by Jean M. Auel
“I’m not going east, I’m going north, more or less. Brecie said they will all be going north to hunt mammoth soon. I’m going ahead, to another Mamutoi Camp. I’m not going home, Jondalar. I’m going to travel until the Mother takes me.
“Don’t talk like that! You sound like you want to die!” Jondalar shouted, sorry the instant he said it for fear the mere suggestion would make it true.
“What if I do?” Thonolan shouted back. “What do I have to live for … without Jetamio.” His breath caught in his throat, and her name came out with a soft sob.
“What did you have to live for before you met her? You’re young, Thonolan. You have a long life ahead of you. New places to go, new things to see. Give yourself a chance to meet another woman like Jetamio,” Jondalar pleaded.
“You don’t understand. You’ve never been in love. There is no other woman like Jetamio.”
“So you’re going to follow her to the spirit world and drag me along with you!” He didn’t like saying it, but if the only way to keep his brother alive was to play on his guilt, he’d do it.
“No one asked you to follow me! Why don’t you go home and leave me alone.”
“Thonolan, everyone grieves when they lose people they love, but they don’t follow them to the next world.”
“Someday it will happen to you, Jondalar. Someday you’ll love a woman so much, you’d rather follow her to the world of the spirits than live without her.”
“And if it were me, now, would you let me go off alone? If I had lost someone I loved so much I wanted to die, would you abandon me? Tell me you would, Brother. Tell me you’d go home if I was sick to death with grief.”
Thonolan looked down, then into the troubled blue eyes of his brother. “No, I guess I wouldn’t leave you if I thought you were sick to death with grief. But you know, Big Brother”—he tried to grin but it was a contortion on his pain-ravaged face—“if I decide to travel for the rest of my life, you don’t have to follow me forever. You are sick to death of traveling. Sometime you have to go home. Tell me, if I wanted to go home, and you didn’t, you’d want me to go, wouldn’t you?”
“Yes, I’d want you to go. I want you to go home now. Not because you want to, or even because I do. You need your own Cave, Thonolan, your family, people you’ve known all your life, who love you.”
“You don’t understand. That’s one way we’re different. The Ninth Cave of the Zelandonii is your home, it always will be. My home is wherever I want to make it. I am just as much Sharamudoi as I ever was Zelandonii. I just left my Cave, and people I loved as much as my Zelandonii family. That doesn’t mean I don’t wonder if Joharran has any children at his hearth yet, or if Folara has grown up to be as beautiful as I know she will be. I’d like to tell Willomar about our Journey and find out where he plans to go next. I still remember how excited I was when he returned from a trip. I’d listen to his stories and dream about traveling. Remember how he always brought something back for everyone? Me, and Folara, and you too. And always something beautiful for Mother. When you go back, Jondalar, take her something beautiful.”
The mention of familiar names filled Jondalar with poignant memories. “Why don’t you take her something beautiful, Thonolan? Don’t you think Mother wants to see you again?”
“Mother knew I wasn’t coming back. She said ‘Good journey’ when we left, not ‘Until you return.’ It’s you who must have upset her, perhaps more than you upset Marona.”
“Why would she be more upset about me than you?”
“I’m the son of Willomar’s hearth. I think she knew I’d be a traveler. She might not have liked it, but she understood. She understands all her sons—that’s why she made Joharran leader after her. She knows Jondalar is a Zelandonii. If you made a Journey alone, she’d know you would return—but you left with me, and I wasn’t going back. I didn’t know it when I left, but I think she did. She would want you to return; you’re the son of Dalanar’s hearth.”
“What difference does that make? They severed the knot long ago. They’re friends when they see each other at Summer Meetings.”
“They may be just friends now, but people still talk about Marthona and Dalanar. Their love must have been very special to be so long remembered, and you are all she has to remind her, the son born to his hearth. His spirit, too. Everyone knows that; you look so much like him. You have to go back. You belong there. She knew it, and so do you. Promise you’ll go back someday, Brother.”
Jondalar was uneasy about such a promise. Whether he continued to travel with his brother or decided to return without him, he would be giving up more than he wanted to lose. As long as he made no commitment either way, he felt he could still have both. A promise to return implied that his brother would not be with him.
“Promise me, Jondalar.”
What reasonable objection could he make. “I promise,” he acquiesced. “I will go home—someday.”
“After all, Big Brother,” Thonolan said with a smile, “someone has to tell them we made it to the end of the Great Mother River. I won’t be there, so you’ll have to.”
“Why won’t you be there? You could come with me.”
“I think the Mother would have taken me at the river—if you hadn’t begged Her. I know I can’t make you understand, but I know She will come for me soon, and I want to go.”
“You are going to try to get yourself killed, aren’t you?”
“No, Big Brother.” Thonolan smiled. “I don’t have to try. I just know the Mother will come. I want you to know I’m ready.”
Jondalar felt a knot tightening inside him. Ever since the quicksand accident, Thonolan had had a fatalistic certainty he was going to die soon. He smiled, but it wasn’t his old grin. Jondalar preferred the anger to this calm acceptance. There was no fight in him, no will to live.
“Don’t you think we owe something to Brecie and the Willow Camp? They’ve given us food, clothing, weapons, everything. Are you willing to take it all and not offer anything in return?” Jondalar wanted to make his brother angry, to know there was something left. He felt he’d been tricked into a promise that relieved his brother of his final obligation. “You are so sure the Mother has some destiny for you that you have stopped thinking of anyone but yourself! Just Thonolan, right? No one else matters.”
Thonolan smiled. He understood Jondalar’s anger and could not blame him. How would he have felt if Jetamio had known she was going to die, and had told him?
“Jondalar, I want to tell you something. We were close …”
“Aren’t we still?”
“Of course, because you can relax with me. You don’t have to be so perfect all the time. Always so considerate …”
“Yes, I’m so good, Serenio wouldn’t even be my mate,” he said with bitter sarcasm.
“She knew you were leaving and didn’t want to get hurt any worse. If you had asked her sooner, she would have mated you. If you had even pushed her a little when you did ask, she would have—even knowing you didn’t love her. You didn’t want her, Jondalar.”
“So how can you say I’m so perfect? Great Doni, Thonolan, I wanted to love her.”
“I know you did. I learned something from Jetamio, and I want you to know it. If you want to fall in love, you can’t hold everything in. You have to open up, take that risk. You’ll be hurt sometimes, but if you don’t, you’ll never be happy. The one you find may not be the kind of woman you expected to fall in love with, but it won’t matter, you’ll love her for exactly what she is.”
“I wondered where you were,” Brecie said, approaching the two brothers. “I’ve planned a little farewell feast for you since you’re determined to leave.”
“I feel an obligation, Brecie,” Jondalar said. “You’ve taken care of me, given us everything. I don’t think it’s right to leave without making some repayment.”
“Your brother has done more than enough. He hunted every day while you were recovering. He takes a few too many chances, but he’s a lucky
hunter. You leave with no obligation.”
Jondalar looked at his brother, who was smiling at him.
19
Spring in the valley was a flamboyant outbreak of color dominated by vernal green, but an earlier break had been frightening and had subdued Ayla’s usual enthusiasm for the new season. After its late start, the winter was hard with heavier than normal snow. The early spring flooding carried off the melt with raging violence.
Surging through the narrow upstream gorge, the torrent crashed into the jutting wall with such force it shook the cave. The water level nearly reached the ledge. Ayla was concerned for Whinney. She could scramble up to the steppes if necessary, but it was too steep a climb for the horse, especially one so pregnant. The young woman spent several anxious days watching the seething stream creep higher as it surged against the wall, then eddied back and swirled around the outer edge. Downstream, half the valley was submerged and the brush along the small river’s usual course was completely inundated.
During the worst of the rampaging flood, Ayla sprang up with a jolt in the middle of the night, awakened by a muffled crack, like thunder, coming from beneath her. She was petrified. She didn’t know the cause until the flood subsided. The concussion of a large boulder colliding with the wall had sent shock waves through the stone of the cave. A piece of the rock barrier had broken under the impact, and a large section of the wall lay across the stream.
Forced to find a new way around the obstruction, the course of the stream changed. The breach in the wall became a convenient bypass, but it narrowed the beach. A large portion of the accumulated bones, driftwood, and beach stones had been washed away. The boulder itself, which seemed to be made of the same rock as the gorge, had lodged not far beyond the wall.
Yet, for all the rearranging of rock and uprooting of trees and brush, only the weakest had succumbed. Most perennial growth burst forth from established roots, and new sproutings filled every vacant niche. Vegetation quickly covered the raw scars of freshly exposed rock and soil, giving them the illusion of permanence. Soon, the recently altered landscape seemed as though it had always been that way.
Ayla adjusted to the changes. For every boulder or piece of driftwood used for a special purpose, she found a replacement. But the event left its mark on her. Her cave, and the valley, lost a measure of security. Each spring she went through a period of indecision—for if she was going to leave the valley and continue her search for the Others, it would have to be in spring. She needed to allow herself time to travel, and to look for some other place to settle for the winter if she did not find anyone.
This spring the decision was more difficult than ever. After her illness, she was afraid to get caught in late fall or early winter, but her cave didn’t seem as safe as it once had. Her illness had not only sharpened her perceptions of the danger of living alone, it had made her conscious of her lack of human companionship. Even after her animal friends had returned, they hadn’t filled the void in the same way. They were warm and responsive, but she could communicate with them only in simple terms. She could not share ideas or relate an experience; she could not tell a story or express wonder at a new discovery or a new accomplishment and receive an answering look of recognition. She had no one to allay her fears or console her griefs, but how much of her independence and freedom was she willing to exchange for security and companionship?
She hadn’t fully realized how constrained her life had been until she tasted freedom. She liked making her own decisions, and she knew nothing of the people she had been born to, nothing before she was adopted by the Clan. She didn’t know how much the Others would want; she only knew there were some things she was not willing to give. Whinney was one of them. She was not going to give up the horse again. She didn’t know if she would be willing to give up hunting, but what if they wouldn’t let her laugh?
There was a bigger question, and though she tried not to recognize it, it made all the others insignificant. What if she did find some Others, and they didn’t want her at all? A clan of Others might not be willing to take in a woman who insisted upon a horse for companionship, or who wanted to hunt, or to laugh, but what if they rejected her even if she was willing to give up everything? Until she found them, she could hope. But what if she had to live alone all her life?
Such thoughts preyed on her mind from the time the first snows started to melt, and she was relieved that circumstances delayed a decision. She would not take Whinney away from the familiar valley until after she gave birth. She knew horses usually gave birth sometime in spring. The medicine woman in her, who had assisted with enough human deliveries to know it could be anytime, kept a watchful eye on the mare. She didn’t attempt any hunting forays, but she went riding frequently for exercise.
“I think we’ve missed that Mamutoi Camp, Thonolan. We seem to be too far east,” Jondalar said. They were following the trail of a herd of giant deer to replenish supplies that were running low.
“I don’t … Look!” They had suddenly come upon a stag with an eleven-foot rack of palmate antlers. Thonolan pointed to the skittish animal. Wondering if the stag sensed danger, Jondalar expected to hear the deep belling of an alarm, but before the buck could sound a warning, a doe broke and ran right to them. Thonolan hurled the flint-tipped spear, the way he had learned from the Mamutoi, so the wide flat blade would slide in between the ribs. His aim was true; the doe fell almost at their feet.
But before they could claim their kill, they discovered why the buck had been so nervous, and why the doe had all but run into the spear. Tensing, they watched a cave lioness loping toward them. The predator seemed confused by the fallen doe for a moment. She wasn’t accustomed to her prey dropping dead before she attacked. She didn’t hesitate for long. Nosing the deer to make sure it was dead, the lioness got a good hold of the neck with her teeth, and, trailing the doe underneath her body, she started dragging it away.
Thonolan was indignant. “That lioness stole our kill!”
“That lioness was stalking the deer, too, and if she thinks it’s her kill, I’m not going to argue with her.”
“Well, I am.”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” Jondalar snorted. “You’re not going to take a deer away from a cave lioness.”
“I’m not going to give up without trying.”
“Let her have it, Thonolan. We can find another deer,” Jondalar said, following his brother, who had started after the lioness.
“I just want to see where she takes it. I don’t think she’s a pride lioness—the rest would be here on top of that deer by now. I think she’s a nomad, and she’s hauling it off to hide it from other lions. We can see where she takes it. She’ll leave sooner or later, and then we can get some fresh meat for ourselves.”
“I don’t want fresh meat from a cave lion’s kill.”
“It’s not her kill. It’s my kill. That doe still has my spear in her.”
It was useless to argue. They followed the lioness to a blind canyon, littered with rock from the walls. They waited and watched, and, as Thonolan predicted, the lioness left shortly after. He started for the canyon.
“Thonolan, don’t go down there! You don’t know when that lioness will come back.”
“I just want to get my spear, and maybe a little of the meat.” Thonolan made his way over the edge and scrambled down loose rubble into the canyon. Jondalar followed him, reluctantly.
Ayla had become so familiar with the territory east of the valley that she was bored with it, particularly since she wasn’t hunting. It had been gray and rainy for days, and, when a warm sun burned off morning clouds by the time she was ready to ride, she couldn’t stand the thought of covering the same ground again.
After she fastened on traveling baskets and travois poles, she led the horse down the steep path and around the shorter wall. She decided to head down the long valley rather than out on the steppes. At the end, where the stream turned south, she noticed the steep gravelly slope she had climbed before to look t
oward the west, but she thought the footing was too unsure for the horse. It did encourage her, however, to ride farther to see if she could find a more accessible exit to the west. As she continued south, she looked around with eager curiosity. She was in new territory, and she wondered why she hadn’t ridden this way before. The high wall was easing into a gentler slope. When she saw a shallow crossing, she turned Whinney and urged her across.
The landscape was the same kind of open grasslands. Only the detail was different, but that made it interesting. She rode until she found herself in somewhat rougher country, with ragged canyons and abruptly sheared mesas. She was farther than she had planned to go, and, as she approached a canyon, she was thinking she ought to turn back. Then, she heard something that chilled her blood and set her heart racing: the thundering roar of a cave lion—and a human scream.
Ayla stopped, hearing her blood pounding in her ears. It had been so long since she had heard a human sound, yet she knew it was human, and something else. She knew it was her kind of human. She was so stunned that she couldn’t think. The scream pulled at her—it was a cry for help. But she couldn’t face a cave lion, nor expose Whinney to one.
The horse sensed her acute distress and turned toward the canyon, though Ayla’s body-contact signal had been tentative at best. Ayla approached the canyon slowly, then dismounted and looked in. It was blind, only a wall of rubble at the other end. She heard the growling of the cave lion and saw its reddish mane. Then she realized Whinney had not been nervous, and she knew why.
“That’s Baby! Whinney, that’s Baby!”
She ran into the canyon, forgetting there might be other cave lions around and not even considering that Baby was no longer her young companion but a full-grown lion. He was Baby—that was all that mattered. She had no fear of this cave lion. She climbed up some jagged rocks toward him. He turned and snarled at her.
“Stop it, Baby!” she commanded with signal and sound. He paused only a moment, but by then she was beside him and pushing him out of the way so she could see his prey. The woman was too familiar, her attitude too certain for him to resist. He moved aside, as he had always done before when she came upon him with a kill and wanted to save the skin or take a piece of meat for herself. And he wasn’t hungry. He had fed on the giant deer brought by his lioness. He had only attacked to defend his territory—and then he had hesitated. Humans were not prey to him. Their scent was too much like that of the woman who had raised him, a scent of both mother and hunting companion.