The Earth's Children Series 6-Book Bundle

by Jean M. Auel

  “Long ago, long before we were Clan, women helped men to hunt.” There was a gasp of disbelief. “It’s true. We will have a ceremony, and I will take you there. When we were first learning to make tools and weapons, and we were born with a knowing that was like memories, but different, women and men both killed animals for food. Men did not always provide for women then. Like a mother bear, a woman hunted for herself and her children.

  “It was later that men began to hunt for a woman and her young, and even later before women with children stayed behind. When men began to care about the young, when they began to provide, it was the beginnings of the Clan and helped it to grow. If a mother of a young child died while she was trying to get food, the baby died, too. But it wasn’t until people stopped fighting each other and learned to cooperate, to hunt together, that the Clan really began. Even then, some women hunted, when they were the ones who talked to the spirits.

  “Brun, you said it’s never been done before. You are wrong; Clan women have hunted before. The spirits approved then, but they were different spirits, ancient spirits, not the spirits of totems. They were powerful spirits, but they have long since gone to rest. I’m not sure if they can rightfully be called Clan spirits. It wasn’t that they were honored or venerated, more that they were feared; but they weren’t evil, just powerful.”

  The men were stunned. He spoke of times so ancient and so little recalled, they were almost forgotten, almost new. Yet just his mentioning of them evoked a recollection of the fear, and more than one man shuddered.

  “I doubt that women born to the Clan now would ever want to hunt,” Mog-ur continued. “I’m not sure they could. It’s been too long, women have changed since then, so have men. But Ayla is different, the Others are different, more different than we think. I don’t think letting her hunt would make any difference as far as the other women are concerned. Her hunting, her wanting to hunt, surprises them as much as us. I have nothing more to say.”

  “Does anyone have anything more to say?” Brun asked. He wasn’t sure, though, that he was ready for more. Too many new ideas had already been proposed for comfort.

  “Goov would speak, Brun.”

  “Goov may speak.”

  “I am only an acolyte, I don’t know as much as Mog-ur, but I think he overlooked something. Maybe it’s because he has tried so hard to put aside his feeling for Ayla. He has concentrated on remembering, not on the girl herself, perhaps out of fear it would be his love speaking and not his mind. He hasn’t thought about her totem.

  “Has anyone considered why a powerful male totem would choose a girl?” He answered his own rhetorical question. “Except for Ursus, the Cave Lion is the most powerful totem. The cave lion is more powerful than the mammoth; he hunts mammoth, only the young and old, but he does hunt mammoth sometimes. The cave lion does not hunt mammoth.”

  “You’re not making sense, Goov. You say the cave lion hunts mammoth, then you say he doesn’t,” Brun gestured.

  “He doesn’t, she does. We overlook that when we speak of protective totems; even the male cave lion is the protector. But who is the hunter? The largest meat eater of all, the strongest hunter is the lioness! The female! Is it not true she brings her kill to her mate? He can kill, but his job is to protect while she hunts.

  “It’s curious that a Cave Lion would choose a girl, isn’t it? Has anyone ever thought that perhaps her totem is not the Cave Lion, but the Cave Lioness? The female? The hunter? Couldn’t that explain why the girl wanted to hunt? Why she was given a sign? Maybe it was the Lioness who gave her the sign, maybe that’s why she was marked on her left leg. Is it really more exceptional for her to hunt than it is for her to have such a totem? I don’t know if it’s true, but you must admit it’s reasonable. Whether her totem is Cave Lion or Cave Lioness, if she was meant to hunt, can we deny it? Can we deny her powerful totem? And do we dare condemn her for doing what her totem wishes?” Goov concluded. “I am finished.”

  Brun’s head was whirling. Ideas were coming at him too fast. He needed time to think, to work it out. Of course it’s the lioness who hunts, but who ever heard of a female totem? The spirits, the essences of protective spirits are all male, aren’t they? Only someone who spends long days dwelling on the ways of the spirits would come to the conclusion that the totem of the girl who had been hunting was the hunter of the species that embodied her totem. But Brun wished Goov hadn’t brought up the idea of denying the wishes of so powerful a totem.

  The whole concept of a woman hunting was so unique, so thought-provoking, that several of the men had been jarred into making the small incremental step that pushed the frontiers of their comfortable, secure, well-defined world. Each man spoke from his own viewpoint, from his own area of concern or interest, and each had pushed forward the frontier only in that one small area; but Brun had to embrace them all, and it was almost too much. He felt duty-bound to consider every aspect before he made a judgment, and he wished he had time to mull them over carefully. But a decision could not be held off much longer.

  “Does anyone else have any more opinions?”

  “Broud would speak, Brun.”

  “Broud may speak.”

  “All these ideas are interesting, and may give us something to think about on cold winter days, but the traditions of the Clan are clear. Born to the Others or not, the girl is Clan. Clan females may not hunt. They may not even touch a weapon, or any tool that is used to make a weapon. We all know the punishment. She must die. It makes no difference if long ago women once hunted. Because a she-bear hunts, or a lioness, doesn’t mean a woman may. We are neither bears nor lions. It makes no difference if she has a powerful totem or if she brings luck to the clan. It makes no difference if she is good with a sling or even that she saved the life of the son of my mate. I am grateful for that, of course—everyone has noticed I said so many times on the way back, I’m sure—but it makes no difference. The traditions of the Clan make no allowances. A woman who uses a weapon must die. We cannot change that. It is the way of the Clan.

  “This whole meeting is a waste of time. There is no other decision you can make, Brun. I am finished.”

  “Broud is right,” Dorv said. “It is not our place to change the traditions of the Clan. One exception leads to another. Soon there would be nothing we can count on. The punishment is death; the girl must die.”

  There were a couple of nods of agreement. Brun did not respond immediately. Broud is right, he thought. What other decision can I make? She saved Brac’s life, but she used a weapon to do it. Brun wasn’t any closer to a resolution than he was the day Ayla pulled out her sling and killed the hyena.

  “I will take all your thoughts into consideration before I make my decision. But now I want to ask each of you to give me a definite answer,” the leader finally said. The men were sitting in a circle around the fire. They each clenched a fist and held it in front of their chests. A movement up and down would mean an affirmative answer, a lateral movement of the fist, no.

  “Grod,” Brun began with his second-in-command, “do you think the girl Ayla should die?”

  Grod hesitated. He sympathized with the leader’s dilemma. He had been Brun’s second for many years, he could almost read the leader’s thoughts, and his respect for him had grown with time. But he could see no alternative; he moved his fist up, then down.

  “What other choice is there, Brun?” he added.

  “Grod says yes. Droog?” Brun asked, turning to the toolmaker.

  Droog did not hesitate. He moved his fist across his chest.

  “Droog says no. Crug, how about you?”

  Crug looked at Brun, then Mog-ur, and finally Broud. He moved his fist up.

  “Crug says yes, the girl should die,” Brun confirmed. “Goov?”

  The young acolyte responded immediately by drawing his fist across his chest.

  “Goov’s opinion is no. Broud?”

  Broud moved his fist up before Brun could say his name, and Brun moved on just as quic
kly. He knew Broud’s answer.

  “Yes. Zoug?”

  The old sling-master sat up proudly and moved his fist back and forth across his chest with an emphasis that left no doubt.

  “Zoug thinks the girl should not die, what do you think, Dorv?”

  The hand of the other old man went up, and before he could bring it down, all eyes turned toward Mog-ur.

  “Dorv says yes. Mog-ur, what is your opinion?” Brun asked. He had guessed what the others would say, but the leader wasn’t sure about the old magician.

  Creb agonized. He knew the Clan traditions. He blamed himself for Ayla’s crime, for giving her too much freedom. He felt guilty about his love for her, afraid it would usurp his reason, afraid he would think of himself before his duty to his clan, and began to move his fist up. Logically he decided she must die. But before he could start the movement, his fist jerked to the side, as though someone had grabbed it and moved it for him. He could not bring himself to condemn her, though he would do what he must, once the decision was made. He had no choice. The choice was Brun’s and only Brun’s.

  “The opinions are evenly divided,” the leader announced. “The decision was never anything but mine anyway, I only wanted to know how you felt. I will need some time to think about what was said today. Mog-ur says we will have a ceremony tonight. That’s good. I will need the help of the spirits, and we all may need their protection. You will know my decision in the morning. She will know then, too. Go now and prepare for the ceremony.”

  Brun remained by the fire alone after the men left. Clouds scudded across the sky, driven by brisk winds, and dropped intermittent icy showers as they passed, but Brun was as oblivious to the rain as he was to the last dying embers sputtering in the fireplace. It was nearing dark when he finally hauled himself up and plodded slowly back to the cave. He saw Ayla still sitting where he had seen her when they left in the morning. She expects the worst, he said to himself. What else can she expect?

  16

  The clan gathered outside the cave early. A chill east wind was blowing, hinting of icier blasts, but the sky was clear and the morning sun just above the ridge, bright, in contrast to the somber mood. They avoided each other’s eyes; arms hung limp with the absence of conversation as they shuffled to their places to learn the fate of the strange girl who was no stranger to them.

  Uba could feel her mother shaking and her hand gripped so hard it hurt. The child knew it was more than the wind that made her mother shiver so hard. Creb was standing at the mouth of the cave. Never had the great magician seemed more forbidding, his ravaged face set in chiseled granite, his single eye opaque as stone. At a signal from Brun, he limped into the cave, slowly, wearily, weighted by an overwhelming burden. He walked into his hearth and looked at the girl sitting on her fur, and with a supreme effort of will, forced himself to approach her.

  “Ayla. Ayla,” he said gently. The girl looked up. “It’s time. You must come now.” Her eyes were dull, uncomprehending. “You must come now, Ayla. Brun is ready,” Creb repeated.

  Ayla nodded and dragged herself up. Her legs were stiff from sitting so long. She hardly noticed. She followed dumbly behind the old man, staring at the trampled dust still bearing traces of those who had walked that way before—a heelmark, the imprint of toes, the blurred outline of a foot encased in a loose leather pouch, the round butt of Creb’s staff and the furrow of his dragging lame leg. She stopped when she saw Brun’s feet, wrapped in their dusty coverings, and dropped to the ground. At a light tap on her shoulder, she forced herself to look up into the clan leader’s face.

  The impact jolted her to awareness and awakened an undefinable fear. It was familiar—low, swept-back forehead, heavy brows, large beaky nose, grizzled beard—but the proud, stern, hard look in the leader’s eyes was gone, replaced by sincere compassion and luminous sorrow.

  “Ayla,” he said aloud, then continued with the formal gestures reserved for serious occasions, “girl of the Clan, the traditions are ancient. We have lived by them for generations, almost as long as the Clan has existed. You were not born to us, but you are one of us, and you must live, or die, by those same customs. While we were north, hunting mammoth, you were seen using a sling and you have hunted with a sling before. Clan females may not use weapons, that is one of our traditions. The punishment, too, is part of the traditions. It is the Clan way, it may not be changed.” Brun leaned forward and looked into the frightened blue eyes of the girl.

  “I know why you used the sling, Ayla, though I still can’t understand why you ever started. Brac would not be alive if it hadn’t been for you.” He straightened and with the most formal of gestures, made so everyone could see, he added, “The leader of this clan is grateful to the girl for saving the life of the son of the mate of the son of my mate.”

  A few glances passed among the watching clan. It was a rare concession for a man to make publicly, and more rare for a leader to admit gratitude to a mere girl.

  “But the traditions make no allowances,” he continued. He made a signal to Mog-ur, and the magician entered the cave. “I have no choice, Ayla. Mog-ur is now setting the bones and speaking aloud the names of those who are unmentionable, names known only to mog-urs. When he is through, you will die. Ayla, girl of the Clan, you are Cursed, Cursed with Death.”

  Ayla felt the blood drain from her face. Iza screamed and sustained it in a high-pitched wail, keening for her lost child. The sound was abruptly cut off as Brun held up his hand.

  “I am not finished,” he motioned. In the sudden silence, glances of expectant curiosity passed quickly among the clan. What else could Brun have to say?

  “The traditions of the Clan are clear, and as leader, I must follow the customs. A female who uses a weapon must be cursed with death, but there are no customs that say for how long. Ayla, you are Cursed with Death for one whole moon. If, by the grace of the spirits, you are able to return from the otherworld after the moon has gone through its cycle once and is in the same phase as now, you may live with us again.”

  Commotion stirred the group; it was unexpected.

  “That’s true,” Zoug motioned. “Nothing says the curse must be permanent.”

  “But what difference does it make? How can someone be dead for so long and live again? A few days, maybe, but a whole moon?” Droog questioned.

  “If the curse was only for a few days, I’m not sure it would fulfill the punishment,” Goov said. “Some mog-urs believe the spirit never goes to the next world if the curse is short. It just hovers around waiting for the time to pass so it can come back if it’s able. If the spirit stays near, the evil ones will too. It’s a limited death curse, but it’s so long, it might as well be permanent. It satisfies the customs.”

  “Then why didn’t he just curse her and be done?” Broud motioned angrily. “There’s nothing in the traditions about temporary death curses for her crime. She’s supposed to die for it, the death curse is supposed to be the end of her.”

  “You think it won’t be, Broud? Do you really think she might come back?” Goov asked.

  “I don’t think anything. I just want to know why Brun didn’t just curse her. Can’t he make a simple decision anymore?”

  Broud was flustered by the pointed question. It brought out in the open the idea everyone had privately wondered. Would Brun impose a temporary death curse if he didn’t think there was some chance, no matter how remote, that she might return from the dead?

  Brun had wrestled with his dilemma the whole night. Ayla had saved the baby’s life; it wasn’t right that she should die for it. He loved the child and he was sincerely grateful to her, but there was more to it than his personal feelings. The traditions demanded her death, but there were other customs, too: customs of obligation, customs that said a life for a life. She carried part of Brac’s spirit; she deserved, she was owed, something of equal value—she was owed her life.

  Only with the first faint light of dawn had he finally thought of a way. Some hardy souls had retur
ned after a temporary death curse. It was a long chance, almost no chance at all, just the barest glimmer of hope. In return for the life of the child, he gave her the one slim chance he could. It wasn’t enough, but he could offer no more, and it was better than nothing at all.

  Suddenly a deadly silence fell. Mog-ur was standing at the mouth of the cave, and he looked like death himself, ancient and drawn. There was no need for him to signal. It was done. Mog-ur had fulfilled his duty. Ayla was dead.

  Iza’s wail pierced the air. Then Oga began and Ebra, then all the women joined Iza, keening in sympathy with her. Ayla saw the woman she loved overwrought with grief and ran to her to comfort her. But just as she was about to throw her arms around the only mother she could remember, Iza turned her back and moved away to avoid the embrace. It was as though she didn’t see her. The girl was confused. She looked at Ebra questioningly; Ebra looked through her. She went to Aga, then Ovra. No one saw her. When she approached, they turned away or moved aside. Not deliberately to let her pass, but as though they had planned to move away before she came. She ran to Oga.

  “It’s me. It’s Ayla. I’m standing right here. Don’t you see me?” she motioned.

  Oga’s eyes glazed over. She turned around and walked away, making no response, no sign of recognition, as though Ayla were invisible.

  Ayla saw Creb walking toward Iza. She ran to him.

  “Creb! It’s Ayla. I’m here,” she gestured frantically. The old magician kept walking, barely turning aside to avoid the girl who crumpled at his feet, as he would an inanimate boulder in his path. “Creb,” she wailed. “Why can’t you see me?” She got up and ran back to Iza.

  “Mother! Motherrr! Look at me! LOOK AT ME!” she gesticulated in front of the woman’s eyes. Iza began a high-pitched wail again. She flailed her arms and pounded her chest.

  “My child. My Ayla. My daughter is dead. She is gone. My poor, poor Ayla. She lives no more.”

  Ayla spied Uba hugging her mother’s legs in fear and confusion. She knelt down in front of the little girl.