The Earth's Children Series 6-Book Bundle

by Jean M. Auel

  There was no real difference between west and east, except for a slightly rougher terrain, and she was far less familiar with the west. She always knew that when she decided to leave the valley she would go west. She turned around, crossed the stream, then hiked the long valley back to the cave.

  It was nearly dark when she arrived, and Baby had not returned yet. The fire was out, and the cave was cold and lonely. It seemed emptier now than it had when she first made it her home. She lit a fire, boiled some water and made tea, but didn’t feel like cooking. She took a piece of dried meat and some raisined cherries and sat on her bed. It had been a long time since she was alone in her cave. She went to the place where her old carrying basket stood and rummaged around in the bottom until she found Durc’s carrying cloak. Bunching it up, she crammed it to her stomach and watched the fire. When she lay down, she wrapped it around her.

  Her sleep was disturbed by dreams. She dreamed of Durc and Ura, grown up and mated. She dreamed of Whinney, in a different place with a bay colt. She woke once in a sweat of fright. Not until she was fully awake did she understand that she had had her recurring nightmare of rumbling earth and terror. Why did she have that dream? She got up and stirred the fire, then warmed her tea and sipped it. Baby still wasn’t back. She picked up Durc’s cloak, and recalled again Oda’s story about the man of the Others who had forced her. Oda said he looked like me. A man like me, how would one look?

  Ayla tried to visualize a man like her. She tried to recall her features as she had seen them reflected in the pool, but all she could remember was her hair framing her face. She wore it long then, not tied up in many braids to keep it out of the way. It was yellow, like Whinney’s coat, but a richer, more golden color.

  But every time she thought of a man’s face, she saw Broud, with a gloating sneer. She could not imagine the face of a man of the Others. Her eyes grew tired and she lay down again. She dreamed of Whinney and a bay stallion. And then of a man. His features were vague, in a shadow. Only one thing was clear. He had yellow hair.

  15

  “You’re doing fine, Jondalar! We’ll make a river man out of you yet!” Carlono said. “In the big boats, it doesn’t matter so much if you miss a stroke. The worst you can do is throw off the rhythm since you are not the only rower. In small boats, like this, control is important. To miss a stroke can be dangerous, or fatal. Always be aware of the river—never forget how unpredictable she can be. She’s deep here, so she looks calm. But you only have to dip your paddle in to feel the power in her current. It’s a hard current to fight—you have to work with it.”

  Carlono kept up the running commentary as he and Jondalar maneuvered the small two-man dugout near the Ramudoi dock. Jondalar was only half listening, concentrating instead on handling the paddle properly so the boat he was guiding would go where he wanted it to, but he was understanding at the level of his muscles the meaning of the words.

  “You may think it’s easier to go downstream because you are not fighting her carrent, but that’s the problem. When you are working against the flow, you have to keep your mind on the boat and the river all the time. You know if you let up you’ll lose all you’ve gained. And you can see anything coming soon enough to avoid it.

  “Going with her, it’s too easy to slack up, let your mind wander and let the river take you. There are rocks midstream whose roots are deeper than the river. The current can throw you at them before you know it, or some water-soaked log lying low in the water will hit you. ‘Never turn your back on the Mother.’ That’s the one rule never to forget. She’s full of surprises. Just when you think you know what to expect and take her for granted, she’ll do the unexpected.”

  The older man sat back and pulled his oar out of the water. He scrutinized Jondalar thoughtfully, noting his concentration. His blond hair was pulled back and tied with a thong at the back of his neck, a good precaution. He had adopted the clothing of the Ramudoi, which had been adapted from that of the Shamudoi to suit life near the river.

  “Why don’t you head back to the dock and let me out, Jondalar. I think it’s time you tried it alone. There’s a difference when it’s just you and the river.”

  “Do you think I’m ready?”

  “For one not born to it, you’ve learned fast.”

  Jondalar had been anxious to test himself on the river alone. Ramudoi boys usually had their own dugouts before they were men. He had long since proved himself among the Zelandonii. When he was not much older than Darvo, and hadn’t even learned his trade or reached his full growth, he had killed his first deer. Now, he could throw a spear harder and farther than most men, but, though he could hunt the plains, he did not quite feel an equal here. No river man could call himself a man until he had harpooned one of the great sturgeon, and no Shamudoi of the land, until he had hunted his own chamois in the mountains.

  He had decided he would not mate Serenio until he had proved to himself that he could be both a Shamudoi and a Ramudoi. Dolando had tried to convince him that it wasn’t necessary for him to do either before mating; no one had any doubts. If anyone had needed proof, the rhino hunt had been sufficient. Jondalar had learned that none of the others had ever hunted a rhino before. The plains were not their usual hunting ground.

  Jondalar didn’t try to rationalize why he felt he had to be better than everyone else, though he had never before felt obliged to outdo other men in hunting skills. His strong interest, and the only skill in which he ever wanted to excel, was flint knapping. And his feeling wasn’t competitive. He derived personal satisfaction from perfecting his techniques. The Shamud spoke later to Dolando privately and told him the tall Zelandonii needed to work out his own acceptance.

  Serenio and he had lived together so long that he felt he should formalize his tie. She was almost his mate. Most people thought of them in those terms. He treated her with consideration and affection, and to Darvo he was the man of the hearth. But after the evening when Tholie and Shamio were burned, one thing or another always seemed to interfere, and the mood was never quite right. It was easy to settle into the same routine with her. Did it really matter? he asked himself.

  Serenio didn’t push—she still made no demands on him—and maintained her defensive distance. But recently, he had surprised her staring at him with a haunting look that came from the depths of her soul. He was the one who always felt disconcerted and turned away first. He decided to set himself the task of proving he could be a full Sharamudoi man, and he began letting his intentions be known. It was taken by some to be an announcement of Promise, though no Promise Feast was held.

  “Don’t go too far this time,” Carlono said, getting out of the small vessel. “Give yourself a chance to get accustomed to handling it alone.”

  “I’ll take the harpoon, though. It wouldn’t hurt to get used to throwing it while I’m at it,” Jondalar said, reaching for the weapon that was on the dock. He placed the long shaft in the bottom of the canoe beneath the seats, coiled the rope beside it, and put the barbed bone point in the holder attached to the side and fastened it down. The working end of the harpoon, with its sharp tip and backward-facing barbs, was not an implement to be left loose in the boat. In case of accident, it was just as difficult to pull out of a human as out of a fish—not to mention the difficulty of shaping the bone with stone tools. Dugouts that capsized seldom sank, but loose gear did.

  Jondalar settled himself on the back seat while Carlono held the boat. When the harpoon was secured, he picked up the double-sided paddle and pushed off. Without the ballast of another person sitting in front, the small craft rode higher in the water. It was harder to handle. But after some initial adjustment to the change in buoyancy, he skimmed swiftly downstream with the current, using the paddle like a rudder off one side near the stern. Then he decided to paddle back upstream. It would be easier to fight the current while he was fresh and let it carry him back later.

  He had slid farther downstream than he realized. When he finally saw the dock ahead, he
almost turned into it, then changed his mind and paddled by. He was determined to master all the skills he’d set for himself to learn, and they were many, but no one, least of all himself, could accuse him of stalling to put off the commitment he had promised to make. He smiled at the waving Carlono, but he didn’t let up.

  Upstream the river widened and the force of the current lessened, making paddling easier. He saw a shoreline on the opposite side of the river and made for it. It was a small secluded beach, overhung with willow. He pulled in close, skimming the shoals easily in the lightweight boat, relaxing a little by letting the craft glide backward while he steered with the paddle. He was watching the water in a desultory way when suddenly his attention focused on a large silent shape beneath the surface.

  It was early for sturgeon. They usually swam upstream in early summer, but it had been a warm and early spring with heavy flooding. He looked closer and saw more of the huge fish gliding silently by. They were migrating! Here was his chance. He could bring in the first sturgeon of the season!

  He shipped the paddle and reached for the sections of the harpoon to assemble it. With no guidance, the small boat slued around, scudding with the current but slightly broadside to it. By the time Jondalar attached the rope to the bow, the boat was at an angle to the current, but it was steady, and he was eager. He watched for the next fish. He wasn’t disappointed. A huge dark form was undulating toward him—now he knew where the “Haduma” fish had come from, but many more that size were here.

  He knew from fishing with the Ramudoi that the water altered the true position of the fish. It wasn’t where it seemed to be—the Mother’s way to hide Her creatures until Her secret was revealed. As the fish neared, he adjusted his aim to compensate for the refraction of the water. He leaned over the side, waited, then hurled the harpoon off the bow.

  And with equal force, the small boat shot in the opposite direction along its skewed course, out toward the middle of the river. But his aim had been true. The point of his harpoon was deeply embedded in the giant sturgeon—with little effect. The fish was far from disabled. It headed for midchannel, for deeper water, moving upstream. The rope uncoiled rapidly, and, with a jerk, the slack ran out.

  The boat was yanked around, nearly pitching Jondalar overboard. As he grabbed for the side, the paddle bounced up, teetered, and fell into the river. He let go to reach for it, leaning far over. The boat tipped. He clutched for the side. At that moment, the sturgeon found the current and plowed upstream, miraculously righting the boat and knocking him back into it. He sat up, rubbing a bruise on his shin, as the small craft was towed upstream faster than he’d ever gone before.

  He grabbed for the side and moved forward, round-eyed with fear and wonder, as he watched the riverbanks speeding past. He reached for the line pulled taut into the water, then jerked, thinking that might dislodge the harpoon. Instead the bow dipped so low that the boat shipped water. The sturgeon dodged, careening the small canoe back and forth. Jondalar held on to the rope, lurching from side to side.

  He didn’t notice when he passed the boat-building clearing, and he didn’t see the people on the beach staring agape as the boat sped upstream in the wake of the huge fish, with Jondalar hanging over the side, both hands on the rope, struggling to pull out the harpoon.

  “Do you see that?” Thonolan asked. “That brother of mine has a runaway fish! I think I’ve seen everything now.” His grin turned to guffaws. “Did you see him hanging on to that rope, trying to make that fish let go?” He slapped his thigh, brimming over with laughter. “He didn’t catch a fish, the fish caught him!”

  “Thonolan, it’s not funny,” Markeno said, having difficulty keeping a straight face. “Your brother is in trouble.”

  “I know. I know. But did you see him? Hauled upriver by a fish? Tell me that’s not funny!”

  Thonolan laughed again, but he helped Markeno and Barono lift a boat into the water. Dolando and Carolio climbed in as well. They pushed off and began paddling upstream as fast as they could. Jondalar was in trouble; he could be in real danger.

  The sturgeon was weakening. The harpooning was draining its life away, the drag of the boat and the man hurrying it along. The headlong ride was slowing. It only gave Jondalar time to think—he still had no control over where he was going. He was far upriver; he didn’t think he’d been as far since that first boat ride with snow and howling winds. It suddenly occurred to him to cut the rope. There was no point in being hauled any farther upstream.

  He let go of the side and reached for his knife. But as he pulled the antler-handled stone blade from the sheath, the sturgeon, in one last mortal struggle, tried to rid itself of the painful point. It thrashed and struggled with such force, the bow dipped under every time the fish dove. Overturned, the wooden canoe would still float, but upright and filled with water it would drop to the bottom. He tried to cut the rope as the boat bobbed and dipped and jerked from side to side. He didn’t see the water-swelled log, cruising toward him low in the water with the speed of the current, until it bumped into the canoe, knocking the knife from Jondalar’s hand.

  He recovered quickly and tried to pull up on the rope to cause a little slack so the canoe wouldn’t dip so dangerously. In a last desperate effort to free itself, the sturgeon lunged toward the river’s edge and finally succeeded in tearing the harpoon out of its flesh. It was too late. The last of its life surged out the gaping rip in its side. The huge marine creature plunged down to the river bottom, then rose to the top and, belly up, hung on the surface of the river with only a twitch giving testimony to the prodigious struggle the primeval fish had waged.

  The river, in its long and sinuous course, made a slight curve at the place where the fish chose to die, creating a whirl of conflict in the current speeding around the bend, and the last lunge of the sturgeon carried it to an eddying backwater near the shore. The boat, trailing a slack rope, bobbed and rocked, bumping into the log and the fish that shared its resting place in the undecided trough between backwater and tide.

  In the lull, Jondalar had time to realize he was lucky he hadn’t cut the rope. With no paddle, he couldn’t control the boat if it started downstream. The shore was near: a narrow rocky beach clipped off as it rounded the bend to a steep bank, with trees crowding so close to the edge that naked roots burst through to claw at the air for support. Maybe he could find something that would serve as a paddle there. He took a deep breath to prepare for the plunge into the cold river, then slipped over the side.

  It was deeper than he expected; he went in over his head. The boat, moved by the disturbance, found its way into the river current; the fish was moved closer to shore. Jondalar started to swim after the boat, grabbing for the rope, but the light canoe, barely skimming the surface, spun around and danced away more quickly than he could follow.

  The icy water was numbing. He turned toward shore. The sturgeon was bumping against the bank. He headed for it, grabbed it by its open mouth, and hauled it along after him. There was no point in losing the fish now. He dragged it partway up the beach, but it was heavy. He hoped it would stay. Don’t need to find a paddle, now, he thought, with no boat, but maybe I can find some wood to make a fire. He was soaking wet and cold.

  He reached for his knife and found an empty sheath. He had forgotten that he had lost it, and he didn’t have another. He used to keep an extra blade in the pouch he carried at his waist, but that was when he wore Zelandonii attire. He’d given up the pouch when he began wearing Ramudoi clothing. Maybe he could find materials for a platform and fire drill to make the fire. But, without a knife you can’t cut wood, Jondalar, he said to himself, or shave tinder or kindling. He shivered. At least I can gather some wood.

  He looked around him, and heard a scurrying in the bushes. The ground was covered with damp rotting wood, leaves, and moss. Not a dry stick anywhere. You can get dry “small wood,” he thought, looking for the dead dry lower branches of conifers that clung to the trees beneath the green growing branches. But
he was not in a coniferous forest like the ones near his home. The climate of this region was less severe; it was not influenced as much by the glacial ice in the north. It was cool—it could be quite cold—but damp. It was a temperate-climate forest, not boreal. The trees were the kind the boats were made of: hardwood.

  Around him was a forest of oak and beech, some hornbeam and willow; trees with thick brown crusty trunks and more slender ones with gray smooth skin, but no dry “small wood.” It was spring, and even the twigs were filled with sap and budding. He’d learned something about cutting down one of those hardwood trees. It wasn’t easy, even with a good stone axe. He shivered again. His teeth were chattering. He rubbed his palms together, beat his arms, jogged in place—trying to warm up. He heard more scuffling in the brush and thought he must be disturbing some animal.

  The seriousness of his situation occurred to him. Surely they would miss him and come searching for him. Thonolan would notice he was gone, or would he? Their paths crossed less and less often, particularly as he became more involved with the Ramudoi way of life and his brother was becoming more Shamudoi. He didn’t even know where his brother was that day, perhaps hunting chamois.

  Well, then, Carlono. Wouldn’t he come looking? He watched me going upstream in the boat. Then Jondalar got a chill of a different sort. The boat! It got away. If they find an empty boat, they’ll think you’ve drowned, he thought. Why should they come looking for you if they think you’ve drowned? The tall man moved around again, jumping, beating his arms, running in place, but he couldn’t stop shivering, and he was getting tired. The cold was affecting his thinking, but he couldn’t keep jumping around.