by Jean M. Auel
Around him the forest was a dense black mass, but it thinned on one side to bare the silhouette of individual trees against a deep lavender sky. Beyond them, the widened way of a path revealed reflected silver flashing sinuously from the smooth oily rolling of the Great Mother River. Nearby, light gleamed through cracks of a small, low, rectangular structure of wood. The young men climbed onto the roof, then down into the hut through a hole in the top using a log, leaning at an angle, with steps cut into it.
A fire had been built inside the hut in a central pit, and stones had been placed on top to heat. The walls stood back, making a bench of the ground, which was covered with planks sanded smooth with sandstone. As soon as everyone was in, the entrance hole at the top was loosely covered; smoke would escape through cracks. A glow of coals showed under the hot rocks, and soon Thonolan conceded that Markeno was right. He was no longer cold. Someone threw water on the stones and a billow of steam rose, making it even more difficult to see in the dim light.
“Did you get it, Markeno?” asked the man sitting beside him.
“Right here, Chalono.” He held up the waterbag of wine.
“Well, let’s have it. You’re a lucky man, Thonolan, Mating a woman who makes bilberry wine this good.” There was a chorus of agreement and laughter. Chalono passed the skin of wine, then, showing a square of leather tied into a pouch, he said with a sly grin, “I found something else.”
“I wondered why you weren’t around today,” one man remarked. “Are you sure they’re the right kind?”
“Don’t worry, Rondo. I know mushrooms. At least I know these mushrooms,” Chalono averred.
“You should. You pick them every chance you get.” There was more laughter at the pointed dig.
“Maybe he wants to be Shamud, Tarluno,” Rondo added derisively.
“Those aren’t the Shamud’s mushrooms, are they?” Markeno asked. “Those red ones with the white spots can be deadly if you don’t prepare them right.”
“No, these are nice safe little mushrooms that just make you feel good. I don’t like playing around with the Shamud’s. I don’t want a woman inside me …” Chalono said, then sniggering, “I’d rather get inside a woman.”
“Who’s got the wine?” Tarluno asked.
“I gave it to Jondalar.”
“Get it away from him. He’s big enough to drink it all!”
“I gave it to Chalono,” Jondalar said.
“I haven’t seen any of those mushrooms—are you going to keep the wine and the mushrooms, too?” Rondo asked.
“Don’t rush me. I’ve been trying to get this bag open. Here, Thonolan, you’re the guest of honor. You get first pick.”
“Markeno, is it true the Mamutoi make a drink out of a plant that’s better than wine or mushrooms?” Tarluno asked.
“I don’t know about better, but I’ve only had it once.”
“How about more steam?” Rondo said, splashing a cup of water on the rocks below, assuming everyone’s assent.
“Some people, to west, put in steam something,” Jondalar commented.
“And one Cave breathe smoke from plant. They let you try, but they not tell what it is,” Thonolan added.
“You two must have tried almost everything … in all your traveling,” Chalono said. “That’s what I’d like to do, try everything there is.”
“I hear flatheads drink something …” Tarluno volunteered.
“They’re animals—they’ll drink anything,” Chalono said.
“Isn’t that what you just said you wanted to do?” Rondo jeered. An outburst of laughter followed.
Chalono noticed Rondo’s comments often provoked laughter—sometimes at his expense. Not to be outdone, he began a story that had been known to cause laughter before. “You know the one about the old man who was so blind, he caught a flathead female and thought it was a woman …”
“Yeah, his pizzle fell off. That’s disgusting, Chalono,” Rondo said. “And what man would mistake a flathead for a woman?”
“Some do not mistake. Do on purpose,” Thonolan said. “Men from Cave, far to west, take Pleasures with flathead females, make trouble for Caves.”
“You’re joking!”
“It no joke. Whole pack of flatheads surround us,” Jondalar confirmed. “They angry. Later we hear some men take flathead women, cause trouble.”
“How did you get away?”
“They let,” Jondalar said. “Leader of pack, he smart. Flatheads more smart people think.”
“I heard of a man who got a flathead female on a dare,” Chalono said.
“Who? You?” Rondo sneered. “You said you wanted to try everything.”
Chalono tried to defend himself, but the laughter drowned him out. When it died down, he tried again. “I didn’t mean that. I was talking about mushrooms and wine and such when I said I wanted to try everything.” He was feeling some effects and becoming a bit thick-tongued. “But a lot of boys talk about flathead females, before they know what women are. I heard of one who took a flathead on a dare, or said he did.”
“Boys will talk about anything,” Markeno said.
“What do you think girls talk about?” Tarluno asked.
“Maybe they talk about flathead males,” Chalono said.
“I don’t want to listen to this anymore,” Rondo said.
“You did your share of talking about it when we were younger, Rondo,” Chalono said, beginning to take offense.
“Well, I’ve grown up. I wish you would. I’m tired of your disgusting remarks.”
Chalono was insulted, and a little drunk. If he was going to be accused of being disgusting, he’d really give them something disgusting. “Is that so, Rondo? Well, I heard of a woman who took her Pleasure with a flathead, and the Mother gave her a baby of mixed spirits …”
“Eeeuch!” Rondo curled his lip and shuddered with repugnance. “Chalono, that’s not anything to joke about. Who asked him to this party? Get him out of here. I feel like I’ve just had filth thrown in my face. I don’t mind a little joking around, but he’s gone too far!”
“Rondo’s right,” Tarluno said. “Why don’t you leave, Chalono?”
“No,” Jondalar said. “Cold out, dark. Not make leave. True, babies of mix spirits not for joke, but why everyone know of them?”
“Half-animal, half-human abominations!” Rondo mumbled. “I don’t want to talk about them. It’s too hot in here. I’m getting out before I get sick!”
“This is supposed to be Thonolan’s party to relax,” Markeno said. “Why don’t we all go out and take a swim, then come back and start all over again. There’s still plenty of Jetamio’s wine left. I didn’t tell you, but I brought two waterbags of it.”
“I don’t think the stones are hot enough, Carlono,” Markeno said. There was an undercurrent of tension in his voice.
“It’s not good to let the water stand in the boat too long. We don’t want the wood to swell, only to soften enough to give. Thonolan, are the struts close by so they’ll be ready when we need them?” Carlono asked with a worried frown.
“They here,” he replied, indicating the poles of alder trunks, cut to length, on the ground near the large dugout filled with water.
“We’d better start, Markeno, and hope the stones are hot.”
Jondalar was still amazed at the transformation, though he had watched it take shape. The oak bole was no longer a log. The inside had been gouged out and smoothed, and the exterior had the sleek lines of a long canoe. The thickness of the shell was no more than the length of a man’s knuckle, except for the solid stem and stern. He had watched Carlono shave off a skin of wood, whose thickness was no more than that of a twig, with a chisel-shaped stone adze to bring the watercraft to its final dimension. After trying it himself, Jondalar was even more astounded at the skill and dexterity of the man. The boat tapered to a sharp cutwater at the prow, which extended forward. It had a slightly flattened bottom, a less pronounced tapering stern, and it was very long in proport
ion to its width.
The four of them quickly transferred the cobbles that had been heating in the large fireplace to the water-filled boat, causing the water to steam and boil. The process was no different from heating stones to boil water for tea in the trough near the lean-to, but on a larger scale. And the purpose was different. The heat and steam were not to cook anything, but to reshape the container.
Markeno and Carlono, facing each other across the boat at the midsection, were already testing the flexibility of the hull, pulling carefully to widen the craft, yet not crack the wood. All the hard work of digging out and shaping the boat would have been for nothing if it cracked in expanding. It was a tense moment. As the middle was pulled apart, Thonolan and Jondalar were ready with the longest strut, and when it was wide enough they fitted the brace in crosswise, and held their breaths. It seemed to hold.
Once the center strut was in, proportionally shorter ones were worked into place along the length of the boat. They bailed out the hot water until the four men could manage the weight, took out the rocks and tipped the canoe to pour out the rest of the water, then set the boat between blocks to dry.
The men breathed easier as they stood back to look and admire. The boat was close to fifty feet long, and more than eight feet across at the midsection, but the expansion had altered the lines in another important way. As the middle was widened, the fore and aft sections had lifted, giving the craft a graceful upward curve toward the ends. The results of the expansion were not only a broader beam for greater stability and capacity, but a raised bow and stern that would clear the water to take waves or rough water more easily.
“Now she’s a lazy man’s boat,” Carlono said as they walked to another area of the clearing.
“Lazy man!” Thonolan exclaimed, thinking of the hard work.
Carlono smiled at the expected response. “There’s a long story about a lazy man with a nagging mate who left his boat out all winter. When he found it again, it was full of water, and the ice and snow had caused it to expand. Everyone thought it was ruined, but it was the only boat he had. When it dried out, he put it in the water and discovered how much better it handled. Afterward, according to the story, everyone made them that way.”
“It’s a funny story if it’s told right,” Markeno said.
“And there may be some truth in it,” Carlono added. “If we were making a small boat, we’d be done except for fittings,” he said as they approached a group of people who were boring holes along the edges of planks with bone drills. It was a tedious, difficult job, but many hands made the job go faster, and socializing eased the boredom.
“And I’d be that much closer to mating,” Thonolan said, noticing Jetamio among them.
“You have smiles on your faces. That must mean it stretched all right,” the young woman said to Carlono, though her eyes quickly sought Thonolan.
“We’ll know better when it dries,” Carlono said, careful not to tempt fate. “How are the strakes coming?”
“They’re finished. We’re working on house planks now,” an older woman replied. She resembled Carlono, in her way, as much as Markeno, especially when she smiled. “A young couple needs more than a boat. There is more to life, Brother dear.”
“Your brother is as anxious to get them mated as you are, Carolio,” Barono said, smiling as the two young people transfixed each other with lovelorn smiles, though they said not a word. “But what good is a house without a boat?”
Carolio gave him an aggrieved stare. It was a longstanding Ramudoi aphorism, meant to be witty, that had become tiresome with the retelling.
“Ahh!” Barono exclaimed. “It broke again!”
“He’s clumsy today,” Carolio said. “That’s the third drill he’s broken. I think he’s trying to get out of boring holes.”
“Don’t be so hard on your mate,” Carlono said. “Everyone breaks drills. It can’t be helped.”
“She’s right about one thing. Boring holes. I can’t think of anything more boring,” Barono said, with a wide grin at everyone’s groan.
“He thinks he’s funny. What can be worse than a mate who thinks he’s funny?” Carolio appealed to the general company. Everyone smiled. They knew the banter only masked great affection.
“If you have spare drill, I try make holes,” Jondalar said.
“Is there something wrong with this young man? No one wants to drill holes,” Barono said, but he quickly got up.
“Jondalar has taken quite an interest in boat making,” Carlono said. “He’s tried his hand at everything.”
“We may make a Ramudoi out of him yet!” Barono said. “I always thought he was an intelligent young man. I’m not so sure about the other one, though,” he added, smiling at Thonolan, who hadn’t paid attention to anything except Jetamio. “I think a tree could fall on him and he wouldn’t know it. Don’t we have something worthwhile for him to do?”
“He could gather wood for the steam box, or strip willow withes for sewing the planks,” Carlono said. “As soon as the dugout is dry and we get holes drilled around the hull, we’ll be ready to bend the planks to fit around it. How long do you think it will take to finish her, Barono? We should let the Shamud know, so a day can be decided for the mating. Dolando will need to send messengers to other Caves.”
“What else needs to be done?” Barono asked, as they started toward an area where sturdy posts were sunk into the ground.
“The prow and stern posts still have to be scarfed on, and … are you coming, Thonolan?” Markeno said.
“Wha—! Oh … yes, coming.”
After they left, Jondalar picked up a bone drill set in an antler handle and watched Carolio use one like it. “Why holes?” he asked, when he had made a few.
Carlono’s twin sister was as preoccupied with boats as her brother—for all the teasing—and as much an expert in fastenings and fittings as he was in gouging and shaping. She started to explain, then got up and led Jondalar to another work area where a boat was partially dismantled.
Unlike a raft, which depended upon the buoyancy of its structural materials to float, the principle of the Sharamudoi watercraft was to enclose a pocket of air within a wooden shell. It was a significant innovation allowing greater maneuverability and the capability of transporting much heavier loads. The planks, which were used to extend the basic dugout into a larger boat, were bent to fit the curved hull using heat and steam, and then literally sewn on, usually with willow through predrilled holes, and pegged to solid prow and stern posts. Supports, placed at intervals along both sides, were added later for reinforcement and to attach seats.
Done well, the result was a waterproof shell which could resist the tensions and stresses of hard use for several years. Eventually, though, wear and deterioration of the willow fibers required the boats to be completely torn down and rebuilt. Weakened planks were replaced then, too, which lengthened the effective life of the boats considerably.
“See … where the strakes have been removed,” Carolio said, pointing out the dismantled boat to Jondalar, “there are holes along the top edge of the dugout.” She showed him a plank with a curve that fit the shell. “This was the first strake. The holes along the thinner edge match the base. See, it was overlapped like this, and sewn to the top of the dugout. Then the top plank was sewn to this one.”
They walked around to the other side which hadn’t been dismantled yet. Carolio indicated the frayed and broken fiber in some of the holes. “This boat was overdue for refitting, but you can see how the strakes overlap. For small boats, for one or two people, you don’t need sides, just the dugout. They’re harder to handle in rough water, though. They can get out of control before you know it.”
“Someday I like learn,” Jondalar said. Then, noticing the curved strake, he asked, “How you bend plank?”
“With steam and tension, like the base you expanded. The posts over there, where Carlono and your brother are, are for the guy lines to hold the strakes in place while they are sewn on. I
t doesn’t take long with everyone working together, once the holes are drilled. Making the holes is a bigger problem. We sharpen the bone drills, but they break so easily.”
Toward evening, when they were all trooping back up to the high terrace, Thonolan noticed that his brother seemed unusually quiet, “What are you thinking about, Jondalar?”
“Making boats. There’s a lot more to it than I ever imagined. I’ve never heard of boats like these before, or seen anyone as skilled on the water as the Ramudoi. I think the youngsters are more comfortable in their small boats than they are walking. And they’re so skilled with their tools …” Thonolan saw his brother’s eyes light up with enthusiasm. “I’ve been examining them. I think if I could detach a large spall from the working edge of that adze Carlono was using, it would leave a smooth concave inner face, and make it much easier to use. And I’m sure I could make a burin out of flint that would bore those holes faster.”
“So that’s it! For a while there I thought you were really interested in boat making, Big Brother. I should have known. It’s not the boats, it’s the tools they use to make them. Jondalar, you’ll always be a toolmaker at heart.”
Jondalar smiled, realizing Thonolan was right. The boatbuilding process was interesting, but it was the tools that had captured his imagination. There were adequate flint knappers in the group, but no one who had made it his or her specialty. No one who could see how a few modifications could make the tools more effective. He had always taken a keen delight in making tools suited to a task, and his technically creative mind was already envisioning possibilities to improve those the Sharamudoi used. And it might be a way he could begin to repay, with his unique skill and knowledge, these people to whom he owed so much.
“Mother! Jondalar! More people just came! There are already so many tents, I don’t know where they’ll find room,” Darvo shouted as he raced into the shelter. He dashed out again; he had only come to impart the news. He couldn’t possibly stay in—the activities outside were far too exciting.