The Earth's Children Series 6-Book Bundle

by Jean M. Auel

  While she was well supplied with cave furnishings and implements, close inspection revealed they were totally lacking in carvings or decoration, and rather primitive. He looked at the wooden cup out of which he had been drinking tea. But not crude, he thought. In fact, very well made. The cup had been carved out of a gnarl, judging from the pattern of the wood grain. As Jondalar examined it closely, it seemed to him that the cup had been formed to take advantage of a shape suggested by the grain. It would not be hard to imagine the face of a small animal in the knots and curves. Had she done that on purpose? It was subtle. He liked it better than some implements he had seen with more blatant carvings.

  The cup itself was deep, with a flaring lip, symmetrical, and finished to a fine smoothness. Even the inside showed no gouging ridges. A gnarled piece of wood was hard to work; this cup must have taken many days to make. The closer he looked, the more he realized the cup was unquestionably a fine piece of workmanship, deceiving in its simplicity. Marthona would like this, he thought, remembering his mother’s ability to arrange even the most utilitarian implements and storage containers in a pleasing way. She had a knack for seeing beauty in simple objects.

  He looked up when Ayla brought in a load of wood and shook his head at her primitive leather wrap. Then he noticed the pad on which he was lying. Like her wrap, it was just the hide, not cut to shape, wrapped around fresh hay and tucked under in a shallow trench. He pulled out an end to examine it closer. The very outside edge was a bit stiff, and a few deer hairs still clung, but it was very pliable and velvety soft. Both the inner grain and the tough outer grain along with the fur had been scraped off, which helped to account for the supple texture. But her furs impressed him more. It was one thing to stretch and pull a skin with the grain removed to make it flexible. It was far more difficult with furs since only the inner grain was removed. Furs usually tended to be stiffer, yet the ones on the bed were as pliant as the skins.

  There was a familiarity to the feel of them, but he could not think why.

  No carvings or decorations on implements, he was thinking, but made with the finest workmanship. Skins and furs cured with great skill and care—yet no clothing was cut or shaped to fit, sewn or laced together, and no item was beaded, or quilled, or dyed, or decorated in any way. Yet she had fitted and sewn his leg together. They were peculiar inconsistencies, and the woman was a mystery.

  Jondalar had been watching Ayla as she prepared to make a fire, but he really had not been paying attention. He’d seen fire made many times. He had wondered in passing why she didn’t just bring in a coal from the fire she used to cook his meal, and then he supposed it had gone out. He saw, without seeing, the woman gather together quick-starting tinder, pick up a couple of stones, strike them together, and blow a flame to life. It was done so quickly that the fire was burning well before it occurred to him what she had done.

  “Great Mother! How did you get that fire started so fast?” He vaguely recalled thinking she had made a very quick fire in the middle of the night, but he had passed that off as a misimpression.

  Ayla turned at his outburst with a quizzical look.

  “How did you start that fire?” he asked again, sitting forward. “Oh, Doni! She doesn’t understand a word I’m saying.” He threw his hands up in exasperation. “Do you even know what you’ve done? Come here, Ayla,” he said, beckoning to her.

  She went to him immediately; it was the first time she had seen him use a hand motion in any purposeful way. He was greatly concerned about something, and she frowned, concentrating on his words, wishing she could understand.

  “How did you make that fire?” he asked again, saying the words slowly and carefully as though, somehow, that would enable her to understand—and flung his arm toward the fire.

  “Fy …?” She made a tentative attempt to repeat his last word. Something was important. She was shaking with concentration, trying to will herself to understand him.

  “Fire! Fire! Yes, fire,” he shouted, gesticulating toward the flames. “Do you have any idea what it could mean to make a fire that fast?”

  “Fyr …?”

  “Yes, like that over there,” he said, jabbing his finger in the air at the fireplace. “How did you make it?”

  She got up, went to the fireplace and pointed to it, “Fyr?” she said.

  He heaved a sigh and leaned back on the furs, suddenly realizing he had been trying to force her to understand words she didn’t know. “I’m sorry, Ayla. That was stupid of me. How can you tell me what you did when you don’t know what I’m asking?”

  The tension was gone. Jondalar closed his eyes feeling drained and frustrated, but Ayla was excited. She had a word. Only one, but it was a beginning. Now, how could she keep it going? How could she tell him to teach her more, that she had to learn more.

  “Don-da-lah …?” He opened his eyes. She pointed to the fireplace again. “Fyr?”

  “Fire, yes, that’s fire,” he said, nodding affirmatively. Then he closed his eyes again, feeling tired, a little silly for getting so excited, and in pain, physically and emotionally.

  He wasn’t interested. What could she do to make him understand? She felt so thwarted, so angry that she couldn’t think of some way to communicate her need to him. She tried one more time.

  “Don-da-lah.” She waited until he opened his eyes again. “Fyr …?” she said with hopeful appeal in her eyes.

  What does she want? Jondalar thought, his curiosity aroused. “What about that fire, Ayla?”

  She could sense he was asking a question, in the set of his shoulders and the expression on his face. He was paying attention. She looked around, trying to think of some way to tell him, and she saw the wood beside the fire. She picked up a stick, brought it to him, and held it up with the same hopeful look.

  His forehead knotted in puzzlement, then smoothed as he thought he was beginning to understand. “Do you want the word for that?” he asked, wondering at her sudden interest in learning his language, when she seemed not to have any interest in speaking before. Speaking! She wasn’t exchanging a language with him, she was trying to speak! Could that be why she was so silent? Because she didn’t know how to speak?

  He touched the stick in her hand. “Wood,” he said.

  Her breath exploded out; she didn’t know she had been holding it. “Ud …?” she tried.

  “Wood,” he said slowly, exaggerating his mouth to enunciate clearly.

  “Ooo-ud,” she said, trying to make her mouth mimic his.

  “That’s better,” he said, nodding.

  Her heart was pounding. Did he understand? She searched again, frantically, for something to keep it going. Her eyes fell on the cup. She picked it up and held it out.

  “Are you trying to get me to teach you to talk?”

  She didn’t understand, shook her head, and held the cup up again.

  “Who are you, Ayla? Where do you come from? How can you do … everything you do, and not know how to talk? You are an enigma, but if I’m ever going to learn about you, I think I’m going to have to teach you to talk.”

  She sat on her fur beside him, waiting, anxiously, still holding the cup. She was afraid that with all the words he was saying he would forget the one she asked for. She held the cup out to him once again.

  “What do you want, ‘drink’ or ‘cup’? I don’t suppose it matters.” He touched the vessel she was holding. “Cup,” he said.

  “Guh,” she responded, then smiled with relief.

  Jondalar followed through on the idea. He reached for the waterbag of fresh water she had left for him and poured some into the cup. “Water,” he said.

  “Ahddah.”

  “Try it again, ‘water,’ ” he encouraged. “Ooo-ah-dah.”

  Jondalar nodded, then held the cup to his lips and took a sip. “Drink,” he said. “Drink water.”

  “Drringk,” she replied, quite clearly except for rolling the r and swallowing the word somewhat. “Drringk ooahdah.”

  21<
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  “Ayla, I can’t stand it in this cave anymore. Look at that sunshine! I know I’m healed enough to move a little, at least outside the cave.”

  Ayla didn’t understand everything Jondalar said, but she knew enough to understand his complaint—and sympathize with it. “Knots,” she said, touching one of the stitches. “Cut knots. Morning see leg.”

  He smiled as though he had won a victory. “You’re going to take out the knots, and then tomorrow morning I can go out of the cave.”

  Language problems or not, Ayla was not going to be committed to more than she intended. “See,” she repeated emphatically. “Ayla look …” She struggled to express herself with her limited ability. “Leg no … heal, Don-da-lah no out.”

  Jondalar smiled again. He knew he had overstated her meaning, hoping she would go along with him, but he was rather pleased that she was not taken in by his ploy and insisted on making herself understood. He might not get out of the cave tomorrow, but it meant that ultimately she would learn faster.

  Teaching her to speak had become a challenge, and her progress pleased him, though it was uneven. He was intrigued by the way she learned. The extent of her vocabulary was already astounding; she seemed able to memorize words as fast as he could give them to her. He had spent the better part of one afternoon telling her the names of everything she and he could think of, and when they were through, she had repeated every word back to him with its correct association. But pronunciation was difficult for her. She could not produce some sounds right no matter how hard she tried, and she did try hard.

  He liked the way she spoke, though. Her voice was low-pitched and pleasing, and her strange accent made her sound exotic. He decided not to bother yet about correcting the way she put the words together. Proper speech could come later. Her real struggle became more apparent once they progressed beyond words that named specific things and actions. Even the simplest abstract concepts were a problem—she wanted a separate word for every shade of color and found it hard to understand that the deep green of pine and the pale green of willow were both described by the general word green. When she did grasp an abstraction, it seemed to come as a revelation, or a memory long forgotten.

  He commented favorably on her phenomenal memory once, but she found it difficult to understand—or believe—him.

  “No, Don-da-lah. Ayla not good remember. Ayla try, little girl Ayla want good … memory. Not good. Try, try, all time try.”

  Jondalar shook his head, wishing his memory were as good as hers, or his desire to learn as strong and relentless. He could see improvement every day, though she was never satisfied. But as their ability to communicate expanded, the mystery of her deepened. The more he learned about her, the more questions he was burning to have answered. She was incredibly skilled and knowledgeable in some ways, and totally naïve and ignorant in others—and he was never sure which would be which. Some of her abilities—such as making fire—were far more advanced than any he had seen anywhere, and some were primitive beyond belief.

  Of one thing he had no doubt, though: whether or not any of her people were nearby, she was entirely capable of taking care of herself. And of him, as well, he thought, as she moved his covers back to look at his injured leg.

  Ayla had an antiseptic solution ready, but she was nervous as she prepared to take out the knots that held his flesh together. She didn’t think the wound would fall apart—it seemed to be healing well—but she had not used the technique before and she wasn’t sure. She had been considering removing the knots for several days, but it had taken Jondalar’s complaint to make the decision.

  The young woman bent over the leg, looking closely at the knots. Carefully, she pulled up one of the knotted pieces of deer sinew. Skin had grown attached to it and pulled up with it. She wondered if she should have waited so long, but it was too late to worry now. She held the knot with her fingers, and, with her sharpest knife, one that had not been used, she cut one side as close to the knot as possible. A few experimental tugs proved it was not going to pull out easily. Finally, she took the knot in her teeth and, with a quick jerk, pulled it out.

  Jondalar winced. She was sorry to cause him discomfort, but no gap had opened. A little trickle of blood showed where the skin had torn slightly, but the muscles and flesh had healed together. Discomfort was a small price to pay. She took out the remaining stitches as quickly as she could, to get it over with, while Jondalar gritted his teeth and clenched his fists to keep from yelping every time she pulled one out. They both leaned closer to see the result.

  Ayla decided that, if there was no deterioration, she would let him put weight on it and allow him to go outside the cave. She picked up the knife, and the bowl with the solution, and started to get up. Jondalar stopped her. “Let me see the knife?” he asked, pointing to it. She gave it to him and looked on while he examined it.

  “This is made on a flake! It’s not even a blade. It’s been worked with some skill, but the technique is so primitive. It doesn’t even have a handle—just retouched on the back so it won’t cut you. Where did you get this, Ayla? Who made it?”

  “Ayla make.”

  She knew he was commenting on the quality and workmanship, and she wanted to explain that she was not as skilled as Droog, but that she had learned from the Clan’s best toolmaker. Jondalar studied the knife in depth, and it seemed with some surprise. She wanted to discuss the merits of the tool, the quality of the flint, but she could not. She did not have the vocabulary of the proper terms, or an understanding of how to express the concepts. It was frustrating.

  She yearned to talk to him, about everything. It had been so long since she had anyone to communicate with, but she didn’t know how much she missed it until Jondalar had arrived. She felt as though a feast had been set down before her, and she was starving and wanted to devour it, but she could only taste.

  Jondalar gave the knife back to her, shaking his head in wonder. It was sharp, certainly adequate, but it heightened his curiosity. She was as well trained as any zelandoni, and used advanced techniques—like the stitches—but such a primitive knife. If only he could ask her and make her understand; if only she could tell him. And why couldn’t she talk? She was learning rapidly now. Why hadn’t she learned before? Ayla’s learning to speak had become a driving ambition for both of them.

  Jondalar woke early. The cave was still dark, but the entrance and the hole above it showed the deep blue of predawn. It grew perceptibly lighter as he watched, bringing out the shape of every bump and hollow of the rock walls. He could see them as clearly when he closed his eyes; they were etched on his brain. He had to get outside and look at something else. He felt a growing excitement, sure this would be the day. He could hardly wait and was going to shake the woman sleeping beside him. He paused before he touched her, then changed his mind.

  She slept on her side, curled up with her furs piled around her. He was in her usual sleeping place, he knew. Her furs were on a mat drawn up beside him, not in a shallow trench covered with a hay-stuffed pad. She slept in her wrap, ready to jump up at a moment’s notice. She rolled over on her back, and he studied her carefully, trying to see if there were any distinguishing characteristics that would give some hint of her origins.

  Her bone structure, the shape of her face and her cheekbones had a foreign quality compared with Zelandonii women, but there was nothing out of the ordinary about her, except that she was extraordinarily pretty. It was more than mere prettiness, he decided, now that he was taking a good look at her. There was a quality to her features that would be recognized as beauty by anyone’s standards.

  The style of her hair, bound into a regular pattern of braids, left long at the sides and back and tucked under themselves in front, was not familiar, but he had seen hair arranged in ways much more unusual. Some long strands had worked their way loose and were pushed back behind her ears or hanging in disarray, and she had a smudge of charcoal on one cheek. It occurred to him that she had not left his side for more than
a moment since he regained consciousness, and probably not before. No one could fault her care.…

  His train of thought was interrupted when Ayla opened her eyes and squealed with surprise.

  She wasn’t used to opening her eyes to a face, especially one with brilliant blue eyes and a scraggly blond beard. She sat up so quickly that she was dizzy for a moment, but she soon regained her composure and got up to stir the fire. It was out; she had forgotten to bank it again. She gathered the materials to start a new one.

  “Would you show me how to start a fire, Ayla?” Jondalar asked when she picked up the stones. This time she understood.

  “Not hard,” she said, and brought the fire-making stones and burning materials closer to the bed. “Ayla show.” She demonstrated hitting the stones together, then piled shaggy bark fiber and fireweed fuzz together and gave him the flint and iron pyrite.

  He recognized the flint immediately—and he thought he had seen stones like the other one, but he would never have attempted to use them together for anything, particularly not for making fire. He struck them together the way she had. It was only a glancing blow, but he thought he saw a tiny spark. He struck again, still not quite believing he could draw fire from stones, in spite of seeing Ayla do it. A large flash jumped from the cold stones. He was stunned and then excited. After a few more tries and a little assistance from Ayla, he had a small fire going beside the bed. He looked at the two stones again.

  “Who taught you to make fire this way?”

  She knew what he was asking, but she didn’t know how to tell him. “Ayla do,” she said.

  “Yes, I know you do, but who showed you?”

  “Ayla … show.” How could she tell him about that day when her fire went out, and her hand-axe broke, and she had discovered the firestone? She put her head in her hands for a moment, trying to find a way to explain, then looked at him and shook her head. “Ayla no talk good.”