by Jean M. Auel
Sleep came no more easily to Jondalar. He couldn’t seem to get comfortable. His side, that had been next to her, felt cold, and his guilt stung. He couldn’t remember when he’d had a worse day, and he hadn’t even taught her the right language. When would she ever use Zelandonii? His people lived a year’s travel from this valley, and only that if no stops of any length were made.
He thought about the Journey he had made with his brother. It all seemed so useless. How long ago had they left? Three years? That meant at least four years before he could get back. Four years of his life gone. For no purpose. His brother dead. Jetamio dead, and the child of Thonolan’s spirit. What was left?
Jondalar had struggled to keep his emotions under control since he was young, but he wiped away wetness with his furs, too. His tears were not only for his brother, they were for himself: for his loss and sorrow, and for the lost chance that might have been wonderful
25
Jondalar opened his eyes. His dream of home had been so vivid that the rough walls of the cave seemed unfamiliar, as though the dream was reality and Ayla’s cave a figment of dream. The dregs of sleep began to clear, and the walls seemed displaced. Then he woke up and realized he had been looking from a different perspective, from the far side of the fireplace.
Ayla was gone. Two naked ptarmigan and the covered basket in which she saved loose feathers were beside the hearth; she had been up for some time. The cup he customarily used—the one fashioned so that the wood grain gave the impression of a small animal—was set out. Beside it was the tightly woven basket in which she steeped his morning tea, and a freshly peeled birch twig. She knew he liked to chew the end of a twig to a fibrous bristle and use it to clean his teeth of the coating that accumulated overnight, and she had formed the habit of having one ready for him in the morning.
He got up and stretched, feeling stiff from the unaccustomed hardness of his bed. He had slept on hard ground before, but a padding of straw could make a big difference to comfort, and it smelled clean and sweet. She changed the straw regularly, so unpleasant odors did not accumulate.
The tea in the pot-basket was hot—she could not have been gone long. He poured some and sniffed the warm minty aroma. He made a game of trying to identify which herbs she used each day. Mint was one of his favorites and was usually one component. He sipped and thought he detected the taste of raspberry leaf, and perhaps alfalfa. He took the cup and twig outside with him.
Standing at the edge of the shelf facing the valley, he chewed on the twig and watched his stream arc down and water the cliff wall. He still wasn’t fully awake. His actions were the mechanical movements of habit. When he was through, he scrubbed his teeth with the gnawed stick of wood, then swished his mouth out with the tea. It was a ritual and always refreshed him, and it usually led him to thinking about plans for the day.
It wasn’t until he drank the last of the tea that he felt himself flush and his complacency slip away. This was not like every other day. His actions of the day before had seen to that. He was about to throw the twig away, then noticed it and held it up, twirling it between his thumb and forefinger, thinking about its implications.
It had been easy to fall into the habit of letting her take care of him; she did it with such subtle grace. He never had to ask, she anticipated his wishes. The twig was a good example. Obviously, she had gotten up before him, gone down to get one, peeled it, and put it there for him. When had she started doing it? He recalled that when he was first able to walk down, he had found one for himself one morning. The next morning, when a twig was beside his cup, he had been very grateful. He still had difficulty with the steep path, then.
And the hot tea. No matter what time he woke up, hot tea was ready. How did she know when to start it? The first time she had brought him a cup in the morning, he had been warm in his appreciation. When was the last time he thanked her? How many other thoughtful acts had she done for him so unobtrusively? She never makes an issue of it. Marthona is like that, he thought, so gracious with her gifts and her time that no one ever feels obligated. Whenever he offered to help, Ayla seemed surprised, and was so grateful—as though she genuinely expected nothing in return for everything she had done for him.
“I gave her worse than nothing,” he said aloud. “And even after yesterday …” He held up the twig, gave it a twirl, and pitched it over the edge.
He noticed Whinney and the colt in the field, racing around in a large circle, full of high spirits, and he felt a twinge of excitement at seeing the running horses. “Look at him go! That colt can really run! In a sprint, I think he could outrace his dam!”
“In a sprint, young stallions often do, but not in the long run,” Ayla said, appearing at the top of the path. Jondalar spun around, his eyes glowing and his smile full of pride for the colt. His enthusiasm was hard to resist; she smiled in spite of her misgivings. She had hoped the man would develop an affection for the young horse—not that it mattered anymore.
“I was wondering where you were,” he said. He felt awkward in her presence and his smile faded.
“I started a fire in the roasting pit earlier, for the ptarmigan. I went to see if it was ready.” He doesn’t seem very happy to see me, she thought, turning to go into the cave. Her smile vanished, too.
“Ayla,” he called, hurrying after her. When she turned back, he didn’t know what to say. “I … uh … I was wondering … uh … I’d like to make some tools. If you don’t mind, that is. I don’t want to use up your flint.”
“I do not mind. Every year the floods take some away and bring more,” she said.
“Must be washing down from a chalk deposit upstream. If I knew it wasn’t far, I’d get some from the source. It’s so much better when it’s freshly mined. Dalanar mines his from a deposit near his Cave, and everyone knows the quality of Lanzadonii flint.”
The enthusiasm returned to his eyes, as it always did when he talked about his craft. Droog was like that, Ayla thought. He loved toolmaking, and everything connected with it. She smiled to herself remembering the time Droog discovered Aga’s young son, the one born after they were mated, pounding rocks together. Droog was so proud, he even gave him a hammerstone. He liked teaching the skill; he didn’t even mind showing me, though I was a girl.
Jondalar noticed her inward look and the hint of a smile. “What are you thinking about, Ayla?” he asked.
“Droog. He was a toolmaker. He used to let me watch him if I was very quiet and didn’t disturb his concentration.”
“You can watch me, if you want,” Jondalar said. “In fact, I was hoping you’d show me the technique you use.”
“I am not an expert. I can make the tools I need, but Droog’s are much better than mine.”
“Your tools are perfectly serviceable. It’s the technique I’d like to see.”
Ayla nodded and went into the cave. Jondalar waited, and when she didn’t come out immediately, he wondered if she had meant now or later. He started in after her just as she was coming out, then jumped back so fast that he almost tripped. He didn’t want to offend her with an inadvertent touch.
Ayla took a breath, straightened her shoulders, and lifted her chin. Maybe he couldn’t stand to be near her, but she was not going to let him know how much it hurt. He’d be gone soon enough. She started down the path carrying both ptarmigan, the basket with the eggs, and a large bundle wrapped in a hide and tied with a cord.
“Let me help you carry something,” Jondalar said, hurrying after her. She paused long enough to give him the basket of eggs.
“The ptarmigan should be started first,” she said, putting the bundle down on the beach. It was just a statement, but Jondalar had the impression she was waiting for his consent, or at least acknowledgment. He was not far off. Despite her years of independence, the ways of the Clan still governed many of her actions. She was not accustomed to doing something else when a man had commanded, or requested, her to do something for him.
“Of course, go ahead. I need to get my implements
before I can work the flint,” he said.
She carried the plump birds around the wall to the hole she had dug earlier and lined with rocks. The fire was out in the bottom of the pit, but the stones sizzled when she sprinkled drops of water on them. She had searched up and down the valley for the right combination of greens and herbs, and had brought them to the stone oven. She collected coltsfoot for its slightly salty taste; nettles, pigweed, and sprightly wood sorrel for greens; wild onions, garlicky-tasting ramsons, basil, and sage were for flavor. Smoke would add its touch of flavor as well, and wood ashes a taste of salt.
She stuffed the birds with their own eggs nested in the greens—three eggs in one bird and four in the other. She had always wrapped grape leaves around the ptarmigan before they were lowered into the pit, but grapes did not grow in the valley. She remembered fish was sometimes cooked wrapped in fresh hay, and decided that would work for fowl. After the birds were resting in the bottom of the pit, she piled more grass on top, then rocks, and covered it all with dirt.
Jondalar had an array of antler, bone, and stone flint-knapping implements spread out, some of which Ayla recognized. Some, though, were totally unfamiliar. She opened her bundle and arranged her implements within easy reach, then sat down and spread the leather over her lap. It was good protection; flint could shatter into very sharp slivers. She glanced at Jondalar. He was looking over the pieces of bone and stone she had set out with great interest.
He moved several nodules of flint closer to her. She noticed two within easy reach—and thought of Droog. A good toolmaker’s ability began with selection, she recalled. She wanted stone with a fine grain, looked them over, then chose the smaller one. Jondalar was nodding his head in unconscious approval.
She thought of the youngster who had shown an inclination for toolmaking before he was hardly toddling. “Did you always know you would work the stone?” she asked.
“For a while I thought I might be a carver, perhaps even serve the Mother, or work with Those Who Served Her.” A touch of pain and poignant yearning crossed his features. “Then I was sent to live with Dalanar and learned to be a stone knapper instead. It was a good choice—I enjoy it and have some skill. I would never have been a great carver.”
“What is a ‘carver,’ Jondalar?”
“That’s it! That’s what is missing!” Ayla jumped with startled consternation. “There are no carvings, no paintings, no beads, no decorations at all. Not even colors.”
“I don’t understand …”
“I’m sorry, Ayla. How could you know what I’m talking about? A carver is someone who makes animals out of stone.”
Ayla frowned. “How can someone make an animal out of stone? An animal is blood and meat; it lives and breathes.”
“I don’t mean a real animal. I mean an image, a representation. A carver makes the likeness of an animal out of stone-makes the stone look like an animal. Some carvers make images of the Great Earth Mother, too, if they receive a vision of Her.”
“A likeness? Out of stone?”
“Out of other things, too. Mammoth ivory, bone, wood, antler. I’ve heard that some people make images out of mud. For that matter, I’ve seen some pretty good likenesses out of snow.”
Ayla had been shaking her head, struggling to understand, until he said snow. Then she remembered one winter day when she had piled bowls of snow against the wall near the cave. Hadn’t she, for a while, imagined the likeness of Brun in that pile of snow?
“A likeness out of snow? Yes,” she nodded, “I think I understand.”
He wasn’t sure if she did, but he could think of no way to make it plainer with no carving to show her. How drab her life must have been, he thought, growing up with flatheads. Even her clothes are no more than serviceable. Did they just hunt and eat and sleep? They don’t even appreciate the Gifts of the Mother. No beauty, no mystery, no imagination. I wonder if she can understand what she missed.
Ayla picked up the small boulder of flint and examined it closely, trying to decide where to start. She would not make a hand axe—even Droog considered them rather simple tools, though very useful. But she didn’t think that was the technique Jondalar wanted to see. She reached for an item missing from the man’s tool kit: the foot bone of a mammoth—the resilient bone that would support the flint while she worked it, so the stone would not shatter. She pulled it around until it was comfortably between her legs.
Next she picked up her hammerstone. There was no real difference between her stone striker and his, except hers was smaller to better fit her hand. Holding the flint firmly on the mammoth-bone anvil, Ayla struck with force. A piece of the cortex, the outer covering, fell away, exposing the dark gray material inside. The piece she had flaked off had a thick bulge where the hammerstone had struck—the bulb of percussion—and tapered to a thin edge on the opposite end. It could have been used as a cutting implement, and the first knives ever made were just such sharp-edged flakes, but the tools Ayla wanted to make required a far more advanced and complex technique.
She studied the deep scar left on the core, the negative impression of the flake. The color was right; the texture was smooth, almost waxy; there was no foreign matter imbedded within it. Good tools could be made from this stone. She struck off another piece of the cortex.
As she continued to chip away, Jondalar could see she was shaping the stone as she removed the chalky coating. When it was off, she continued to knock off a bit here, an unwanted bump there, until the nucleus of flint was shaped like a somewhat flattened egg. Then she exchanged the hammerstone for a sturdy length of bone. Turning the core on its side, and working from the edge toward the center, she struck off pieces from the top end with the bone hammer. The bone was more elastic and the pieces of flint that fell away were longer and thinner with a flatter bulb of percussion. When she was through, the large stone egg had a rather flat oval top, as though the tip had been sliced off.
Then she stopped, and, reaching for the amulet hanging around her neck, she closed her eyes and sent a silent thought to the spirit of the Cave Lion. Droog had always called upon the help of his totem to accomplish the next step. Luck was needed as well as skill, and she was nervous with Jondalar watching her so closely. She wanted to do it right, sensing there was more importance to the making of these tools than to the tools themselves. If she spoiled the stone, it would cast doubt on the ability of Droog and the entire Clan, no matter how many times she might explain that she was not an expert.
Jondalar had noticed her amulet before, but, watching her hold it in both her hands with closed eyes, he wondered what significance it held. She seemed to handle it with reverence, almost as he would handle a donii. But a donii was a carefully sculpted figure of a woman in all her motherly abundance, a symbol of the Great Earth Mother, and the wondrous mystery of creation. Certainly no lumpy leather pouch could hold the same meaning.
Ayla took up the bone hammer again. In order to cleave a flake from the core that would have the same dimension as the flat oval top, but with sharp straight edges, there was one important preliminary step—a striking platform. She had to detach a small chip that would leave a dent at the edge of the flat face that had a surface perpendicular to the flake she ultimately wanted.
Grasping the nucleus of the flint firmly to hold it steady, the woman took careful aim. She had to gauge the force as well as the placement: not enough and the chip would have the wrong angle, too much and she would shatter the carefully shaped edge. She took a breath and held it, then brought the bone hammer down with a sharp tap. The first was always important. If it went well, it presaged good luck. A small chip flew away, and she let herself breathe again when she saw the indentation.
Changing the angle at which she held the core, she struck again, with more force. The bone hammer landed squarely in the dent, and a flake fell away from the prefabricated core. It had the shape of a long oval. One side was the flat surface she had made. The reverse side was the inner bulbar face, which was smooth, thicker a
t the end that was struck, and narrowed down to a razor-sharp edge all the way around.
Jondalar picked it up. “This is a difficult technique to master. You need strength and precision both. Look at the edge! This is not a crude tool.”
Ayla expelled a tremendous sigh of relief and felt the warm glow of accomplishment—and something more. She had not let the Clan down. In truth, she represented them better because she was not born to the Clan. Though he would have tried, this man, so skilled in the craft himself, had he been observing a member of the Clan, would have been too aware of the performer to objectively judge the performance.
Ayla watched him turning the flake of stone over in his hand, then, suddenly, felt a peculiar inner shift. She was gripped by an uncanny chill, and seemed to be observing the two of them from a distance, as though she were outside herself.
A vivid memory burst upon her of a time when she had experienced a similar disorientation. She was following lighted stone lamps deep into a cave and she watched herself clutching at the damp stone as she was inexplicably drawn toward a small lighted space screened by thick columns of stalactites in the heart of the mountain.
Ten mog-urs were sitting in a circle around a fire, but it was The Mog-ur—Creb himself—whose powerful mind, amplified and assisted by the drink Iza had told Ayla how to make for the magicians, discovered her presence. She had consumed the powerful substance too, unintentionally, and her mind was reeling out of control. It was The Mog-ur who drew her back from the deep abyss within, and took her with him on a frightening and fascinating journey of the mind back to primordial beginnings.
In the process, the greatest holy man of the Clan, whose brain was unique even among his own kind, forged new pathways in her brain where only vestigial tendencies had been. But while it resembled his, her brain was not the same. She could move back with him and his memories to their mutual beginning, and through each stage of development, but he could not go as far when she came back to herself—and went a step beyond.