of the Mammoth Hearth who would not even give him a burial.
“Well, first, someone can get some red ochre, crush it up, like Deegie does to color leather, and mix it in some rendered fat to make a salve. That has to be rubbed all over him. It should be Cave Bear fat, for a proper Clan burial. The Cave Bear is sacred to the Clan.”
“We don’t have Cave Bear fat,” Tornec said.
“There are not many Cave Bears around here,” Manuv added.
“Why not mammoth fat, Ayla?” Mamut suggested. “Rydag wasn’t just Clan. He was mixed. He was part Mamutoi, too, and the mammoth is sacred to us.”
“Yes, I think we could use that. He was Mamutoi, too. We shouldn’t forget that.”
“How about dressing him, Ayla?” Nezzie asked. “He’s never even worn the new clothes I made for him this year.”
Ayla frowned, then nodded agreement. “Why not? After he’s colored with red ochre, the way the Clan does, he could be dressed in his best clothes, like the Mamutoi do for burials. Yes, I think that’s a good idea, Nezzie.”
“I never would have guessed red ochre was a sacred color at their burials, too,” Frebec commented.
“I didn’t even think they buried their dead,” Crozie said.
“Obviously, the Mammoth Hearth didn’t either,” Tulie said. “They are going to be in for a surprise.”
Ayla asked Deegie for one of the wooden bowls she had given her as an adoption gift, made in the Clan style, and used it to mix the red ochre and mammoth fat into a colored salve. But it was Nezzie, Crozie, and Tulie, the three oldest women of Lion Camp, who rubbed it on him, and then dressed him. Ayla put aside a small dab of the oily red paste for later, and put a lump of the red iron ore into the pouch she had made.
“What about wrapping him?” Nezzie asked. “Shouldn’t he be wrapped, Ayla?”
“I don’t know what that means,” Ayla said.
“We use a hide or a fur, or something, to carry him out, and then it’s wrapped around him before he is laid in the grave,” Nezzie explained.
It was another Mamutoi custom, Ayla realized, but it seemed that with dressing him so richly and putting all his jewelry on him, there was already more Mamutoi than Clan to this burial. The three women were watching her expectantly. She looked back at Tulie, then Nezzie. Yes, maybe Nezzie was right. Something should be used to carry him, some kind of bedding or cover. Then she looked at Crozie.
Suddenly, though she hadn’t thought of it for some time, she remembered something: Durc’s cloak. The cloak she had used to carry her son close to her breast when he was an infant, and to support him on her hip when he was a toddler. It was the one thing she had taken with her from the Clan that had no necessary purpose. Yet, how many nights when she was alone had Durc’s carrying cloak given her a sense of connection with the only place of security she had known, and to those she had loved. How many nights had she slept with that cloak? Cried into it? Rocked it? It was the one thing she owned that had belonged to her son, and she wasn’t sure if she could give it up, but did she really need it? Was she going to carry it around with her for the rest of her life?
Ayla noticed Crozie looking at her again, and remembered the white cape, the one that Crozie had made for her son. She had carried it around with her for many years, because it meant so much to her. But she had given it up for a good purpose, to Racer, to protect him. Wasn’t it more important for Rydag to be wrapped in something that had come from the Clan, when he was sent on his way to walk in the spirit world, than for her to carry Durc’s cloak around? Crozie had finally let the memory of her son go. Maybe it was time for her to let Durc go, too, and just be grateful that he was more than a memory.
“I have something to wrap him in,” Ayla said. She rushed to her sleeping place and from the bottom of a pile, she pulled out a folded hide and shook it out. She held the soft, supple, old leather of her son’s cloak to her cheek once more, and closed her eyes, remembering. Then she walked back and gave it to Rydag’s mother.
“Here’s a wrapping,” she told Nezzie, “a Clan wrapping. It once belonged to my son. Now it will help Rydag in the spirit world. And thank you, Crozie,” she added.
“Why are you thanking me?”
“For everything you’ve done for me, and for showing me that all mothers must let go sometime.”
“Hmmmf!” the old woman said, trying to look stern, but her eyes glistened with feeli
ng. Nezzie took the cloak from Ayla and covered Rydag.
By then it was dark. Ayla had planned to do a simple ceremony inside the tent, but Nezzie asked her to wait until morning and conduct the ceremony outside, to show everyone at the Meeting Rydag’s humanity. It would also give the hunters a little more time to return. No one wanted Talut and Ranec to miss Rydag’s funeral, but they could not wait too long.
Late the next morning they carried the body outside and laid it out on the cloak. Many people from the Meeting had gathered around, and more were coming. Word had spread that Ayla was going to give Rydag a flathead burial, and everyone was curious. She had the small bowl of red ochre paste and the amulet, and had begun calling the Spirits to attend, as Creb had always done, when another commotion arose. Much to Nezzie’s relief, the hunters returned, and with all of the mammoth meat. They had taken turns dragging back the two travois, and were already planning variations of it to make a sledge that people could drag more easily.
The ceremony was postponed until the mammoth meat was stored, and Talut and Ranec were told what had happened, but no one objected when it was resumed quickly. The death of the mixed Clan child at the Summer Meeting of the Mamutoi had created a real dilemma. He had been called an abomination, an animal, but animals were not buried; their meat was stored. Only people were buried, and they did not like to leave the dead unburied for long. Though the Mamutoi weren’t quite willing to grant Rydag human status, they knew he wasn’t really an animal, either. No one revered the spirit of flatheads as they did deer, or bison, or mammoths, and no one was ready to store Rydag’s body beside the mammoth carcasses. He was an abomination precisely because they saw his humanity, but degraded it and would not recognize it. They were glad to let Ayla and the Lion Camp dispose of Rydag’s body in a way that seemed to resolve the problem.
Ayla stood up on a mound to begin the ceremony again, trying to remember the signs Creb had made for this part. She didn’t know exactly what all the signs meant, they were taught only to mog-urs, but she did know the general purpose and content, and explained as she went along for the benefit of the Lion Camp, and the rest of the Mamutoi who were watching.
“I am Calling the Spirits now,” she said. “The Spirit of the Great Cave Bear, the Cave Lion, the Mammoth, all the others, and the Ancient Spirits, too, of Wind and Mist and Rain.” Then she reached down for the small bowl. “Now I’m going to name him and make him part of the Clan,” she said, and dipping her finger in the red paste, Ayla drew a line from his forehead to his nose. Then she stood up and said with signs and words, “The boy’s name is Rydag.”
There was a quality about her, the tone of her voice, the intensity of her expression as she tried to remember exactly the correct signs and movements, even her strange, speech mannerism, that held people fascinated. The story of her standing on the ice Calling the mammoths was spreading fast. No one doubted that this daughter of the Mammoth Hearth had every right to conduct this ceremony, or any ceremony, whether she had a Mamut tattoo or not.
“Now he is named in the Clan way,” Ayla explained, “but he also needs a totem to help him find the world of the spirits. I do not know his totem, so I will share my totem, the Spirit of the Cave Lion, with him. It is a very powerful, protective totem, but he is worthy.”
Next, she exposed Rydag’s small, thin, right leg, and with the red ochre paste, drew four parallel lines on his thigh. Then she stood and announced in words and signs, “Spirit of Cave Lion, the boy, Rydag, is delivered into your protection.” Then she slipped the amulet, tied to a cord, around his neck. “Rydag is now named and accepted by the Clan,” she said, and fervently hoped it was true.
Ayla had chosen a place, somewhat away from the settlement, and Lion Camp had requested and received permission from Wolf Camp to bury him there. Nezzie wrapped the small stiff body in Durc’s cloak, then Talut picked up the boy and carried him to the place of burial. He was not ashamed of the tears that fell as he laid Rydag in the shallow grave.
The people of the Lion Clan stood around the dip in the ground that had been deepened only slightly, and watched as several things were put into the grave with him. Nezzie brought food and placed it beside him. Latie added his favorite little whistle. Tronie brought a string of bones, and deer vertebrae that he had used when he tended the babies and young children of Lion Camp during the past winter. It was what he loved doing most, because it was something useful he could do. Then, unexpectedly, Rugie ran to the grave and dropped in her favorite doll.
At Ayla’s signal, everyone from Lion Camp picked up a stone and carefully laid it on the cloak-wrapped figure; the beginning of his grave cairn. It was then that Ayla began the burial ceremony. She didn’t try to explain, the purpose seemed clear enough. Using the same signs that Creb had used at Iza’s funeral, and that she, in turn, had used to honor Creb when she found him in the rubble-strewn cave, Ayla’s movements gave meaning to a burial rite that was far more ancient than any there could know, and more beautiful than anyone had imagined.
She was not using the simplified sign language that she had taught to the Lion Camp. This was the full, complex, rich Clan language in which movements and postures of the entire body had shades and nuances of meaning. Though many of the signs were esoteric—even Ayla didn’t know the full meaning—many ordinary signs were also included, some of which the Lion Camp did know. They were able to understand the essence, know that it was a ritual for sending someone to a world beyond. To the rest of the Mamutoi, Ayla’s movement had the appearance of a subtle, yet expressive dance, full of hand movements, and arm movements, stances and gestures. She evoked in them with her silent grace, the love and the loss, the sorrow and the mythic hope of death.
Jondalar was overwhelmed. His tears flowed as freely as any member of the Lion Camp’s. As he watched her beautiful silent dance, he was reminded of a time in her valley—it seemed so long ago now—when she once had tried to tell him something with the same kind of graceful movements. Even then, though he didn’t understand it was a language, he had sensed some deeper meaning in her expressive gestures. Now that he knew more, he was surprised at how much he didn’t know, yet how beautiful he thought it was when Ayla moved that way.
He remembered the posture she used when they first met, sitting cross-legged on the ground and bowing her head, waiting for him to tap her shoulder. Even after she could speak, she would use it sometimes. It always embarrassed him, particularly after he knew it was a Clan gesture, but she had told him it was her way of trying to say something that she didn’t have the words for. He smiled to himself. It was hard to believe she couldn’t talk when he first met her. Now, she was fluent in two languages: Zelandonii and Mamutoi, three, if he counted Clan. She had even picked up a little Sungaea in the short time she spent with them.
As he watched her move through the Clan ritual, filled with memories of the valley, and memories of their love, he wanted her more than he’d ever wanted anything in his life. But Ranec was standing close to her, as enraptured as he. Every time Jondalar looked at Ayla, he could not avoid seeing the dark-skinned man. The moment he arrived, Ranec had sought her out, and he made a point of letting Jondalar know that she was still Promised to him. And Ayla seemed distant, elusive. He had made some attempts to talk to her, to express his sorrow, but after their first moments of shared grief, she seemed unwilling to accept his efforts to console her. He wondered if he was imagining it. As upset as she was, what else could he expect?
Suddenly, all heads turned at the sound of a steady beat. Marut, the drummer, had gone to the Music Lodge and brought his mammoth skull drum back. Music was usually played at Mamutoi funerals, but the sounds he was making were not the usual Mamutoi rhythms. They were the unfamiliar, strangely fascinating rhythms of the Clan that Ayla had shown him. Then the bearded musician, Manen, began to play the simple flute tones she had whistled. The music matched, in an unexplainable way, the movements of the woman who was dancing a ritual as evanescent as the sound of music itself.
> Ayla had almost completed the ritual, but she decided to repeat it, since they were playing Clan sounds. The second time they went through it, the musicians began to improvise. With their expertise and skill, they made the simple Clan sounds into something else, which was neither Clan nor Mamutoi, but a mixture of both. A perfect accompaniment, Ayla thought, for the funeral of a boy who was a mixture of both.
Ayla went through one last repetition with the musicians, and she wasn’t sure when her tears started, but she could see she was not alone. There were many wet eyes, and not only from among the Lion Camp.
As she finished for the third time, a heavy dark cloud that had been approaching from the southeast began to blot out the sun. It was the season for thunderstorms, and some people looked for shelter. Instead of water, a light dust began to fall, very light at first. Then the volcanic ash from the eruption in the faraway mountains fell heavier.
Ayla stood by Rydag’s grave cairn feeling the feathery soft volcanic ash sifting down on her, coating her hair, her shoulders, clinging to her arms, her eyebrows, even her eyelashes, turning her into a monochrome figure in pale beige-gray. The fine light dust covered everything, the stones of the cairn, the grass, even the brown dust of the path. Logs and bush alike took on the same hue. It covered the people standing by the grave as well, and to Ayla, they all began to look the same. Differences were lost in the face of such awesome powers as movements of the earth, and death.
37
“This stuff is terrible!” Tronie complained, shaking out a bed covering at the edge of a gully, and causing more ash to billow up. “We’ve been cleaning it up for days, but it’s in the food, in the water, clothes, beds. It gets into everything, and you can’t get rid of it.”
“What we need is another good rain,” Deegie said, throwing out some dirty water that had been used to wash down the hide covering of the tent. “Or a good snowstorm. That would settle it. This is one year I’m going to look forward to winter.”