The Clan of the Cave Bear ec-1

by Jean M. Auel

  “Oh, good!” Ayla said, giving Iza a hug with the baby in her arms. She held the small girl up in the air and laughed out loud, while Uba gazed at her with twinkling eyes full of adoration. “Won’t that be fun, Uba?” she said after she put the child down. “Mother is going to let you come with me.”

  What’s gotten into that child? Iza thought. I haven’t seen her so excited for a long time. There must be strange spirits in the air today. First, the men come back early; and they don’t sit around talking as usual, they each go to their own fires and hardly pay any attention to the women. I don’t think I’ve seen one of them scold anyone. Even Broud was almost nice to me. Then, Ayla stays out all day and comes back full of energy, hugging everyone. I don’t understand it.

  10

  “Yes? What do you want?” Zoug gestured impatiently. It was unusually warm for so early in the summer. Zoug was thirsty and uncomfortable, sweating in the hot sun working a large deer hide with a blunt scraper as it was drying. He was not in the mood for interruptions, especially from the flat-faced, ugly girl who had just sat down near him with her head bowed waiting for him to acknowledge her.

  “Would Zoug like a drink of water?” Ayla motioned, looking up demurely at his tap on her shoulder. “This girl was at the spring and saw the hunter working in the hot sun. This girl thought the hunter might be thirsty, she did not mean to interrupt,” she said with the formality proper to addressing a hunter. She offered a birchbark cup and held out the cool, dripping waterbag made from the stomach of a mountain goat.

  Zoug grunted affirmatively, hiding his surprise at the girl’s thoughtfulness while she poured the cold water into the cup for him. He hadn’t been able to catch the eye of a woman to tell her he wanted a drink, and he didn’t want to get up himself just then. The hide was nearly dry. It was critical to keep working it for the finished product to be as supple and flexible as he wanted. His glance followed the girl as she put the waterbag in a shady spot nearby, then brought out a bundle of tough grasses and water-soaked woody roots to prepare to weave a basket.

  Although Uka was always respectful and responded to his requests without hesitation since he had moved in with the son of his mate, she seldom tried to anticipate his needs the way his own mate had done before she died. Uka’s primary attention was directed at Grod, and Zoug had missed the special little accommodations of a devoted mate. Zoug occasionally glanced at the girl sitting near him. She was silent, intent on her work. Mog-ur has trained her well, he thought. He didn’t notice her watching him out of the corner of her eye as he pulled and stretched and scraped the damp skin.

  Later that evening, the old man was sitting alone in front of the cave, staring off into the distance. The hunters were gone. Uka and two other women had gone with them, and Zoug had eaten at Goov’s hearth with Ovra. Seeing the young woman, fully adult now and mated, when it seemed not so long ago she was just an infant in Uka’s arms, made Zoug feel the passage of time that had robbed him of the strength to hunt with the men. He had left the hearth shortly after eating. He was in the midst of his thoughts when he noticed the girl coming toward him with a wicker bowl in her hands.

  “This girl picked more raspberries than we can eat,” she said after he acknowledged her. “Can the hunter find room to eat them so they are not wasted?”

  Zoug accepted the proffered bowl with a pleasure he couldn’t quite hide. Ayla sat quietly at a respectful distance while Zoug savored the sweet, juicy berries. When he was through, he returned the bowl and she left quickly. I don’t know why Broud says she is disrespectful, he thought, watching her go. I can’t see anything so wrong with her, except that she is remarkably ugly.

  The next day, Ayla again brought water from the cool spring while Zoug worked, and set out the materials for the collecting basket she was making nearby. Later, as Zoug was just finishing rubbing fat into the soft deerskin, Mog-ur hobbled over to the old man.

  “It’s hot work to cure a hide in the sun,” he motioned.

  “I’m making new slings for the men, and I promised Vorn a new one, too. The leather must be very flexible for slings; it must be worked constantly while it’s drying and the fat must be completely absorbed. It’s best to do it in the sun.”

  “I’m sure the hunters will be pleased to have them,” Mog-ur remarked. “It’s well known you’re the expert when it comes to slings. I’ve watched you with Vorn. He’s fortunate to have you teaching him. It’s a difficult skill to master. There must be an art to making them, too.”

  Zoug beamed under the magician’s praise. “Tomorrow I will cut them out. I know the sizes for the men, but I’ll have to fit Vorn to his. A sling must suit the arm for best accuracy and power.”

  “Iza and Ayla are preparing the ptarmigan you brought the other day as Mog-ur’s share. Iza is teaching the girl to cook them the way I like. Would you take your meal at Mog-ur’s hearth tonight? Ayla wanted me to ask and I would be happy for your company. Sometimes a man likes to talk to another man, and I have only females at my hearth.”

  “Zoug will eat with Mog-ur,” the old man replied, obviously pleased.

  Though communal feasts were frequent, and often two families shared a meal, especially if they were related, Mog-ur seldom invited others to his fire. Having a place of his own was still rather new to him, and he enjoyed relaxing in the company of his females. But he had known Zoug since boyhood, had always liked and respected him. The pleasure on the old man’s face made Mog-ur think he should have asked him before. He was glad Ayla mentioned it. Zoug had, after all, given him the ptarmigan.

  Iza was not used to company. She worried and fretted and outdid herself. Her knowledge of herbs extended to seasonings as well as medicines. She knew how to use a subtle touch and compatible combinations that enhanced the flavor of foods. The meal was delicious, Ayla especially attentive in unobtrusive ways, and Mog-ur was pleased with them both. After the men had stuffed themselves, Ayla served them a delicate herb tea of chamomile and mint that Iza knew would aid digestion. With two females ready to anticipate their every wish, and a chubby contented baby, who crawled in both their laps tugging happily on beards, making them feel young again, the two old men relaxed and talked about times past. Zoug was appreciative and just a little envious of the happy hearth the old magician could call his own, and Mog-ur felt his life couldn’t be sweeter.

  The next day, Ayla watched Zoug measure a leather strip to Vorn and paid close attention while the old man explained why the ends had to be tapered just so, why it should be neither too long nor too short, and saw him put a round stone that had been soaking in water in the middle of the loop to stretch the leather enough to form the cup. He was gathering up the scraps after cutting out several more slings when she brought him a drink of water.

  “Does Zoug have other uses for the pieces left? The leather looks so soft,” she motioned.

  Zoug felt expansive toward the attentive, admiring girl. “I have no further use for the scraps. Would you like them?”

  “This girl would be grateful. I think some of the pieces are large enough to use,” she gestured with her head bowed.

  The next day Zoug rather missed Ayla working beside him and bringing him water. But his task was finished, the weapons were made. He noticed her heading for the woods with her new collecting basket strapped to her back and her digging stick in her hand. She must be going to gather plants for Iza, he thought. I don’t understand Broud at all. Zoug didn’t care much for the young man; he hadn’t forgotten the attack on him earlier in the season. Why does he always keep after her? The girl is hardworking, respectful, a credit to Mog-ur. He’s fortunate to have her and Iza. Zoug was remembering the pleasant evening he had spent with the great magician, and though he never mentioned it, he recalled it was Ayla who had asked Mog-ur to invite him to share a meal with them. He watched the tall, straight-legged girl walking away. It’s a shame she’s so ugly, he thought, she’d make some man a good mate someday.

  After Ayla made herself a new sling out
of Zoug’s scraps to replace the old one that had finally worn out, she decided to look for a place to practice away from the cave. She was always afraid someone would catch her. She started upstream along the watercourse that flowed near the cave, then began ascending the mountain along a tributary creek, forcing her way through heavy underbrush.

  She was stopped by a steep rock wall over which the creek spilled in a cascading spray. Jutting rocks, whose jagged outlines were softened by a deep cushion of lush green moss, separated the falling water bouncing from rock to rock into long thin streams that splashed up, creating veils of mist, and fell again. The water collected itself in a foaming pool that filled a shallow rocky basin at the foot of the waterfall before it continued down to meet the larger waterway. The wall presented a barrier that ran parallel to the stream, but as Ayla hiked along its base back toward the cave, the sheer drop angled up in a steep but climbable grade. At the top the ground leveled out, and as she continued she came to the upper course of the creek and began to follow it upstream again.

  Moist, gray green lichen draped the pine and spruce that dominated the higher elevation. Squirrels darted up the tall trees and across the underlying turf of variegated moss, carpeting earth and stones and fallen logs alike in a continuous cover that shaded from light yellow to deep green. Ahead she could see bright sunshine filtering through the evergreen woods. As she followed the creek, the trees thinned out, intermixed with a few deciduous trees dwarfed to brush, then opened out to a clearing. She emerged from the woods into a small field whose far end terminated in the gray brown rock of the mountain, sparsely covered with clinging growth as it soared to higher reaches.

  The creek, which meandered across one side of the meadow, found its source in a large spring gushing out of the side of a rock wall near a large hazelnut clump growing flush against the rock. The mountain range was honeycombed with underground fissures and chutes that filtered the glacial runoff, which appeared again as clear, sparkling springs.

  Ayla crossed the high mountain meadow and drank deeply of the cold water, then stopped to examine the still unripe double and triple clusters of nuts encased in their green, prickly coverings. She picked a clump, peeled away the casing, and cracked the soft shell with her teeth, exposing a shiny white half-grown nut. She always liked unripe hazelnuts better than fully mature ones that had dropped to the ground. The taste aroused her appetite and she began to pick several clusters and put them into her basket. While reaching, she noticed a dark space behind the heavy foliage.

  Cautiously, she pushed aside the branches and saw a small cave hidden by the heavy hazelnut shrubs. She forced aside the brush, looked carefully inside, then stepped in, letting the branches swing back. Sunlight dappled one wall with a pattern of light and shadows and dimly lit the interior. The small cave was about twelve feet deep and half as wide. If she reached up, she could almost touch the top of the entrance. The roof sloped down gently for about half the depth, angling more sharply down to the dry dirt floor toward the rear.

  It was just a small hole in the mountain wall, but large enough for a girl to move around in comfortably. She saw a cache of rotted nuts and a few squirrel droppings near the entrance and knew the cave had not been used by anything larger. Ayla danced around in a full circle, delighted with her find. The cave seemed to be made just for her.

  She went back out and looked across the glade, then climbed a short way up the bare rock and inched out on a narrow ledge that snaked around the outcrop. Far ahead, between the cleft of two hills, was the sparkling water of the inland sea. Below, she could make out a tiny figure near a thin silver ribbon of a stream. She was almost directly above the cave of the clan. Climbing back down, she walked around the perimeter of the clearing.

  It’s just perfect, she thought. I can practice in the field, there’s water to drink nearby, and if it rains I can go into the cave. I can hide my sling in there, too. Then I won’t have to be afraid Creb or Iza will find it. There are even hazelnuts, and later I can bring some back for winter. The men almost never climb up this high to hunt. This will be my own place. She ran across the clearing to the creek and began looking for smooth, round pebbles to try out her new sling.

  Ayla climbed to her retreat to practice every chance she could. She found a more direct, if steeper, route to her small mountain meadow and often surprised wild sheep, chamois, or shy deer from their grazing. But the animals that frequented the high pasture soon grew accustomed to her and only moved to the opposite end of the grassy clearing when she came.

  When hitting the post with a stone lost its challenge as she gained skill with the sling, she set more difficult targets for herself. She watched Zoug give instructions to Vorn, then applied the advice and techniques when she practiced alone. It was a game to her, something fun to do; and to add interest, she compared her progress with Vorn’s. The sling was not his favorite weapon, it smacked of an old man’s device. He was more interested in the spear, the weapon of the primary hunters, and had managed to make a few small kills of slower-moving creatures, snakes and porcupines. He didn’t apply himself the way Ayla did and it was more difficult for him. It gave her a sense of pride and accomplishment when she knew she was better than the boy, and a subtle shift in attitude-a change that was not lost on Broud.

  Females were supposed to be docile, subservient, unpretentious, and humble. The domineering young man took it as a personal affront that she didn’t cower a little when he came near. It threatened his masculinity. He watched her, trying to see what was different about her, and was quick to cuff just to see a fleeting look of fear in her eyes or to make her cringe.

  Ayla tried to respond properly, did everything he commanded as quickly as she could. She didn’t know there was freedom in her step, an unconscious carry-over from roaming the forests and fields; pride in her bearing, from learning a difficult skill and doing it better than someone else; and a growing self-confidence in her mien. She didn’t know why he picked on her more than anyone else. Broud didn’t know himself why she annoyed him so much. It was indefinable, and she could no more have changed it than she could change the color of her eyes.

  Part of it was his memory of the attention she had usurped from him at his manhood rites, but the real problem was she was not Clan. She had not had subservience bred into her for untold generations. She was one of the Others; a newer, younger breed, more vital, more dynamic, not controlled by hidebound traditions from a brain that was nearly all memory. Her brain followed different paths, her full, high forehead that housed forward-thinking frontal lobes gave her an understanding from a different view. She could accept the new, shape it to her will, forge it into ideas undreamed of by the Clan, and, in nature’s way, her kind was destined to supplant the ancient, dying race.

  At a deep, unconscious level, Broud sensed the opposing destinies of the two. Ayla was more than a threat to his masculinity, she was a threat to his existence. His hatred of her was the hatred of the old for the new, of the traditional for the innovative, of the dying for the living. Broud’s race was too static, too unchanging. They had reached the peak of their development; there was no more room to grow. Ayla was part of nature’s new experiment, and though she tried to model herself after the women of the clan, it was only an overlay, a facade only culture-deep, assumed for the sake of survival. She was already finding ways around it, in answer to a deep need that sought an avenue of expression. And though she tried in every way she could to please the overbearing young man, inwardly she began to rebel.

  One particularly trying morning, Ayla went to the pool for a drink. The men were gathered together at the opposite side of the cave opening planning their next hunt. She was glad, for it meant Broud would be gone for a while. She was sitting with a cup in her hands beside the still water, lost in thought. Why is he always so mean to me? Why does he always pick on me? I work as hard as anyone else. I do everything he wants. What good does it do to try so hard? None of the other men keep after me the way he does. I just wish he’d le
ave me alone.

  “Ouch!” she cried involuntarily as Broud’s hard blow caught her by surprise.

  Everyone stopped and looked at her, then quickly looked away. A girl so close to womanhood didn’t cry out like that just because a man cuffed her. She turned toward her tormentor, her face red with embarrassment.

  “You were just staring at nothing, sitting there doing nothing, lazy girl!” Broud gesticulated. “I told you to bring us some tea and you ignored me. Why should I have to tell you more than once?”

  A rising surge of anger flushed her cheeks even more. She felt humiliated by her outcry, shamed in front of the whole clan, and furious at Broud for causing it. She got up, but not with the usual quick jump to obey his command. Slowly, insolently, she got to her feet, shot Broud a look of cold hatred before she moved away to get the tea, and heard a gasp from the watching clan. How did she dare to behave with such brazenness?

  Broud exploded in a rage. He sprang after her, spun her around, and plowed his fist into her face. It knocked her to the ground at his feet and he followed with another smashing blow. She cowered, trying to protect herself with her arms as he pounded her again and again. She fought to voice no sound, though silence was not expected under such abuse. Broud’s fury mounted with his violence; he wanted to hear her cry out and rained down one crashing blow after another in his uncontrolled rage. She gritted her teeth, steeling herself to the pain, stubbornly refusing to give him the satisfaction he wanted. After a time, she was beyond crying out.

  Dimly, through a red foggy haze, she realized the beating had stopped. She felt Iza help her up and leaned heavily on the woman as she stumbled into the cave, nearly unconscious. Surges of pain washed over her as she wavered in and out of numbed insensibility. She was only vaguely aware of cool, soothing poultices and Iza supporting her head so that she could drink a bitter-tasting brew before she slipped into a drugged sleep.