by Jean M. Auel
Out of breath, he slumped down and huddled into a ball, trying to conserve body heat, but his teeth chattered and his body shook. He heard shuffling again, closer, but he didn’t bother to investigate. Then something moved into his view: two feet—two bare, dirty, human feet.
He looked up with a start and was almost shocked out of shivering. Standing in front of him, within arm’s reach, was a child, with two large brown eyes gazing at him from under the shadow of overhanging brow ridges. A flathead! Jondalar thought. A young flathead.
He was agog with wonder, and half expected the young animal to dart back into the bush now that he was seen. The youngster didn’t move. He stood there and, after a few moments of mutual staring, made beckoning motions. Or at least Jondalar had the feeling they were beckoning motions, farfetched as it seemed. The flathead made the motion again, taking a tentative step back.
What could he want? Does he want me to go with him? When the youngster made the motion again, Jondalar took a step after him, sure the creature would run away. But the child only backed away a step and motioned again. Jondalar began to follow, slowly at first, then at a faster pace, still shivering, but intrigued.
In a few moments, the youngster moved aside a screen of brush that revealed a glade. A small, nearly smokeless fire burned in the middle of it. A female looked up, startled, then backed away in fright as Jondalar headed for the flickering warmth. He hunkered down in front of it, gratefully. He was aware, peripherally, that the young flathead and the female were waving their hands and making guttural sounds. He had an impression they were communicating, but he was much more concerned with getting warm, and wished he had a fur or a cloak.
He didn’t pay attention when the woman disappeared behind him, and was caught by surprise when he felt a fur drop over his shoulders. He saw a bare glimpse of dark brown eyes before she bowed her head and scrambled away, but he sensed her fear of him.
Even wet, the soft chamois-leather clothing he wore maintained some of its heat-keeping quality, and with the fire and the fur, Jondalar finally warmed enough to stop shaking. Only then did he realize where he was. Great Mother! This is a flathead camp. He had been holding his hands out to the warming blaze, but when the implications of the fire struck him, he jerked them back as though they were burned.
Fire! They use fire? He reached a hesitant hand for the flame again as though he couldn’t believe his eyes and had to use other senses to confirm it. Then he noticed the fur draped over him. He felt an end, rubbing it between his thumb and forefinger. Wolf, he decided, and well cured. It’s soft; the inner side is amazingly soft. I doubt the Sharamudoi could do much better. The fur didn’t seem to be cut to any shape. It was just one whole hide of a large wolf.
The heat finally penetrated deep enough for him to stand up and turn his back to the fire. He saw the young male watching him. He wasn’t sure how he knew the young one was a male. With the skin wrapped around him and tied with a long thong, it wasn’t obvious. Though wary, his direct look was not fearful like the female’s had been. Jondalar remembered then that the Losadunai had said flathead females wouldn’t fight. They just gave in, no sport at all. Why would anyone want a flathead female?
As he continued to look at the male flathead, Jondalar decided he wasn’t so young, more adolescent than child. The short stature had been deceiving, but his muscle development showed strength, and, looking closer, he saw the downy fuzz of a beginning beard.
The young male grunted and the female quickly scurried to a small woodpile and brought a few pieces to the fire. Jondalar had not seen a flathead female this close before. He turned his head toward her. She was older, perhaps the young one’s dam, he thought. She seemed uncomfortable, didn’t want to be looked at. She backed away with her head lowered and, when she reached the edge of the small clearing, she kept moving away from his sight. She didn’t make it obvious, but before he realized it, his head was twisted around nearly backward. He looked away for an instant, and when he looked back, she had hidden herself so effectively that he couldn’t see her at first. If he hadn’t known she was there, he wouldn’t have seen her at all.
She’s frightened. I’m surprised she didn’t run away instead of bringing wood as he told her.
Told her! How could he tell her? Flatheads don’t talk—he couldn’t tell her to bring wood. The chill must have made me light-headed. I can’t be thinking clearly.
For all his denials, Jondalar couldn’t get over the feeling that the young male had indeed told the female to bring wood. Some way, he had communicated. He turned his attention back to the male and received a distinct impression of hostility. He didn’t know what was different, but he knew the young one had not liked his observation of the female. He was convinced he would be in deep trouble if he made one move toward her. It was not wise to pay too much attention to flathead females, he decided, not when there was a male around, of any age.
The tension slacked off when Jondalar made no overt moves and ceased looking at the female. But standing face to face with the flathead, he felt they were each taking the other’s measure, and more disturbing, that he was standing man to man. Yet, this man looked like none other he knew. In all his travels, the people he had met were recognizably human. They spoke different languages, had different customs, lived in different shelters—but they were human.
This one was different, but was he an animal? He was much shorter, and stockier, but those bare feet were no different from Jondalar’s. He was slightly bowlegged, but he walked as straight and tall as any man. He had a little more hair than average, especially around the arms and shoulders, Jondalar thought, but he wouldn’t call it a pelt. He knew some men who were as hairy. The flathead was barrel-chested, already brawny, not someone to tangle with, as young as he was. But even the full-grown males he’d seen, for all their tremendous musculature, were still built like men. The face, the head, there was the difference. But how different? His brows are heavy, his forehead doesn’t come up as high, slopes back more, but his head is big. Short neck, no chin, just a jaw that juts out some, and a large high-bridged nose. It’s a human face, not like anyone I know, but it looks human. And they use fire.
But they don’t talk, and all humans talk. I wonder … were they communicating? Great Doni! He even communicated with me! How did he know I needed fire? And why would a flathead help a man? Jondalar was baffled, but the young flathead had probably saved his life.
The young male seemed to come to some decision. He abruptly made the same motion with which he had beckoned Jondalar to the fire, then walked out of the glade back the way they had come. He seemed to expect the man to follow, and Jondalar did, glad of the wolfskin around his shoulders when he left the fire in his still-damp clothes. When they neared the river, the flathead ran forward, making sharp loud noises and waving his arms. A small animal scuttled off, but some of the sturgeon had been eaten. It was evident that, as large as it was, unguarded, the fish wouldn’t last long.
The young male’s anger at the scavenging animal gave Jondalar a sudden insight. Could the fish be a possible reason for the flathead to give him aid? Did he want some fish?
The flathead reached into a fold of the skin wrapped around him, took out a flake of flint with a sharp edge, and made a pass at the sturgeon as though to cut it. Then he made motions indicating some for him and some for the tall man, then waited. It was so clear. There was no doubt in Jondalar’s mind that the youngster wanted a share of the fish. A flood of questions filled him.
Where did the flathead get the tool? He wanted a closer look, but he knew it didn’t have the refinement of one of his—it had been made on a thicker flake, not a thin blade—but it was a perfectly serviceable sharp knife. It had been made by someone, crafted with purposeful design. But more than the tool, there were questions that disturbed him. The youngster had not talked, but he had most certainly communicated. Jondalar wondered if he could have made his wishes known as directly and easily.
The flathead was waiting expectan
tly, and Jondalar nodded, not sure if the motion would be understood. But his meaning had been communicated in more than gesture. Without hesitation, the young male set to work on the fish.
As the Zelandonii watched, a turmoil erupted that shook deeply held convictions. What was an animal? An animal might scurry in to take a bite of that fish. A more intelligent animal might consider a man dangerous and wait until he left, or died. An animal would not perceive that a man suffering from exposure needed warmth; would not have a fire and lead him to it; would not ask for a share of his food. That was human behavior; more, it was humane.
His structure of beliefs—fed to him with his mother’s milk and bred into his bones—was teetering. Flatheads were animals. Everyone said flatheads were animals. Wasn’t it obvious? They couldn’t talk. Is that all? Is that the difference?
Jondalar wouldn’t have cared if he had taken the whole fish, but he was curious. How much would the flathead take? It needed to be cut anyway, it was too heavy to move. Four men would have trouble lifting it.
Suddenly the flathead didn’t matter. His heart raced. Had he heard something?
“Jondalar! Jondalar!”
The flathead looked startled, but Jondalar was pushing through trees on the bank to get a clear view of the river.
“Here! Here I am, Thonolan!” His brother had come looking for him. He saw a boatload of people in the middle of the river and hailed them again. They saw him, waved back, and rowed toward him.
A straining grunt brought his attention back to the flathead. He saw, on the beach, that the sturgeon had been split in half lengthwise, from the backbone to the belly, and the young male had moved half the huge fish to a large leather hide spread out beside it. While the tall man watched, the young flathead gathered up the ends of the hide and slung the entire load on his back. Then, with the half of the head and tail sticking out the top of the huge sack, he disappeared into the woods.
“Wait!” Jondalar called, running after him. He caught up as they reached the glade. The female, with a large basket on her back, slid into the shadows as he approached. There was no evidence that the glade had been used, not even a trace of the fire. If he hadn’t felt its heat, he would have doubted it had ever been there.
He took the wolf fur from his shoulders and held it out. At a grunt from the male, she took it, then both moved silently into the woods and were gone.
Jondalar felt chilled in his damp clothes as he walked back to the river. He reached it as the boat was pulling in, and he smiled as his brother climbed out. They threw their arms around each other in a great bear hug of brotherly affection.
“Thonolan! Am I happy to see you! I was afraid that when they found that empty boat I’d be given up for lost.”
“Big Brother, how many rivers have we crossed together? Don’t you think I know you can swim? Once we found the boat, we knew you were upriver and couldn’t be much farther ahead.”
“Who took half this fish?” Dolando asked.
“I gave it away.”
“Gave it away! Who did you give it to?” Markeno asked.
“Who could you give it to?” Carolio added.
“To a flathead.”
“A flathead?!” many voices echoed in response. “Why would you give half a fish that size to a flathead?” Dolando asked.
“He helped me, and he asked for it.”
“What kind of nonsense is that? How could a flathead ask for anything?” Dolando said. He was angry, which surprised Jondalar. The leader of the Sharamudoi seldom showed his ire. “Where is he?”
“He’s gone by now, into the woods. I was soaked, and shivering so badly that I thought I’d never warm up. Then this young flathead appeared and led me to his fire.…”
“Fire? Since when do they use fire?” Thonolan asked.
“I’ve seen flatheads with fire,” Barono said.
“I’ve seen them on this side of the river before, too … from a distance,” Carolio remarked.
“I didn’t know they were back. How many were there?” Dolando asked.
“Just the young one, and an older female. Maybe his dam,” Jondalar replied.
“There’s more, if they have their females with them.” The stocky leader glanced around the woods. “Maybe we should get up a flathead hunting party and clean the vermin out.”
There was ugly menace in Dolando’s tone that made Jondalar look twice. He’d picked up shades of that feeling toward flatheads in the leader’s comments before, but never with such venom.
Leadership among the Sharamudoi was a matter of competence and persuasion. Dolando was tacitly acknowledged leader not because he was the best in every way, but because he was competent, and he had the ability to attract people to him and handle problems when they arose. He did not command; he cajoled, coaxed, convinced, and compromised, and in general provided the oil that smoothed the inevitable friction of people living together. He was politically astute, effective, and his decisions were usually accepted, but no one was required to abide by them. Arguments could be vociferous.
He was confident enough to push his own judgment when he felt it was right, and to defer to someone with greater knowledge or experience on a particular subject if the need arose. He tended not to interfere in personal squabbles unless they got out of hand and someone called him in. Though generally dispassionate, his ire could be raised by cruelty, stupidity, or carelessness that threatened or caused harm to the Cave as a whole, or to someone unable to defend himself. And by flatheads. He hated them. To him, they were not just animals, they were dangerous, vicious animals that should be eliminated.
“I was freezing,” Jondalar objected, “and that young flathead helped me. He brought me to his fire, and they gave me a fur to use. As far as I’m concerned, he could have had the whole fish, but he only took half. I’m not about to go out on any flathead-hunting party.”
“They don’t usually cause that much trouble,” Barono said. “But if they’re around, I’m glad to know it. They’re smart. It’s not a good idea to let a pack catch you by surprise …”
“They’re murderous brutes …” Dolando said.
Barono ignored the interjection. “You’re probably lucky it was a younger one and a female. The females don’t fight.”
Thonolan didn’t like the direction the conversation was heading. “How are we going to get this splendid half-catch of my brother’s home?” He remembered the ride the fish had given Jondalar, and a grin cracked his face. “After the fight he gave you, I’m surprised you let half of him get away.”
The laughter spread to the others, with nervous relief.
“Does that mean he’s half Ramudoi, now?” Markeno said.
“Maybe we can take him hunting and he’ll get half a chamois,” Thonolan said. “Then the other half can be Shamudoi.”
“Which half will Serenio want?” Barono winked.
“Half of him is more than most,” Carolio quipped, and her expression left no doubt that she was not referring to his height. In the close quarters of the Cave, his skill in the furs had not gone unnoticed. Jondalar flushed, but the ribald laughter brought a final release of tension, both from the concern over him and from Dolando’s reaction to the flatheads.
They brought out a net made of fiber which held up well when wet, spread it out beside the bleeding open half of the sturgeon, and, with some grunting and straining, moved the carcass onto the net and into the water, then tied it to the stern of the boat.
While the rest were struggling with the fish, Carolio turned to Jondalar and said, quietly, “Roshario’s son was killed by flatheads. He was just a young man, not yet Promised, full of fun and daring, and Dolando’s pride. No one knows how it happened, but Dolando had the whole Cave out hunting them. A few were killed—then they disappeared. He didn’t much care for them in the first place, but since then …”
Jondalar nodded, understanding.
“How did that flathead haul his half of this fish away?” Thonolan asked as they were getting
into the boat.
“He picked it up and carried it,” Jondalar said.
“He? He picked it up and carried it?”
“By himself. And he wasn’t even full grown.”
Thonolan approached the wooden structure shared by his brother, Serenio, and Darvo. It was constructed of planks which were leaned against a ridgepole that itself sloped to the ground. The dwelling resembled a tent made of wood, with the triangular front wall higher and wider than the rear one, making trapezoids of the sides. The planks were fastened together like the strakes on the sides of the boats, with the slightly thicker edge overlapping the thinner edge and sewn together.
These were snug, sturdy structures, tight enough so that only in the older ones could light be seen through the cracks of the dried and warped wood. With the sandstone overhang to protect them from the worst elements of the weather, the dwellings were not maintained or caulked the way the boats were. They were lighted inside primarily by the stone-lined fireplace, or by opening the front.
The younger man looked in to see if his brother was still sleeping.
“Come on in,” Jondalar said, sniffling. He was sitting up on the fur-covered sleeping platform, with more furs piled around him and with a cup of something steaming in his hands.
“How’s your cold?” Thonolan asked, sitting on the edge of the platform.
“Cold’s worse, I’m better.”
“No one thought about your wet clothes, and that wind was really blowing down the river gorge by the time we got back.”
“I’m glad you found me.”
“Well, I’m really glad you’re feeling better.” Thonolan seemed strangely at a loss for words. He fidgeted, got up and walked toward the opening, then walked back to his brother. “Is there anything I can get you?”