by Jean M. Auel
“Wait!” Ayla suddenly interrupted. “I forgot something.” She ran back to the hearth and searched for her medicine bag, and carefully withdrew the two halves of the ancient medicine bowl. She rushed back, then laid the pieces in the grave beside Iza’s body.
“I thought she might want to take it with her, now that it can’t be used anymore.”
Mog-ur nodded approval. It was fitting, more fitting than anyone knew; then he resumed his formal gestures. After the last stone had been piled on, the women of the clan began to lay wood around and on top of the stone cairn. An ember from the cave fire was used to start the cooking fire for Iza’s burial feast. The food was cooked on top of her grave, and the fire would be kept burning for seven days. The heat from the bonfire would drive all the moisture from the body, desiccating it, mummifying it, and rendering it odorless.
As the flames took hold, Mog-ur began a last, eloquent lament in motions that stirred the soul of every member of the clan. He spoke to the world of the spirits of their love for the medicine woman who had cared for them, watched over them, helped them through sickness and pain as mysterious to them as death. They were ritual gestures, repeated in essentially the same form for every funeral, and some of the motions were used primarily during the men’s ceremonies and were unfamiliar to the women, yet the meaning was conveyed. Though the outward form was conventional, the fervor and conviction and ineffable sorrow of the great holy man imbued the formalized gestures with significance far beyond mere form.
Dry-eyed, Ayla gazed over the dancing fire at the flowing graceful movements of the crippled, one-armed man, feeling the intensity of his emotions as if they were her own. Mog-ur was expressing her pain and she identified with him entirely, as though he had reached inside her and spoke with her brain, felt with her heart. She was not the only one who felt his sorrow as her own. Ebra began to keen her grief, then the other women. Uba, holding Durc in her arms, felt a high-pitched, wordless wail rise in her throat and with a burst of relief joined in the sympathetic lament. Ayla stared vacantly ahead, sunk too far into the depths of her misery to express it. She couldn’t even find the release of tears.
She didn’t know how long she stared into the mesmerizing flames with unseeing eyes. Ebra had to shake her before Ayla responded, then she turned blank eyes toward the leader’s mate.
“Ayla, have something to eat. This is the last feast we will ever share with Iza.”
Ayla took the wooden plate of food, automatically put a piece of meat in her mouth, and almost gagged when she tried to swallow it. Suddenly she jumped up and ran from the cave. Blindly, she stumbled through brush and over rocks. At first her feet started to take her along a familiar route to a high mountain meadow and a small cave that had offered shelter and security before. But she veered away. Ever since she had shown the place to Brun, it didn’t seem to be hers anymore, and her last stay held too many painful memories. She climbed instead to the top of the bluff that protected their cave from the north winds screaming down the mountain in winter, and deflected the strong winds of fall.
Buffeted by gusts, Ayla fell to her knees at the top, and there, alone with her unbearable grief, she yielded to her anguish in a plaintive chanting wail as she rocked and rocked to the rhythm of her aching heart. Creb hobbled out of the cave after her, saw her silhouetted against the sunset-painted clouds, and heard the thin, distant moan. As deep as his own grief was, he couldn’t understand her rejection of the solace of company in her misery, her withdrawal into herself. His usual perceptiveness was dulled by his own sorrow; he didn’t realize she was suffering from more than grief.
Guilt racked her soul. She blamed herself for Iza’s death. She had left a sick woman to go to a Clan Gathering; she was a medicine woman who had deserted someone in time of need, someone she loved. She blamed herself for Iza’s trek up the mountain to find a root to help her keep the baby she wanted so desperately, resulting in the near-fatal illness that weakened the woman. She felt guilty about the pain she had caused Creb when she unwittingly followed the lights to the small chamber deep in the cave of the mountains far to the east. More than grief and guilt, she was weak from lack of food and suffering from milk fever from her swollen, aching, unsuckled breasts. But even more than that, she was suffering from a depression Iza could have helped her with, if she had been there. For Ayla was a medicine woman, dedicated to easing pain and saving life, and Iza was her first patient who had died.
What Ayla needed most was her baby. She not only needed to nurse him, she needed the demands of caring for him to bring her back to reality, to make her understand that life goes on. But when she returned to the cave, Durc was asleep beside Uba. Creb had taken him to Oga to feed again. Ayla tossed and turned, unable to sleep, not even realizing that it was fever and pain that kept her awake. Her mind was turned too deeply inward, dwelling on her sorrow and guilt.
She was gone when Creb woke up. She had wandered out of the cave and climbed the bluff again. Creb could see her from a distance and watched her anxiously, but he couldn’t see her weakness, or her fever.
“Should I go after her?” Brun asked, as baffled as Creb by Ayla’s reaction.
“She seems to want to be alone. Maybe we should let her,” Creb answered.
He worried about her when he could no longer see her, and when she still hadn’t returned by evening, he asked Brun to look for her. Creb was sorry he hadn’t let Brun go after her sooner when he saw the leader carrying her back to the cave. Grief and depression had taken their toll, weakness and fever had done the rest. Uba and Ebra cared for the clan’s medicine woman. She was delirious, alternately shaking with chills and burning with fever. She cried out if her breasts were barely touched.
“She’s going to lose her milk,” Ebra said to the girl. “It’s too late for Durc to do any good now. The milk is caked, he can’t draw it out.”
“But Durc is too young to be weaned. What will happen to him? What will happen to her?”
It might not have been too late if Iza had been alive or if Ayla had been coherent. Even Uba knew there were poultices that might have helped, medicines that might have worked, but she was young and unsure of herself, and Ebra seemed so positive. By the time the fever passed, Ayla’s milk had dried up. She could no longer feed her own son.
“I will not have that deformed brat at my hearth, Oga! I will not have him brother to your sons!”
Broud was furious, shaking his fists, and Oga was cowering at his feet.
“But Broud, he’s just a baby. He’s got to nurse. Aga and Ika don’t have enough milk, it wouldn’t do any good for them to keep him. I have enough, I’ve always had too much milk. If he doesn’t eat, he’ll starve, Broud, he’ll die.”
“I don’t care if he dies. He should never have been allowed to live in the first place. He will not live at this hearth.”
Oga stopped shaking and stared at the man who was her mate. She didn’t really believe he would refuse to let her keep Ayla’s baby. She knew he would rant and rave and storm about it, but in the end, she was sure he would allow it. He couldn’t be that cruel, he couldn’t let a baby starve to death, no matter how much he hated Durc’s mother.
“Broud, Ayla saved Brac’s life, how can you let her son die?”
“Hasn’t she gotten enough for saving his life? She was allowed to live, she was even allowed to hunt. I don’t owe her anything.”
“She wasn’t allowed to live, she was cursed with death. She returned from the world of the spirits because her totem wanted her to, he protected her,” Oga protested.
“If she had been cursed properly, she wouldn’t have returned, and she would never have given birth to that brat. If her totem is so strong, why did she lose her milk? Everyone said her baby would be unlucky. What could be more unlucky than losing his mother’s milk? Now you want to bring his bad luck to this hearth. I will not allow it, Oga. That’s final!”
Oga sat back and looked up at Broud with calm deliberation.
“No, Broud,”
she motioned. “It’s not final.” She was no longer timorous. Broud’s expression turned to shocked surprise. “You can keep Durc from living at your hearth; that is your right and I can’t do anything about it. But you can’t keep me from nursing him. That is a woman’s right. A woman may nurse any baby she wants, and no man can keep her from it. Ayla saved my son’s life, and I will not let hers die. Durc will be brother to my sons whether you like it or not.”
Broud was stunned. His mate’s refusal to abide by his wishes was totally unexpected. Oga had never been insolent, never been disrespectful, never shown the least sign of disobedience. He could hardly believe it. Shock turned to fury.
“How dare you defy your mate, woman. I’ll make you leave this hearth!” he stormed.
“Then I will take my sons and leave, Broud. I will beg another man to take me. Maybe Mog-ur will allow me to live with him if no other man will have me. But I will nurse Ayla’s baby.”
His only answer was a sharp blow with a hard fist that knocked her flat. He was too filled with rage for any other reply. He started after her again, then turned on his heel. I will see about such blatant disrespect, he thought, as he stalked to Brun’s hearth.
“First she contaminates Iza, now her willfulness has spread to my mate!” Broud gesticulated the moment he stepped beyond the boundary stones. “I told Oga I would not have Ayla’s son, I told her I did not want that deformed boy as brother to her sons. Do you know what she said? She said she would nurse him anyway! She said I couldn’t stop her. She said he would be brother to her sons whether I liked it or not! Can you believe it? From Oga? From my mate?”
“She’s right, Broud,” Brun said with controlled calm. “You can’t stop her from nursing him. What baby a woman suckles is not a man’s concern, it has never been a man’s concern. He has more important things to worry about.”
Brun was not at all pleased at Broud’s violent objection. It was degrading for Broud to be so emotionally concerned in matters that were in a woman’s domain. And who else could do it? Durc was Clan, especially after the Bear Festival. And Clan always took care of their own. Even the woman who had come from another clan and never produced a single child was not left to starve after her mate died. She may have had no value, she may have been a burden, but as long as the clan had food, she was given enough to eat.
Broud could refuse to take Durc into his hearth. That imposed the responsibility of providing for him and training him along with Oga’s sons. Brun wasn’t happy about it, but it wasn’t unexpected. Everyone knew how he felt about Ayla and her son. But why should he object if his mate nursed the boy, they were all the same clan?
“Do you mean to tell me that Oga can be willfully disobedient and get away with it?” Broud raged.
“Why should you care, Broud? Do you want the child to die?” Brun asked. Broud flushed at the pointed question. “He is Clan, Broud. For all that his head is misshapen, he does not appear to be retarded. He will grow up to be a hunter. This is his clan. A mate has even been arranged for him, and you agreed. Why are you so emotional about your mate feeding someone else’s baby? Is it still Ayla that you’re emotional about? You are a man, Broud, whatever you command of her, she must obey. And she does obey you. Why do you compete with a woman? You belittle yourself. Or am I wrong? Are you a man, Broud? Are you man enough to lead this clan?”
“It’s just that I don’t want a deformed child to be brother to the sons of my mate,” Broud gestured lamely. It was a weak excuse, but he hadn’t missed the threat.
“Broud, what hunter has not saved the life of another? What man does not carry a piece of every other man’s spirit? What man is not brother to the rest? Does it matter if Durc is brother to your mate’s sons now, or after they all grow up? Why do you object?”
Broud had no answer, none that would be acceptable to the leader. He could not admit to his all-consuming hatred of Ayla. That would be admitting he wasn’t in control of his emotions, admitting he wasn’t man enough to be leader. He was sorry he had come to Brun. I should have remembered, he thought. He always takes her side. He was so proud of me at the Clan Gathering. Now, all because of her, he’s doubting me again.
“Well, I don’t care if Oga nurses him,” Broud motioned, “but I don’t want him at my hearth.” On that point he knew he was within his rights and would not give. “You may think he’s not retarded, but I’m not so sure. I don’t want to be responsible for his training. I still doubt that he’ll ever be a hunter.”
“That’s your choice, Broud. I assumed the responsibility for training him; I made that decision before I ever accepted him. But I did accept him. Durc is a member of this clan and he will be a hunter. I’ll make sure of it.”
Broud turned back toward his own hearth but saw Creb bringing Durc to Oga again and walked out of the cave instead. He did not give vent to his fury until he was sure he was well out of Brun’s sight. It’s all that old cripple’s fault, he said to himself, then tried to erase the thought from his mind, afraid that somehow the magician would know what he was thinking.
Broud was fearful of the spirits, perhaps more than any man in the clan, and his fear extended to the one who dwelt so intimately with them. After all, what could one hunter do against a whole array of incorporeal beings who could cause bad luck or sickness or death, and what could he do against the man who had the power to call them at will? Broud had recently returned from a Clan Gathering where many a night was spent with young men of other clans who tried to scare each other with tales of misfortune caused by mog-urs who had been crossed. Spears turned at the last moment preventing a kill, terrible illnesses that caused pain and suffering, gorings, maulings, all kinds of terrifying calamities were blamed on angry magicians. The horror stories were not so prevalent in his own clan, but still, The Mog-ur was the most powerful magician of all.
Though there had been times when the young man thought him more worthy of ridicule than respect, Mog-ur’s malformed body and horribly scarred, one-eyed face added to his stature. To those who did not know him, he seemed inhuman, perhaps part demon. Broud had capitalized on the fear of the other young men, enjoying their look of incredulous awe when he bragged that he did not fear The Great Mog-ur. But for all his swaggering, the stories had left their impression. The reverence of the Clan for the stumbling old man who couldn’t hunt made Broud more wary of his power.
Whenever he daydreamed of the time when he would be leader, he always thought of Goov as his mog-ur. Goov was too close in age, and too close a hunting companion, for Broud to view the future magician in the same light. He was sure he could cajole or coerce the acolyte into going along with his decisions, but he didn’t dream of taking on The Mog-ur.
As Broud walked through the woods near the cave, he made one firm decision. Never again would he give the leader cause to doubt him; never again would he put the destiny he was so close to realizing in jeopardy. But when I’m leader, I’ll make the decisions, he thought. She turned Brun against me, she even turned Oga against me, my own mate. When I’m leader, it won’t matter if Brun takes her side, he won’t be able to protect her anymore. Broud remembered every wrong she had done to him, every time she had stolen his glory, every imagined slight to his ego. He dwelt on them, relishing the thought of paying her back. He could wait. Someday, he said to himself, someday soon she will be sorry she ever came to live with this clan.
Broud wasn’t the only one who blamed the old cripple; Creb blamed himself for Ayla’s loss of mother’s milk. It made little difference—now—that it was his concern that had brought such disastrous results. He just hadn’t understood the way of a woman’s body, he had had too little experience with women. It wasn’t until his old age that he had ever come in close contact with a mother and baby. He didn’t realize that when a woman nursed another’s child, the favor was reciprocated more for her sake than to relieve any obligation. No one had ever told him; no one had to after it was too late.
He wondered why such a terrible calamity had happen
ed to her. Was it just that her child was unlucky? Creb looked for reasons, and in his guilty introspection he began to doubt his own motives. Was it really concern, or did he want to hurt her as she had unknowingly hurt him. Was he worthy of his great totem? Had The Mog-ur stooped to such petty revenge? If he was an example of their highest holy man, perhaps his people deserved to die. Creb’s conviction that his race was doomed, the death of Iza, and his guilt over the sorrow he had caused Ayla plunged him into a melancholy despondency. The most difficult test of Mog-ur’s life came near its end.
Ayla didn’t blame Creb, she blamed herself, but watching another woman nurse her son when she couldn’t was more than she could bear. Oga, Aga, and Ika had each come to her and told her they would nurse Durc for her, and she was grateful, but most often it was Uba who brought Durc to one of them and stayed to visit until he was through. With the loss of her milk, Ayla lost an important part of her son’s life. She still grieved for Iza and blamed herself for the woman’s death, and Creb had withdrawn so far into himself that she couldn’t reach him and was afraid to try. But every night when she took Durc to bed with her, she was grateful to Broud. His refusal to accept him meant her son wasn’t lost to her completely.
In the waning days of fall, Ayla took up her sling again as an excuse to go off alone. She had hunted so little the past year, her skill was rusty, but with practice, her accuracy and speed returned. Most days she left early and returned late, leaving Uba to care for Durc, and only regretted that winter was closing in on them so quickly. The exercise was good for her, but she had a problem to overcome. She hadn’t hunted much after she became a fully developed woman, and heavy breasts bobbing at every step annoyed her when she ran or jumped. She noticed that men wore a leather loincloth to protect their exposed and delicate organs, and she fashioned a band to hold her bosom in place, tied around her back. It made her more comfortable, and she ignored the curious sidewise glances cast at her when she put it on.