by Jean M. Auel
“Jondalar, are you making a … spear?”
He grinned. “Bone can be shaped to a sharp point like wood, but it’s stronger and doesn’t splinter, and bone is lightweight.”
“Isn’t that a very short spear?” she asked.
He laughed, a big hearty laugh. “It would be, if that was all there was to it. I’m just making points now. Some people make flint points. The Mamutoi do, especially for hunting mammoth. Flint is brittle and it breaks, but with knife-sharp edges a flint spear point will pierce a tough mammoth hide more easily. For most hunting, though, bone makes a better point. The shafts will be wood.”
“How do you put them together?”
“Look,” he said, turning the point around to show her the base. “I can split this end with a burin and a knife, then shape the end of the wooden shaft to fit inside the split.” He demonstrated by holding the forefinger of one hand between the thumb and forefinger of the other. “Then, I can add some glue or pitch, and wrap it tight with wet sinew or thong. When it dries and shrinks up, it will hold the two together.”
“That point is so small. The shaft will be a twig!”
“It will be more than a twig, but not as heavy as your spear. It can’t be, if you’re going to throw it.”
“Throw it! Throw a spear?”
“You throw stones with your sling, don’t you? You can do the same with a spear. You won’t have to dig pitfalls, and you can even make a kill on the run, once you develop the skill. As accurate as you are with that sling, I think you’ll learn fast.”
“Jondalar! Do you know how often I’ve wished I could hunt deer or bison with a sling? I never thought about throwing a spear.” She frowned. “Can you throw with enough force? I can throw much harder and farther with a sling than I can by hand.”
“You won’t have quite the force, but you still have the advantage of distance. You’re right, though. It’s too bad you can’t throw a spear with a sling, but …” He paused in mid-sentence. “I wonder …” His brow furrowed at a thought so startling that it demanded immediate attention. “No, I don’t think so.… Where can we find some shafts?”
“By the stream. Jondalar, is there any reason I can’t help make those spears? I’d learn faster if you’re still here to tell me what I’m doing wrong.”
“Yes, of course,” he said, but he felt a heaviness as he descended the path. He had forgotten about leaving and was sorry she had reminded him.
27
Ayla crouched low and looked through a screen of tall golden grass, bent with the weight of ripened seed heads, concentrating on the contours of the animal. She held a spear, poised for flight, in her right hand, and another ready in her left. A strand of long blond hair, escaped from a tightly plaited braid, whipped across her face. She shifted the long shaft slightly, searching for the balance point, then, squinting, gripped it and took aim. Bounding forward, she hurled the spear.
“Oh, Jondalar! I’ll never get any accuracy with this spear!” Ayla said, exasperated. She marched toward a tree, padded with a grass-stuffed hide, and retrieved the still-quivering spear from the rump of a bison Jondalar had drawn with a piece of charcoal.
“You’re too hard on yourself, Ayla,” Jondalar said, beaming with pride. “You are much better than you think you are. You are learning very fast, but then I’ve seldom seen such determination. You practice every spare moment. I think that may be your problem right now. You’re trying too hard. You need to relax.”
“The way I learned to use a sling was to practice.”
“You didn’t gain your skill with that weapon overnight, did you?”
“No. It took several years. But I don’t want to wait years before I can hunt with this spear.”
“You won’t. You could probably hunt right now and manage to bring something down. You don’t have the thrust and speed you’re used to, Ayla, but you never will. You have to find your new range. If you want to keep practicing, why don’t you switch to your sling for a while.”
“I don’t need to practice with the sling.”
“But you need to relax, and I think it would help you loosen up. Give it a try.”
She did feel her tension dissipate with the familiar feel of the leather strap in her hands, and the rhythm and movement of handling the sling. She enjoyed the warm satisfaction of skilled expertise, though it had been a struggle to learn. She could hit anything she aimed for, particularly practice targets that did not move. The man’s obvious admiration encouraged her to put on a demonstration showing off her ability.
She picked up a few handfuls of pebbles from the edge of the stream, then walked across to the far side of the field to display her true range. She exhibited her rapid-fire double-stone technique, and then showed how quickly she could follow through with an additional two stones.
Jondalar joined in, setting up targets that tested her accuracy. He set up four stones in a row on the large boulder; she knocked them off with four rapid casts. He threw two stones into the air one after the other; she hit them in mid-flight. Then he did something that surprised her. He stood in the middle of the field, balanced a rock on each shoulder, and looked at her with a grin on his face. He knew that she hurled a stone from her sling with such force that it could, at the least, be painful—fatal if it happened to hit a vulnerable spot. This test showed his trust in her, but more, it tested her confidence in her skill.
He heard the whistling of wind and the dull clink of stone hitting stone as first one, and then, an instant later, the other stone was knocked away. He didn’t get away with nothing to show for his dangerous trick. A tiny chip flew off one stone and embedded itself in his neck. He didn’t flinch, but a small trickle of blood, which smeared when he picked the stone sliver out, gave him away.
“Jondalar! You’re hurt!” Ayla exclaimed when she saw him.
“Just a chip, it’s nothing. But you are good with that sling, woman. I’ve never seen anyone handle a weapon like that.”
Ayla had never seen anyone look at her the way he did. His eyes sparkled with respect and admiration; his voice was husky with warm praise. She blushed, filled with such a flood of emotion that it brought tears for lack of any other outlet.
“If you could throw a spear like that …” He stopped and closed his eyes, straining to see something with his mind’s eye. “Ayla, can I use your sling?”
“Do you want to learn to use a sling?” she asked, giving it to him.
“Not exactly.”
He picked up a spear, one of several on the ground, and tried to fit the butt end into the pocket of the sling, worn to the shape of the round stones it usually held. But he was not familiar enough with the techniques of handling a sling, and, after a few clumsy attempts, he gave it back, along with the spear.
“Do you think you could throw this spear with your sling?”
She saw what he was trying, and she managed an unwieldy arrangement—the butt of the spear stretching out the sling, while she held the ends of it and the shaft of the spear at the same time. She could not reach a good balance—had little force and less control over the long missile when it left her hand—but she did succeed in casting it,
“It would need to be longer, or the spear shorter,” he said, trying to visualize something he had never seen. “And the sling is too flexible. The spear needs more support. Something to rest on … maybe wood or bone … with a backstop so it won’t slide off. Ayla! I’m not sure, but I think it might work. I think I could make a … spear thrower!”
Ayla watched Jondalar constructing and experimenting, fascinated as much by the concept of making something from an idea as by the process of making it. The culture in which she was raised was not given to such innovation, and she didn’t realize that she had invented hunting methods and a travois from a similar wellspring of creativity.
He used materials to suit his needs and adapted tools to new requirements. He asked her advice, drawing from her years of experience with her hurling weapon, but it soon became apparent
that the contrivance he was making, though its impetus had come from her sling, was a new and unique device.
Once he had the basic principles worked out, he devoted time to modifications to improve the performance of the spear, and she was no more experienced with the finer points of hurling a spear than he was with the operation of a sling. Jondalar warned her, with a gleam of delight, that once he had good working models, they would both need to practice.
Ayla decided to let him use the tools he knew best to finish the two working models. She wanted to experiment with another of his tools. She had not progressed very far in making the clothes for him. They were together so much that the only time she could find was early morning or the middle of the night when he was sleeping.
While he was finishing and refining, she brought his old clothing and her new materials out to the ledge. In the daylight, she could see how the original pieces were stitched together. She found the process so interesting, and the garments so intriguing, that she thought she would make an adaptation of them to fit herself. She didn’t try to match the elaborate beading and quillwork of the shirt, but she studied it carefully, thinking it might be a good challenge to attempt during the next long quiet winter.
From her vantage, she could watch Jondalar on the beach and in the field, and put her project away before he returned to the cave. But on the day he ran up the path, proudly displaying two finished spear throwers, Ayla barely had time to crumple the garment she was working on into an inconspicuous pile of leather. He was too full of his accomplishment to see anything else.
“What do you think, Ayla! Will it work?”
She took one from him. It was a simple, though ingenious, device: a flat narrow wooden platform, about half as long as the spear, with a groove in the middle where the spear rested, and a backstop carved into a hook-shape. Two leather-thong loops for the fingers were fastened on either side near the front of the spear thrower.
The thrower was held first in a horizontal position, with two fingers through the front loops, holding the thrower and the spear, which was resting in the long groove, butt against the backstop. When hurling, holding the front end by the loops caused the back end to flip up, in effect increasing the length of the throwing arm. The additional leverage added to the speed and force with which the spear left the hand.
“I think, Jondalar, it’s time to start practicing.”
Practicing filled their days. The padded leather around the target tree fell apart from constant puncturings, and a second one was put up. This time Jondalar drew the outline of a deer. Minor adaptations suggested themselves as they both gained in proficiency. Each of them borrowed from the techniques of the weapon with which he or she was most familiar. His strong overhand casts tended to have more lift; hers, angling more to the side, had a flatter trajectory. And each made a few adjustments on the thrower to suit his or her individual style.
A friendly competition developed between them. Ayla tried but could not match Jondalar’s mighty thrusts which gave him greater range; Jondalar could not match Ayla’s deadly accuracy. They were both astounded by the tremendous advantage of the new weapon. With it, Jondalar could hurl a spear more than twice as far, with greater force and perfect control, once a measure of skill was achieved. But one aspect of the practice sessions with Jondalar had greater effect on Ayla than the weapon itself.
She had always practiced and hunted alone. First playing in secret, fearful of being found out. Then practicing in earnest, but no less secretly. When she was allowed to hunt, it was only grudgingly. No one ever hunted with her. No one ever encouraged her when she missed, or shared a triumph when her aim was true. No one discussed with her the best way to use a weapon, advised her of alternate approaches, or listened with respect and interest to a suggestion of hers. And no one had ever teased, or joked, or laughed with her. Ayla had never experienced the camaraderie, the friendship, the fun, of a companion.
Yet, with all the easing of tensions practicing brought about, a distance remained between them that they could not seem to close. When their talk was about such safe subjects as hunting or weapons, their conversations were animated; but the introduction of any personal element caused uncomfortable silences and halting courteous evasions. An accidental touch was like a jolting shock from which they both sprang apart, followed always by stiff formality and lingering afterthoughts.
“Tomorrow!” Jondalar said, retrieving a twanging spear. Some of the hay stuffing came with it through a much enlarged and ragged hole in the leather.
“Tomorrow what?” Ayla asked.
“Tomorrow we go hunting. We’ve played long enough. We’re not going to learn any more, dulling points on a tree. It’s time to get serious.”
“Tomorrow,” Ayla agreed.
They picked up several spears and started walking back. “You know the area around here, Ayla. Where should we go?”
“I know the steppes to the east best, but maybe I should scout it first. I could go on Whinney.” She looked up to check the placement of the sun. “It’s still early.”
“Good idea. You and that horse are better than a handful of foot scouts.”
“Will you hold Racer back? I’ll feel better if I know he’s not following.”
“What about tomorrow when we go hunting?”
“We’ll have to take him with us. We need Whinney to bring the meat back. Whinney is always a little bothered by a kill, but she’s used to it. She will stay where I want her to, but if her colt gets excited and runs, and maybe gets caught in a stampede … I don’t know.”
“Don’t worry about it now. I’ll try to think of something.”
Ayla’s piercing whistle brought the mare and the colt. While Jondalar put an arm around Racer’s neck, scratched his itchy places, and talked to him, Ayla mounted Whinney and urged her to a gallop. The young one was comfortable with the man. After the woman and the mare were well gone, Jondalar picked up the armload of spears and both throwers.
“Well, Racer, shall we go to the cave to wait for them?”
He laid the spears down outside the entrance to the small break in the canyon wall, then went in. He was restless and didn’t quite know what to do with himself. He stirred the fire, brought the coals together, and added a few sticks, then went out to the front edge of the shelf and looked down the valley. The colt’s muzzle reached for his hand, and he absently caressed the shaggy young horse. As he pulled his fingers through the animal’s thickening coat, he thought of winter.
He tried to think of something else. The warm summer days had an unending quality, one so like the next that time seemed held in suspension. Decisions were easy to put off. Tomorrow was soon enough to think about the coming cold … to think about leaving. He noticed the simple breech-clout he wore.
“I don’t grow a winter coat like you, little fellow. I ought to make myself something warm soon. I gave that sewing awl to Ayla and never made another one. Maybe that’s what I should do—make a few more tools. And I need to think of a way to keep you from getting hurt.”
He went back into the cave, stepped over his sleeping furs, and cast a longing look at Ayla’s side of the fireplace. He rummaged through the storage area for some thong or heavy cordage and found some skins that had been rolled up and put away. That woman certainly knows how to finish skins, he thought, feeling the velvety soft texture. Maybe she’d let me use some of these. I hate to ask her, though.
If those spear throwers work, I should get enough hides to make something to wear. Maybe I could carve a charm on them for good luck. It wouldn’t hurt. Here’s a coil of thong. Maybe I can make something for Racer out of this. He’s such a runner—wait until he’s a stallion. Would a stallion let someone ride on his back? Could I make him go where I wanted him to?
You’ll never know. You won’t be here when he’s a stallion. You’re leaving.
Jondalar picked up the coiled thong, stopped off to get his bundle of flint-knapping tools, and went down the path to the beach. The stream looked
inviting, and he felt hot and sweaty. He took off his breechclout and waded in, then started pulling upstream, against the current. He usually turned back when he reached the narrow gorge. This time he decided to explore further. He made it past the first rapids and around the last bend, and saw a roaring wall of white water. Then he headed back.
The swim invigorated him, and the feeling that he had made a discovery encouraged a desire for change. He pulled his hair back, squeezed it out, and then his beard. You’ve worn this all summer, Jondalar, and it’s almost over. Don’t you think it’s time?
First I’ll shave, then make something to keep Racer out of the way. I don’t want to just put a rope around his neck. Then I’ll make an awl, and a burin or two so I can carve a charm on the throwers. And I think I’ll make the meal tonight. A man could forget how around Ayla. I may not be up to her standards, but I think I can still put a meal together. Mother knows, I did it often enough on the Journey.
What kind of carvings should I put on the spear throwers? A donii would bring the best luck, but I gave mine to Noria. I wonder if she ever had a baby with blue eyes? That certainly is a strange idea Ayla has, about a man making a baby start. Who would have thought that was what that old Haduma wanted. First Rites. Ayla’s never had First Rites. She’s been through so much, and she’s a wonder with that sling. Not bad with a spear thrower either. I think I’ll put a bison on hers. Will they really work? Wish I had a donii. Maybe I could make one …
Jondalar started watching for Ayla from the ledge as the evening sky darkened. When the valley became a black bottomless pit, he built a fire on the ledge so she could find her way, and he kept thinking he heard her coming up the path. Finally he made a torch and headed down. He followed the edge of the stream around the jutting wall, and he would have gone farther if he hadn’t heard the pounding of hooves approaching.