by Jean M. Auel
“What do you think, Ayla! Will it work?”
She took one from him. It was a simple, though ingenious, device: a fiat narrow wooden platform, about half as long as the spear, with a groove in the middle where the spear rested, and a backstop carved into a hook-shape. Two leather-thong loops for the fingers were fastened on either side near the front of the spear thrower.
The thrower was held first in a horizontal position, with two fingers through the front loops, holding the thrower and the spear, which was resting in the long groove, butt against the backstop. When hurling, holding the front end by the loops caused the back end to flip up, in effect increasing the length of the throwing arm. The additional leverage added to the speed and force with which the spear left the hand.
“I think, Jondalar, it’s time to start practicing.”
Practicing filled their days. The padded leather around the target tree fell apart from constant puncturings, and a second one was put up. This time Jondalar drew the outline of a deer. Minor adaptations suggested themselves as they both gained in proficiency. Each of them borrowed from the techniques of the weapon with which he or she was most familiar. His strong overhand casts tended to have more lift; hers, angling more to the side, had a flatter trajectory. And each made a few adjustments on the thrower to suit his or her individual style.
A friendly competition developed between them. Ayla tried but could not match Jondalar’s mighty thrusts which gave him greater range; Jondalar could not match Ayla’s deadly accuracy. They were both astounded by the tremendous advantage of the new weapon. With it, Jondalar could hurl a spear more than twice as far, with greater force and perfect control, once a measure of skill was achieved. But one aspect of the practice sessions with Jondalar had greater effect on Ayla than the weapon itself.
She had always practiced and hunted alone. First playing in secret, fearful of being found out. Then practicing in earnest, but no less secretly. When she was allowed to hunt, it was only grudgingly. No one ever hunted with her. No one ever encouraged her when she missed, or shared a triumph when her aim was true. No one discussed with her the best way to use a weapon, advised her of alternate approaches, or listened with respect and interest to a suggestion of hers. And no one had ever teased, or joked, or laughed with her. Ayla had never experienced the camaraderie, the friendship, the fun, of a companion.
Yet, with all the easing of tensions practicing brought about, a distance remained between them that they could not seem to close. When their talk was about such safe subjects as hunting or weapons, their conversations were animated; but the introduction of any personal element caused uncomfortable silences and halting courteous evasions. An accidental touch was like a jolting shock from which they both sprang apart, followed always by stiff formality and lingering afterthoughts.
“Tomorrow!” Jondalar said, retrieving a twanging spear. Some of the hay stuffing came with it through a much enlarged and ragged hole in the leather.
“Tomorrow what?” Ayla asked.
“Tomorrow we go hunting. We’ve played long enough. We’re not going to learn any more, dulling points on a tree. It’s time to get serious.”
“Tomorrow,” Ayla agreed.
They picked up several spears and started walking back. “You know the area around here, Ayla. Where should we go?”
“I know the steppes to the east best, but maybe I should scout it first. I could go on Whinney.” She looked up to check the placement of the sun. “It’s still early.”
“Good idea. You and that horse are better than a handful of foot scouts.”
“Will you hold Racer back? I’ll feel better if I know he’s not following.”
“What about tomorrow when we go hunting?”
“We’ll have to take him with us. We need Whinney to bring the meat back. Whinney is always a little bothered by a kill, but she’s used to it. She will stay where I want her to, but if her colt gets excited and runs, and maybe gets caught in a stampede … I don’t know.”
“Don’t worry about it now. I’ll try to think of something.”
Ayla’s piercing whistle brought the mare and the colt. While Jondalar put an arm around Racer’s neck, scratched his itchy places, and talked to him, Ayla mounted Whinney and urged her to a gallop. The young one was comfortable with the man. After the woman and the mare were well gone, Jondalar picked up the armload of spears and both throwers.
“Well, Racer, shall we go to the cave to wait for them?”
He laid the spears down outside the entrance to the small break in the canyon wall, then went in. He was restless and didn’t quite know what to do with himself. He stirred the fire, brought the coals together, and added a few sticks, then went out to the front edge of the shelf and looked down the valley. The colt’s muzzle reached for his hand, and he absently caressed the shaggy young horse. As he pulled his fingers through the animal’s thickening coat, he thought of winter.
He tried to think of something else. The warm summer days had an unending quality, one so like the next that time seemed held in suspension. Decisions were easy to put off. Tomorrow was soon enough to think about the coming cold … to think about leaving. He noticed the simple breech-clout he wore.
“I don’t grow a winter coat like you, little fellow. I ought to make myself something warm soon. I gave that sewing awl to Ayla and never made another one. Maybe that’s what I should do—make a few more tools. And I need to think of a way to keep you from getting hurt.”
He went back into the cave, stepped over his sleeping furs, and cast a longing look at Ayla’s side of the fireplace. He rummaged through the storage area for some thong or heavy cordage and found some skins that had been rolled up and put away. That woman certainly knows how to finish skins, he thought, feeling the velvety soft texture. Maybe she’d let me use some of these. I hate to ask her, though.
If those spear throwers work, I should get enough hides to make something to wear. Maybe I could carve a charm on them for good luck. It wouldn’t hurt. Here’s a coil of thong. Maybe I can make something for Racer out of this. He’s such a runner—wait until he’s a stallion. Would a stallion let someone ride on his back? Could I make him go where I wanted him to?
You’ll never know. You won’t be here when he’s a stallion. You’re leaving.
Jondalar picked up the coiled thong, stopped off to get his bundle of flint-knapping tools, and went down the path to the beach. The stream looked inviting, and he felt hot and sweaty. He took off his breechclout and waded in, then started pulling upstream, against the current. He usually turned back when he reached the narrow gorge. This time he decided to explore further. He made it past the first rapids and around the last bend, and saw a roaring wall of white water. Then he headed back.
The swim invigorated him, and the feeling that he had made a discovery encouraged a desire for change. He pulled his hair back, squeezed it out, and then his beard. You’ve worn this all summer, Jondalar, and it’s almost over. Don’t you think it’s time?
First I’ll shave, then make something to keep Racer out of the way. I don’t want to just put a rope around his neck. Then I’ll make an awl, and a burin or two so I can carve a charm on the throwers. And I think I’ll make the meal tonight. A man could forget how around Ayla. I may not be up to her standards, but I think I can still put a meal together. Mother knows, I did it often enough on the Journey.
What kind of carvings should I put on the spear throwers? A donii would bring the best luck, but I gave mine to Noria. I wonder if she ever had a baby with blue eyes? That certainly is a strange idea Ayla has, about a man making a baby start. Who would have thought that was what that old Haduma wanted. First Rites. Ayla’s never had First Rites. She’s been through so much, and she’s a wonder with that sling. Not bad with a spear thrower either. I think I’ll put a bison on hers. Will they really work? Wish I had a donii. Maybe I could make one …
Jondalar started watching for Ayla from the ledge as the evening sky darkened. When the valley b
ecame a black bottomless pit, he built a fire on the ledge so she could find her way, and he kept thinking he heard her coming up the path. Finally he made a torch and headed down. He followed the edge of the stream around the jutting wall, and he would have gone farther if he hadn’t heard the pounding of hooves approaching.
“Ayla! What took you so long?”
She was taken aback by his peremptory tone. “I’ve been scouting for herds. You know that.”
“But it’s after dark!”
“I know. It was almost dark before I started back. I think I’ve found the place, a herd of bison southeast …”
“It was nearly dark and you were still chasing bison! You can’t see a bison in the dark!”
Ayla couldn’t understand why he was so excited, or his demanding questions. “I wasn’t looking at bison in the dark, and why do you want to stand here talking?”
With a high-pitched nicker, the colt appeared in the circle of light from the torch and butted up against his dam. Whinney responded, and before Ayla could dismount, the young horse was nuzzling under the mare’s hind legs. It occurred to Jondalar then that he had been acting as if he had some right to question Ayla, and he turned away from the torchlight, grateful for the dark that hid his red face. He followed behind while she plodded up the path, so embarrassed that he didn’t notice her weary exhaustion.
She grabbed a sleeping fur and, wrapping it around her, hunkered near the fire. “I forgot how cold it gets at night,” she said. “I should have taken a warm wrap, but I didn’t think I’d be gone this long.”
Jondalar saw her shiver and was more chagrined. “You’re cold. Let me get you something hot to drink.” He poured some hot broth into a cup for her.
Ayla hadn’t been paying very close attention to him either—she had been too eager to get to the fire, but when she looked up to take the cup, she nearly dropped it.
“What happened to your face?” she said with equal parts of shock and concern.
“What do you mean?” he asked, worried.
“Your beard … it’s gone!”
The shock which had mirrored hers gave way to a smile. “I shaved it off.”
“Shaved?”
“Cut it off. Close to the skin. I usually do it in summer. It gets itchy when I’m hot and sweaty.”
Ayla couldn’t resist. She reached for his face to feel the smoothness of his cheek, then, rubbing against the grain, an incipient roughness; scratchy, like a lion’s tongue. She recalled he had no beard when she first found him, but after it grew in she forgot about it. He seemed so young without a beard, appealing in a childlike way, but not as a man. She wasn’t accustomed to full-grown men without beards. She ran her finger along his strong jaw and the slight cleft of his firm chin.
Her touch held him motionless. He couldn’t pull away. He felt the light tracery of her fingertips with every nerve. Though she had intended no erotic implications, just gentle curiosity, his response was from a deeper source. The insistent, straining throbbing in his groin was so immediate, so powerful, that it caught him by surprise.
The way his eyes looked at her compelled a rush of desire to know him as a man, in spite of his almost too youthful appearance. He moved to reach for her hand, to hold it to his face, but with an effort, she pulled it away, picked up the cup, and drank without tasting. It was more than being self-conscious about touching him. She had a sudden vivid memory of the last time they had sat face to face near the fire and that look had come into his eyes. And this time she had been touching him. She was afraid to look at him, afraid she’d see that horrible, degrading look again. But her fingertips remembered his smooth-rough face, and tingled.
Jondalar was distressed at his instant, almost violent reaction to her gentle touch. He couldn’t keep his eyes away from her though she avoided his look. Looking down like that, she seemed so shy, so fragile, yet he knew the strength at her core. He thought of her as a beautiful blade of flint, perfect as it fell from the stone, its thin edges delicate and translucent, yet so hard and sharp that it could cut the toughest leather in one clean stroke.
O Mother, she is so beautiful, he thought. O Doni, Great Earth Mother, I want that woman. I want her so much …
Suddenly he jumped up. He couldn’t stand just looking at her. Then he remembered the meal he had made. Here she is, cold and tired, and I’m just sitting. He went to get the mammoth-hipbone platter she used.
Ayla heard him get up. He had jumped up so abruptly, she was convinced he had suddenly been overcome with revulsion again. She started shaking, and clenched her teeth trying to stop. She could not face that again. She wanted to tell him to leave so she would not have to see him, to see his eyes naming her … abomination. She sensed, though her eyes were closed, when he was in front of her again, and she held her breath.
“Ayla?” He could see her shivering, even with the fire and her fur wrap. “I thought it might be late when you got back, so I went ahead and made something for us to eat. Would you like some? If you’re not too tired?”
Had she heard him right? She opened her eyes, slowly. He was holding a platter. He put it down in front of her, then pulled up a mat and sat down beside her. There was a hare, spitted and roasted, some boiled roots in a broth of dried meat he had already given her, and even some blueberries.
“You … cooked this … for me?” Ayla said, incredulous.
“I know it’s not as good as you would make, but I hope it’s all right. I thought it might be bad luck to use the spear thrower yet, so I just used a spear. It takes a different casting technique, and I wasn’t sure if all that practice with the thrower would spoil my aim, but I guess you don’t forget. Go ahead, eat.”
Men of the Clan did not cook. They could not—they had no memories for it. She knew Jondalar was more versatile in his abilities, but it never occurred to her that he would cook; not when there was a woman around. Even more than that he could, and that he did, was that he had thought of it in the first place. In the Clan, even after she was allowed to hunt, she was still expected to perform her usual tasks. It was so unexpected, so … considerate. Her fears had been entirely unfounded, and she didn’t know what to say. She picked up a leg he had cut off and took a bite.
“Is it all right?” he asked, a bit anxious.
“It’s wonderful,” she said with her mouth full.
It was fine, but it wouldn’t have mattered if it had been burned crisp—it would have been delicious to her. She had a feeling she was going to cry. He scooped out a ladleful of long thin roots. She picked one up and took a bite. “Is this … clover root? It’s good.”
“Yes,” he said, pleased with himself. “They are better with some oil to dip them in. It’s one of those foods women usually make for the men for special feasts because it’s a favorite. I saw the clover upstream and thought you might like it.” It had been a good idea to make a meal, he thought, enjoying her surprise.
“It’s a lot of work to dig them. There’s not much to each one, but I didn’t know they’d be so good. I only use the roots for medicine, as part of a tonic in the spring.”
“We usually eat them in spring. It’s one of the first fresh foods.”
They heard a clatter of hooves on the stone ledge and turned as Whinney and Racer came in. After a while, Ayla got up and settled them in. It was a nightly ritual that consisted of greetings, shared affection, fresh hay, grain, water, and, particularly after a long ride, a rubdown with absorbent leather and a currying with a teasel. Ayla noticed the fresh hay, grain, and water had already been put out.
“You remembered the horses, too,” she said when she sat down to finish her blueberries. Even if she hadn’t been hungry she would have eaten them.
He smiled. “I didn’t have much to do. Oh, I have something to show you.” He got up and returned with the two spear throwers. “I hope you don’t mind, it’s for luck.”
“Jondalar!” She was almost afraid to touch hers. “Did you make this?” Her voice was full of awe. She had bee
n surprised when he drew the shape of an animal on the target, but this was so much more. “It’s … like you took the totem, the spirit of the bison, and put him there.”
The man was grinning. She made surprises so much fun. His spear thrower had a giant deer with huge palmate antlers, and she marveled at it as well. “It is supposed to capture the spirit of the animal, so it will be drawn to the weapon. I’m not really a very good carver, you should see the work of some, and that of the sculptors, and gravers, and the artists who paint the sacred walls.”
“I’m sure you have put powerful magic in these. I did not see deer, but a herd of bison is southeast. I think they are beginning to move together. Will a bison be drawn to a weapon that has a deer on it? I can go out again tomorrow and look for deer.”
“This will work for bison. Yours will be luckier, though. I’m glad I put a bison on yours.”
Ayla didn’t know what to say. He was a man, and had given her more hunting luck than himself, and he was glad.
“I was going to make a donii for luck, too, but I didn’t have time to finish it.”
“Jondalar, I am confused. What is ‘donii’? Is it your Earth Mother?”
“The Great Earth Mother is Doni, but She takes other forms and they are all donii. A donii is usually Her spirit form, when She rides on the wind, or sends Herself into dreams—men often dream of Her as a beautiful woman. A donii is also the carved figure of a woman—usually a bountiful mother—because women are Her blessed. She made them in Her likeness, to create life as She created all life. She rests most easily in the likeness of a mother. A donii is usually sent to guide a man to Her spirit world—some say women don’t need a guide, they know the way. And some women claim they can change themselves into a donii when they want—not always to a man’s benefit. The Sharamudoi who live west of here say the Mother can take the form of a bird.”