by Jean M. Auel
“You see me, don’t you, Uba? I’m right here.” Ayla saw recognition register in the child’s eyes, but the next moment Ebra swooped down and carried the little girl away.
“I want Ayla,” Uba motioned, struggling to get down.
“Ayla is dead, Uba. She’s gone. That’s not Ayla, it’s only her spirit. It must find its way to the next world. If you try to talk to it, if you see it, the spirit will try to take you with it. It will bring you bad luck if you see it. Don’t look at it. You don’t want bad luck, do you, Uba?” Ayla slumped to the ground. She hadn’t really known what a death curse meant and had imagined all kinds of horrors, but the reality was far worse.
Ayla had ceased to exist for the clan. It was no sham, no act put on to frighten her, she did not exist. She was a spirit who happened to be visible, who still gave a semblance of life to her body, but Ayla was dead. Death was a change of state to the people of the Clan, a journey to another plane of existence. The life force was an invisible spirit, it was obvious. A person could be alive one moment and dead the next, with no apparent change, except that that which caused movement and breath and life was gone. The essence that was the real Ayla was no longer a part of their world; it had been forced to move on to the next. It mattered not at all if the physical part that remained behind was cold and unmoving or warm and animated.
It was only another step to believe the essence of life could be driven away. If her physical body didn’t know it yet, it would soon enough. No one really believed she would ever return, not even Brun. Her body, the empty shell, could never remain viable until her spirit was allowed to return. Without the life spirit, the body couldn’t eat, couldn’t drink, and would soon deteriorate. If such a concept was firmly believed, and if loved ones no longer acknowledged existence, there was no existence, no reason to eat or drink or live.
But as long as the spirit stayed near the cave, animating the body though no longer a part of it, the forces that drove it away hovered nearby, too. They might harm those still living, might try to take another life with them. It was not unknown for the mate or another close loved one of someone who had been cursed to die soon afterward themselves. The clan didn’t care if the spirit took the body with it, or left the unmoving shell behind, but they wanted the spirit of Ayla to go, and go quickly.
Ayla watched the familiar people around her. They moved away, began doing routine tasks, but there was a strain. Creb and Iza went into the cave. Ayla got up and followed. No one tried to stop her, only Uba was kept away. Children were thought to have extra protection, but no one wanted to push it too far. Iza gathered all of Ayla’s belongings, including her sleeping furs and the stuffing of dried grass that lined the scooped-out hollow in the ground, and carried them outside the cave. Creb went with her, stopping to get a burning brand from the cave fire. The woman dumped everything beside an unlit fireplace Ayla hadn’t noticed before and hurried back into the cave while Creb started a fire. He made silent gestures over her things and the fire, most of them unfamiliar to the girl.
With growing dismay, Ayla watched Creb start to feed each of her things to the hot flames. There would be no burial ceremony for her; that was part of the punishment, part of the curse. But all traces of her had to be destroyed, there must be nothing left that might hold her back. She watched her digging stick catch fire, then her collecting basket, the padding of dried grass, clothing, everything went into the fire. She saw Creb’s hand tremble as he reached for her fur wrap. He clutched it to his breast for a moment, then threw it on the fire. Ayla’s eyes overflowed.
“Creb, I love you,” she gestured. He didn’t seem to see. With a sinking feeling of horror, she watched him pick up her medicine bag, the one Iza had made for her just before the ill-fated mammoth hunt, and add it to the smoking flames.
“No. Creb, no! Not my medicine bag,” she pleaded. It was too late, it was already burning.
Ayla could stand no more. She tore blindly down the slope and into the forest, sobbing her heartache and desolation. She didn’t see where she was going and she didn’t care. Branches reached out to block her way, but she plowed through them, tearing gashes in her arms and legs. She splashed through icy cold water, but didn’t notice her soaked feet or feel them getting numb until she stumbled over a log and sprawled on the ground. She lay on the cold damp earth wishing death would hurry and relieve her of her misery. She had nothing. No family, no clan, no reason to live. She was dead, they said she was dead.
The girl was close to having her wish granted. Lost in her private world of misery and fear, she hadn’t eaten or drunk since her return more than two days before. She wore no warm clothing, her feet ached with cold. She was weak and dehydrated, an easy target for a quick death from exposure. But there was something inside her stronger than her death wish, the same thing that had kept her going before, when a devastating earthquake left the five-year-old girl bereft of love and family and security. An indomitable will to live, a stubborn survival instinct would not let her quit while she still drew breath, still had life to go on.
The stop had rested her. Bleeding from scratches and shivering with cold, she sat up. Her face had landed on damp leaves and she licked her lips, her tongue reaching for the moisture. She was thirsty. She couldn’t remember ever being so thirsty in her life. The gurgle of water nearby brought her to her feet. After a long, satisfying drink of cold water, she pushed on. She was shivering so hard her teeth chattered and it hurt to walk on her cold, aching feet. She was light-headed and disconcerted. Her activity warmed her a little, but her lowered body temperature was having its effects.
She didn’t know for sure where she was, she had no destination in mind, but her feet followed a route traveled many times before, etched in her brain by repetition. Time had no meaning for her, she didn’t know how long she had been walking. She climbed up along the base of a steep wall beyond a misty waterfall and became conscious of a familiar feeling to the area. Walking out of a sparse coniferous forest intermixed with dwarfed birch and willow, she found herself at her high secluded meadow.
She wondered how long it had been since she visited the place. She had seldom gone there after she started hunting except for the time she taught herself the double-stone technique. It had always been a place for practicing, not hunting. Had she been there at all that summer? She couldn’t recall. Pushing aside the thick, tangled branches that hid it even without foliage, Ayla went into her small cave.
It seemed smaller than she remembered. There’s the old sleeping fur, she said to herself, thinking back to the time she had brought it up so long before. Some ground squirrels had made a nest in it, but when she took it outside and shook it out, she saw it was not too badly damaged—a little stiff with age, but the dry cave had preserved it. She wrapped it around herself, grateful for its warmth, and went back into the cave.
There was a leather hide, an old cloak she had brought to the cave to stuff grass under for a pad. I wonder if that knife is still here? she thought. The shelf is down, but it ought to be somewhere near it. There it is! Ayla picked the flint blade out of the dirt, brushed it off, and began to cut up the old leather cloak. She removed her wet foot coverings and threaded the thongs through holes cut into the circles she had cut, then wrapped her feet with dry ones, stuffing them with insulating sedge grass from under the cloak. She spread the wet ones out to dry and began to take stock.
I need a fire, she thought. The dry grass will make good tinder. She shoved it together and piled it next to a wall. The shelf is dry; I can shave it for kindling and use it as a base to start a fire, too. I need a stick to twirl against it. There’s my birchbark drinking cup. I could use that for a fire, too. No, I’ll save it for water. This basket is all chewed up, she thought, looking inside. What’s this? My old sling. I didn’t know I left it here. I guess I just made another one. She held the sling up. It’s too small, and the mice got to it; I’ll need a new one. She stopped and stared at the strip of leather in her hands.
I was curse
d. Because of this, I was cursed. I’m dead. How can I be thinking about fires and slings? I’m dead. But I don’t feel dead—I feel cold and hungry. Can a dead person feel cold and hungry? What does dead feel like? Is my spirit in the next world? I don’t even know what my spirit is. I’ve never seen a spirit. Creb says no one can see spirits, but he can talk to them. Why couldn’t Creb see me? Why couldn’t anyone see me? I must be dead. Then why am I thinking about fires and slings? Because I’m hungry!
Should I use a sling to get something to eat? Why not? I’ve already been cursed, what more can they do to me? But this one’s no good; what can I use to make a new one? The cloak? No, it’s too stiff, it’s been out here too long. I need soft pliable leather. She looked around the cave. I can’t even kill anything to make a sling if I don’t have one. Where can I find soft leather? She racked her brain, then sat down in despair.
She looked down at her hands in her lap, then suddenly noticed what her hands were resting on. My wrap! My wrap is soft and pliable. I can cut a piece out of it. She brightened and started looking around the cave with enthusiasm again. Here’s an old digging stick; I don’t remember leaving one here. And some dishes. That’s right, I did bring some shells up. I am hungry, I wish there was something to eat around here. Wait! There is! I didn’t collect the nuts this year, they should be all over the ground outside.
She hadn’t realized it yet, but Ayla had begun to live again. She gathered the nuts, brought them into the cave, and ate as many as her stomach, shrunken from lack of food, could hold. Then she took off the old fur and her wrap and cut a piece from it for a sling. The strip didn’t have the bulging pocket to hold the stones, but she thought it would work.
She had never hunted animals for food before, and the rabbit was quick, but not quick enough. She thought she remembered passing a beaver dam. She got the aquatic animal just as it was diving for the water. On her way back, she saw a small, gray, chalky boulder near the creek. That’s flint! I know that’s flint. She picked up the nodule and hauled it back with her, too. She took the rabbit and beaver inside the cave and went back out to gather wood and find a hammerstone.
I need a fire stick, she thought. It should be good and dry; this wood is a little damp. She noticed her old digging stick. That should work, she said to herself. It was a little difficult to start a fire by herself; she was used to alternating the downward-pressured twirling motion with another woman to keep it spinning. After intense effort and concentration, a smoldering chunk of the fire platform slipped onto the bed of dry tinder. She blew at it carefully and was rewarded with small, licking flames. She added the dry kindling piece by piece, then larger pieces of the old shelf. When the fire was firmly established, she laid on the larger chunks of wood she had collected, and a cheerful fire warmed the small cave.
I’m going to have to make a cooking pot, she thought as she spitted the skinned rabbit and laid the beaver tail on top to add its fatty richness to the lean meat. I’m going to need a new digging stick and a collecting basket. Creb burned my collecting basket. He burned everything, even my medicine bag. Why did he have to burn my medicine bag? Tears began to well up and soon spilled down her cheeks. Iza said I was dead. I begged her to look at me, but she just said I was dead. Why couldn’t she see me? I was standing right there, right in front of her. The girl cried for a while, then sat up straight and wiped away her tears. If I’m going to make a new digging stick, I’ll need a hand-axe, she said to herself firmly.
While the rabbit was cooking, she knapped herself a hand-axe the way she had learned by watching Droog, and with it chopped down a green branch to make a digging stick. Then she gathered more wood and stacked it inside the cave. She could hardly wait for the meat to cook—the smell made her mouth water and her empty stomach growl. She was sure nothing had ever tasted so good when she took her first bite.
It was dark by the time she was through, and Ayla was glad for the fire. She banked it to be sure it wouldn’t die before morning and lay down wrapped in the old fur, but sleep eluded her. She stared at the flames while the dismal events of the day marched through her mind in woeful procession, not realizing when tears started to flow. She was afraid, but more, she was lonely. She hadn’t spent a night alone since Iza found her. Finally exhaustion closed her eyes, but her sleep was disturbed by bad dreams. She called out for Iza, and she called out for another woman in a language all but forgotten. But there was no one to comfort the desperately, achingly lonely girl.
Ayla’s days were busy, filled with activity to ensure her survival. She was no longer the inexperienced, unknowledgeable child she was at five. During the years with the clan, she had had to work hard, but she had learned in the process. She wove tight waterproof baskets to carry water and for cooking, and made herself a new collecting basket. She cured the skins of animals she hunted and made rabbit-fur linings for the insides of her foot coverings, leggings wrapped and tied with cord, and hand coverings made in the style of foot coverings—circular pieces that tied at the wrist in a pouch, but with slits cut in the palms for thumbs. She made tools from flint and collected grass to make her bed softer.
The meadow grasses supplied food, too. They were top-heavy with seeds and grains. In the immediate vicinity were also nuts, high-bush cranberries, bearberries, hard small apples, starchy potatolike roots, and edible ferns. She was pleased to find milk vetch, the nonpoisonous variety of the plant whose green pods held rows of small round legumes, and she even collected the tiny hard seeds from dried pigweed to grind and add to grains that she cooked into mush. Her environment supplied her needs.
She decided shortly after she arrived that she needed a new fur wrap. Winter held back the worst of its weather, but it was cold and she knew the snow would not be long in coming. She thought first of a lynx fur; the lynx held a special meaning for her. But its meat would be inedible, at least to her taste, and food was as important to her as fur. She had little trouble taking care of her immediate needs as long as she was able to hunt, but she needed to lay in a store for the time ahead when snow would keep her in the cave. Food was now her reason for hunting.
She hated the thought of killing one of the gentle shy creatures that had shared her retreat for so long, and she wasn’t sure if a deer could be killed with a sling. She was surprised they still used the high pasture when she saw the small herd, but decided she had to take advantage of the opportunity before they moved to lower elevations. A stone hurled with force at close range felled a doe, and a hard blow with a wooden club finished it off.
The fur was thick and soft—nature had prepared the animal for the cold winter—and venison stew made a welcome supper. When the smell of fresh meat brought a bad-tempered wolverine, a swift stone killed it and reminded her the first animal she ever killed was a wolverine who had been stealing from the clan. Wolverines were good for something, she had told Oga. Frost from breathing did not build up on the fur of a wolverine; their pelts always made the best hoods. This time I will make a hood from his pelt, she thought, dragging the slain scavenger back to the cave.
She built fires in a circle around her lines of drying meat to keep other carnivores away and to hasten the process of drying, and she rather liked the taste the smoke gave to the meat. She dug a hole in the rear of her cave, shallow, since the layer of earth was not deep at the back of the small crack in the mountain, and lined it with stones from the stream. After her meat was stored, she covered her cache with heavy rocks.
Her new fur, cured while the meat was drying, had a smoky odor, too, but it was warm and, with the old one, made her bed comfortable. The deer provided a waterbag, too, from its well-washed, waterproof stomach, and sinew for cord, and fat from the lump above its tail where the animal stored its winter supply. She worried about snow every day while her meat was drying, and slept outside within her circle of fires to keep them fed during the night. She felt relieved and much more secure once it was safely stashed away.
When a heavily overcast sky hid the moon, she became conc
erned about the passage of time. She remembered exactly what Brun had said: “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.” She didn’t know if she was in the “otherworld,” but more than anything, she wanted to go back. She wasn’t really sure if she could, didn’t know if they would see her if she went back, but Brun said she could, and she clung to the leader’s words. Only how would she know when she could return if the clouds covered the moon?
She remembered a time long before when Creb showed her how to make notches on a stick. She guessed that the collection of notched sticks he kept in a part of the hearth—off limits for the other members of his household—were tallies of the times between significant events. Once, out of curiosity, she decided to keep track of something like he did, and since the moon moved through repetitive cycles, she decided it would be fun to see how many notches it would take to complete one cycle. When Creb found out, he scolded her severely. The reprimand reinforced her memory of the occasion as well as warning her not to do it again. She worried a whole day how she would ever know when she could return to the cave before she remembered that time and decided to notch a stick every night. No matter how she tried to control them, tears came to her eyes every time she made a mark.
Tears came to her eyes often. Small things triggered memories of love and warmth. A startled rabbit bounding across her path reminded her of long shambling walks with Creb. She loved his craggy, one-eyed, scarred old face. The thought of it filled her eyes to overflowing. Seeing a plant she had gathered for Iza, Ayla would burst into sobs remembering the woman explaining how it was used; and a freshet of new tears came when she recalled Creb burning her medicine bag. Nights were the worst.
She was accustomed to being alone during the day from her years of roaming the countryside gathering plants or hunting, but she had never been away from people at night. Sitting alone in her small cave staring at the fire and its glowing reflection dancing against the wall, she cried for the companionship of those she loved. In some ways, she missed Uba most of all. Often she hugged her fur to her chest and rocked back and forth, humming softly under her breath as she had done so often with Uba. Her environment supplied her physical needs but not her human needs.