The Earth's Children Series 6-Book Bundle

by Jean M. Auel

  “And an easier way to hunt—unless you’d rather not. It will take some practice …”

  She shook her head with disbelief. “Clan women do not hunt, and no man wanted me to hunt—not even with a sling. Brun and Creb only allowed it to appease my totem. The Cave Lion is a powerful male totem, and he made them know it was his choice that I should hunt. They dared not defy him.” Suddenly she recalled a vivid scene. “They made a special ceremony.” She reached for the small scar in the hollow of her throat. “Creb drew my blood as sacrifice to the Ancient Ones so I could become the Woman Who Hunts.

  “When I found this valley, the only weapon I knew was my sling. But a sling is not enough, so I made spears like the ones the men used, and I learned to hunt with them, the best I could. I never thought any man would want to show me a better way.” She stopped and looked down at her lap, suddenly overcome. “I would be most grateful, Jondalar. I cannot tell you how much.”

  The wrinkles of tension on the man’s forehead smoothed out. He thought he glimpsed a tear glistening. Could it mean that much to her? And he was worried that she might take it wrong. Would he ever understand her? The more he learned about her, the less he seemed to know. She taught herself?

  “I will need to make some special tools. And some bone, the deer legbones I found will work fine, but I’ll need to soak them. Do you have a container I can use to soak bones?”

  “How big does it need to be? I have many containers,” she said, getting up.

  “It can wait until you finish eating, Ayla.”

  She didn’t feel like eating now; she was too excited. But he wasn’t through. She sat back down and picked at her food until he noticed she wasn’t eating.

  “Do you want to go look at containers now?” he asked.

  She leaped up and headed for the storage area, then went back for the stone lamp. It was dark in the back of the cave. She gave the lamp to Jondalar while she uncovered baskets, bowls, and birchbark containers that were stacked and nested within each other. He held the lamp high to shed more light and looked around. There was so much, far more than she could use.

  “Did you make all this?”

  “Yes,” she replied, sorting through the stacks.

  “It must have taken days … moons … seasons. How long did it take?”

  Ayla tried to think of a way to tell him. “Seasons, many seasons. Most were made during the cold seasons. I had nothing else to do. Are any of these the right size?”

  He looked over the containers she had spread out and picked up several, more to examine the workmanship than to select one. It was hard to believe. No matter how skilled she was, or how fast she worked, the finely woven baskets and smoothly finished bowls had taken time to make. How long had she been here? Alone.

  “This one will be fine,” he said, selecting a large trough-shaped wooden bowl with high sides. Ayla piled everything back neatly while he held the lamp. She could not have been much more than a girl when she arrived, he thought. She’s not very old—or is she? It was hard to judge. She had an ageless quality, a certain ingenuousness, that was at odds with her full, ripe woman’s body. She had given birth; she was every bit a woman. I wonder how old she is?

  They walked down the path. Jondalar filled the bowl with water and inspected the legbones he had found in her midden. “This one has a crack I didn’t notice before,” he mentioned, showing her the bone before he discarded it. He placed the rest in the water. As they went back up to the cave, he tried to estimate Ayla’s age. She can’t be too young—she’s too skilled a healer. Yet can she be as old as I am?

  “Ayla, how long have you been here?” he asked as they started into the cave, unable to contain his curiosity.

  She halted, not sure how to respond, or if she could make him understand. Her counting sticks came to mind, but although Creb had shown her how to make the marks, she wasn’t supposed to know. Jondalar might disapprove. But he’s leaving, she thought.

  She got out a bundle of the sticks she had marked every day, untied it and laid them out.

  “What are these?” he asked.

  “You want to know how long I’ve been here. I don’t know how to tell you, but since I found this valley I have cut a mark on a stick every night. I have been here as many nights as there are marks on my sticks.”

  “Do you know how many marks there are?”

  She remembered the frustration she had felt when she had tried to make some meaning of her marked sticks before. “As many as there are,” she said.

  Jondalar picked up one of the sticks, intrigued. She did not know the counting words, but she had some sense of them. Not even everyone in his Cave could comprehend them. The powerful magic of their meaning was not given to everyone to know. Zelandoni had explained some to him. He didn’t know all the magic they contained, but he knew more than most who were not of the calling. Where had Ayla learned to mark the sticks? How could someone raised by flatheads have any understanding of counting words?

  “How did you learn to do this?”

  “Creb showed me. Long ago. When I was a little girl.”

  “Creb—the man whose hearth you lived at? He knew what they meant? He wasn’t just making marks?”

  “Creb was … Mog-ur … holy man. The clan looked to him to know the proper time for certain ceremonies, like naming days or Clan Gatherings. This was how he knew. I don’t think he believed I would understand—it is difficult even for mog-urs. He did it so I wouldn’t ask so many questions. Afterward, he told me not to mention it again. He caught me once, when I was older, marking the days of the moon’s cycle and was very angry.”

  “This … Mog-ur.” Jondalar had difficulty with the pronunciation. “He was someone holy, sacred, like a zelandoni?”

  “I don’t know. You say zelandoni when you mean healer. Mog-ur was not a healer. Iza knew the plants and herbs—she was medicine woman. Mog-ur knew spirits. He helped her by talking to them.”

  “A zelandoni can be a healer, or can have other Gifts. A zelandoni is someone who has answered the call to Serve the Mother. Some have no special Gifts, just a desire to Serve. They can talk to the Mother.”

  “Creb had other gifts. He was most high, most powerful. He could … he did … I don’t know how to explain.”

  Jondalar nodded. It was not always easy to explain a zelandoni’s Gifts either, but they were also the keepers of special knowledge. He looked back at the sticks. “What does this mean?” he asked, pointing to the extra marks.

  Ayla blushed. “It’s … it is my … my womanhood,” she answered, groping for a way to explain.

  Women of the Clan were supposed to avoid men during their menses, and men totally ignored them. Women suffered the partial ostracism—the woman’s curse—because men feared the mysterious life force that enabled a woman to bring forth life. It imbued the spirit of her totem with extraordinary strength which fought off the impregnating essences of the spirits of men’s totems. When a woman bled, it meant her totem had won and had wounded the essence of the male totem—had cast it out. No man wanted his totem spirit to be drawn into the battle at that time.

  But Ayla had been faced with a dilemma shortly after she brought the man to the cave. She could not keep herself in strict isolation when her bleeding started, not when he was barely clinging to life and needed close attention. She had to ignore the stricture. Later, she tried to make her contact with him during those times as brief as possible, but she couldn’t avoid him when just two of them shared the cave. Nor could she attend only to women’s tasks then, as was the Clan practice. There were no other women to take her place. She had to hunt for the man, and cook for the man, and he wanted her to share meals with him.

  All she could do to maintain some semblance of womanly decorum was to avoid any reference to the subject, and take care of herself in private to keep the fact as inconspicuous as possible. How then could she answer his question?

  But he accepted her statement with no apparent qualms or misgivings. She could detec
t no sign that he was disturbed at all.

  “Most women keep some kind of record. Did Creb or Iza teach you to do that?” he asked.

  Ayla bowed her head to hide her discomfiture. “No, I did it so I would know. I didn’t want to be away from the cave unprepared.”

  His nod of understanding surprised her. “Women tell a story about the counting words,” he continued. “They say the moon, Lumi, is the lover of the Great Earth Mother. On the days when Doni bleeds, She will not share Pleasures with him. That makes him angry and hurts his pride. He turns away from Her and hides his light. But he cannot stay away for long. He gets lonely, misses Her warm full body, and peeks back to see Her. By then, Doni is upset, and will not look on him. But as he turns around and shines for Her in all his splendor, She cannot resist him. She opens Herself to him once more, and they are both happy.

  “That is why many of Her festivals are held when the moon is full. Women say their phases match the Mother’s—they call their time of bleeding the moon time, and they can tell when to expect it by watching Lumi. They say Doni gave them the counting words so they would know even when the moon is hidden by clouds, but they are used in many important ways now.”

  Though she was disconcerted to hear a man talk so casually about intimate female matters, Ayla was fascinated by the story. “Sometimes I watch the moon,” she said, “but I mark the stick, too. What are counting words?”

  “They are … names for the marks on your sticks, for one thing, for other things too. They are used to say the number of … anything. They can say how many deer a scout has seen, or how many days away they are. If it is a large herd, such as bison in the fall, then a zelandoni must scout the herd, one who knows the special ways to use counting words.”

  An undercurrent of anticipation stirred through the woman; she could almost understand what he meant. She felt on the edge of resolving questions whose answers had eluded her.

  The tall blond man spied the pile of round cooking stones and scooped them up in both hands. “Let me show you,” he said. He lined them up in a row, and, pointing to each in turn, began to count, “One, two, three, four, five, six, seven …”

  Ayla watched with rising excitement.

  When he finished, he looked around for something else to count, and he picked up a few of Ayla’s marked sticks. “One,” he said, putting down the first, “two,” laying the next down beside it, “three, four, five …”

  Ayla had a vivid recollection of Creb telling her, “Birth year, walking year, weaning year …” as he pointed to her outstretched fingers. She held up her hand, and, looking at Jondalar, she pointed to each finger. “One, two, three, four, five,” she said.

  “That’s it! I knew you were close when I saw your sticks.”

  Her smile was gloriously triumphant. She picked up one of the sticks and began counting the marks. Jondalar continued with the counting words beyond the ones she knew, but even he had to stop a few marks beyond the second extra mark. His brow knotted in concentration. “Is this how long you’ve been here?” he asked, indicating the few sticks she had brought out.

  “No,” she said, and got the rest. Untying the bundles, she spread out all the sticks.

  Jondalar looked closer, and paled. His stomach turned. Years! The marks represented years! He lined them up so he could see all the marks, then studied them for a while. Though Zelandoni had explained some ways to tally larger numbers, he had to think.

  Then he smiled. Rather than try to count the days, he would count the extra marks, the ones that represented a complete cycle of the moon’s phases as well as the beginning of her moon times. Pointing to each mark, he made a mark in the dirt floor as he said the counting word aloud. After thirteen marks, he started another row, but skipped the first, as Zelandoni had explained, and made only twelve marks. Moon cycles did not match the seasons or the years exactly. He came to the end of her marks at the end of the third row, then looked at her with awe.

  “Three years! You’ve been here three years! That’s how long I’ve been on my Journey. Have you been alone all that time?”

  “I’ve had Whinney, and up until …”

  “But you haven’t seen any people?”

  “No, not since I left the Clan.”

  She thought of the years the way she had tallied them. The beginning, when she left the Clan, found the valley, and adopted the little filly, she called Whinney’s year. The next spring—the beginning of the cycle of regrowth—she found the lion cub, and thought of that as Baby’s year. From Whinney’s year to Baby’s year was Jondalar’s one. Next was the stallion’s year, two. And three was the year of Jondalar and the colt. She remembered the years better her way, but she liked the counting words. The man had made her marks tell him how long she had been in the valley, and she wanted to learn to do it.

  “Do you know how old you are, Ayla? How many years you have lived?” Jondalar suddenly asked.

  “Let me think about it,” she said. She held up one hand with her fingers outstretched. “Creb said Iza thought I was about this many … five years … when they found me.” Jondalar made five marks on the ground. “Durc was born the spring of the year we went to the Clan Gathering. I took him with me. Creb said there are this many years between Clan Gatherings.” She held up two fingers in addition to the full hand.

  “That’s seven,” Jondalar said.

  “There was a Clan Gathering the summer before they found me.”

  “That’s one less—let me think,” he said, making more marks in the dirt. Then he shook his head. “Are you sure? That means your son was born when you were eleven!”

  “I’m sure, Jondalar.”

  “I’ve heard of a few women giving birth that young, but not many. Thirteen or fourteen is more usual, and some think that’s too young. You were hardly more than a child yourself.”

  “No, I was not a child. I had not been a child for several years by then. I was too big to be a child, taller than everyone, including the men. And I was already older than most Clan girls are when they become women.” Her mouth drew up in a skewed smile. “I don’t think I could have waited any longer. Some thought I would never become a woman because I have such a strong male totem. Iza was so glad when … when the moon times started. So was I, until …” Her smile faded. “That was Broud’s year. The next one was Durc’s year.”

  “The year before your son was born—ten! Ten years when he forced you? How could he do it?”

  “I was a woman, taller than most women. Taller than he.”

  “But not bigger than he! I’ve seen some of those flatheads! They may not be tall, but they’re powerful. I wouldn’t want to fight one hand to hand.”

  “They are men, Jondalar,” she corrected gently. “They are not flatheads—they are men of the Clan.”

  It stopped him. For all her soft-spoken tones, there was a stubborn set to her jaw.

  “After what happened, you still insist he isn’t an animal?”

  “You might say Broud was an animal for forcing me, but then what do you call the men who force women of the Clan?”

  He hadn’t thought of it in quite that way.

  “Not all the men were like Broud, Jondalar. Most of them were not. Creb was not—he was gentle and kind, even though he was a powerful Mog-ur. Brun was not, even though he was leader. He was strong-willed, but he was fair. He accepted me into his clan. Some things he had to do—it was the Clan way—but he honored me with his gratitude. Men of the Clan do not often show gratitude to women in front of everyone. He let me hunt; he accepted Durc. When I left, he promised to protect him.”

  “When did you leave?”

  She stopped to think. Birth year, walking year, weaning year. “Durc was three years when I left,” she said.

  Jondalar added three more lines. “You were fourteen? Only fourteen? And you’ve lived here alone since then? For three years?” He counted up all the lines. “You are seventeen years, Ayla. You have lived a lifetime in your seventeen years,” he said.
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br />   Ayla sat silently for a time, pensively—then she spoke. “Durc is six years now. The men will be taking him with them to the practice field by now. Grod will make him a spear, his size, and Brun will teach him to use it. And if he’s still alive, old Zoug will show him how to use a sling. Durc will practice hunting small animals with his friend, Grev—Durc is younger but he’s taller than Grev. He always was tall for his age—he gets that from me. He can run fast; no one can run faster. And he’s good with the sling. And Uba loves him. She loves him as much as I do.”

  Ayla didn’t notice the tears falling until she took a breath that was a sob, and she didn’t know how she found herself in Jondalar’s arms with her head on his shoulder.

  “It’s all right, Ayla,” the man said, patting her gently. Mother at eleven, torn away from her son at fourteen. Not able to watch him grow, not even sure if he’s alive. She’s sure someone loves him and is taking care of him, and teaching him to hunt … like any child.

  Ayla felt wrung out when she finally lifted her head from the man’s shoulder, but she felt lighter, too, as though her grief rested less heavily on her. It was the first time since she had left the clan that she had shared her loss with another human soul. She smiled at him with gratitude.

  He smiled back with tenderness and compassion, and something more that welled up from the unconscious source of his inner self and showed in the blue depths of his eyes. It found a responsive chord within the woman. They spent a long moment locked in the intimate embrace of outspoken eyes, declaring in silence that which they would not say aloud.

  The intensity was too much for Ayla; she was still not entirely comfortable with a direct stare. She wrenched her eyes away and began gathering up her marked sticks. It took a moment for Jondalar to gather himself together and help her tie the sticks into bundles. Working beside her made him more aware of her warm fullness and pleasant female scent than when he was comforting her in his arms. And Ayla felt an aftersense of the places their bodies had met, where his gentle hands had touched her, and the taste of the salt of his skin mingled with her tears.