by Jean M. Auel
“Ayla! What took you so long?”
She was taken aback by his peremptory tone. “I’ve been scouting for herds. You know that.”
“But it’s after dark!”
“I know. It was almost dark before I started back. I think I’ve found the place, a herd of bison southeast …”
“It was nearly dark and you were still chasing bison! You can’t see a bison in the dark!”
Ayla couldn’t understand why he was so excited, or his demanding questions. “I wasn’t looking at bison in the dark, and why do you want to stand here talking?”
With a high-pitched nicker, the colt appeared in the circle of light from the torch and butted up against his dam. Whinney responded, and before Ayla could dismount, the young horse was nuzzling under the mare’s hind legs. It occurred to Jondalar then that he had been acting as if he had some right to question Ayla, and he turned away from the torchlight, grateful for the dark that hid his red face. He followed behind while she plodded up the path, so embarrassed that he didn’t notice her weary exhaustion.
She grabbed a sleeping fur and, wrapping it around her, hunkered near the fire. “I forgot how cold it gets at night,” she said. “I should have taken a warm wrap, but I didn’t think I’d be gone this long.”
Jondalar saw her shiver and was more chagrined. “You’re cold. Let me get you something hot to drink.” He poured some hot broth into a cup for her.
Ayla hadn’t been paying very close attention to him either—she had been too eager to get to the fire, but when she looked up to take the cup, she nearly dropped it.
“What happened to your face?” she said with equal parts of shock and concern.
“What do you mean?” he asked, worried.
“Your beard … it’s gone!”
The shock which had mirrored hers gave way to a smile. “I shaved it off.”
“Shaved?”
“Cut it off. Close to the skin. I usually do it in summer. It gets itchy when I’m hot and sweaty.”
Ayla couldn’t resist. She reached for his face to feel the smoothness of his cheek, then, rubbing against the grain, an incipient roughness; scratchy, like a lion’s tongue. She recalled he had no beard when she first found him, but after it grew in she forgot about it. He seemed so young without a beard, appealing in a childlike way, but not as a man. She wasn’t accustomed to full-grown men without beards. She ran her finger along his strong jaw and the slight cleft of his firm chin.
Her touch held him motionless. He couldn’t pull away. He felt the light tracery of her fingertips with every nerve. Though she had intended no erotic implications, just gentle curiosity, his response was from a deeper source. The insistent, straining throbbing in his groin was so immediate, so powerful, that it caught him by surprise.
The way his eyes looked at her compelled a rush of desire to know him as a man, in spite of his almost too youthful appearance. He moved to reach for her hand, to hold it to his face, but with an effort, she pulled it away, picked up the cup, and drank without tasting. It was more than being self-conscious about touching him. She had a sudden vivid memory of the last time they had sat face to face near the fire and that look had come into his eyes. And this time she had been touching him. She was afraid to look at him, afraid she’d see that horrible, degrading look again. But her fingertips remembered his smooth-rough face, and tingled.
Jondalar was distressed at his instant, almost violent reaction to her gentle touch. He couldn’t keep his eyes away from her though she avoided his look. Looking down like that, she seemed so shy, so fragile, yet he knew the strength at her core. He thought of her as a beautiful blade of flint, perfect as it fell from the stone, its thin edges delicate and translucent, yet so hard and sharp that it could cut the toughest leather in one clean stroke.
O Mother, she is so beautiful, he thought. O Doni, Great Earth Mother, I want that woman. I want her so much …
Suddenly he jumped up. He couldn’t stand just looking at her. Then he remembered the meal he had made. Here she is, cold and tired, and I’m just sitting. He went to get the mammoth-hipbone platter she used.
Ayla heard him get up. He had jumped up so abruptly, she was convinced he had suddenly been overcome with revulsion again. She started shaking, and clenched her teeth trying to stop. She could not face that again. She wanted to tell him to leave so she would not have to see him, to see his eyes naming her … abomination. She sensed, though her eyes were closed, when he was in front of her again, and she held her breath.
“Ayla?” He could see her shivering, even with the fire and her fur wrap. “I thought it might be late when you got back, so I went ahead and made something for us to eat. Would you like some? If you’re not too tired?”
Had she heard him right? She opened her eyes, slowly. He was holding a platter. He put it down in front of her, then pulled up a mat and sat down beside her. There was a hare, spitted and roasted, some boiled roots in a broth of dried meat he had already given her, and even some blueberries.
“You … cooked this … for me?” Ayla said, incredulous.
“I know it’s not as good as you would make, but I hope it’s all right. I thought it might be bad luck to use the spear thrower yet, so I just used a spear. It takes a different casting technique, and I wasn’t sure if all that practice with the thrower would spoil my aim, but I guess you don’t forget. Go ahead, eat.”
Men of the Clan did not cook. They could not—they had no memories for it. She knew Jondalar was more versatile in his abilities, but it never occurred to her that he would cook; not when there was a woman around. Even more than that he could, and that he did, was that he had thought of it in the first place. In the Clan, even after she was allowed to hunt, she was still expected to perform her usual tasks. It was so unexpected, so … considerate. Her fears had been entirely unfounded, and she didn’t know what to say. She picked up a leg he had cut off and took a bite.
“Is it all right?” he asked, a bit anxious.
“It’s wonderful,” she said with her mouth full.
It was fine, but it wouldn’t have mattered if it had been burned crisp—it would have been delicious to her. She had a feeling she was going to cry. He scooped out a ladleful of long thin roots. She picked one up and took a bite. “Is this … clover root? It’s good.”
“Yes,” he said, pleased with himself. “They are better with some oil to dip them in. It’s one of those foods women usually make for the men for special feasts because it’s a favorite. I saw the clover upstream and thought you might like it.” It had been a good idea to make a meal, he thought, enjoying her surprise.
“It’s a lot of work to dig them. There’s not much to each one, but I didn’t know they’d be so good. I only use the roots for medicine, as part of a tonic in the spring.”
“We usually eat them in spring. It’s one of the first fresh foods.”
They heard a clatter of hooves on the stone ledge and turned as Whinney and Racer came in. After a while, Ayla got up and settled them in. It was a nightly ritual that consisted of greetings, shared affection, fresh hay, grain, water, and, particularly after a long ride, a rubdown with absorbent leather and a currying with a teasel. Ayla noticed the fresh hay, grain, and water had already been put out.
“You remembered the horses, too,” she said when she sat down to finish her blueberries. Even if she hadn’t been hungry she would have eaten them.
He smiled. “I didn’t have much to do. Oh, I have something to show you.” He got up and returned with the two spear throwers. “I hope you don’t mind, it’s for luck.”
“Jondalar!” She was almost afraid to touch hers. “Did you make this?” Her voice was full of awe. She had been surprised when he drew the shape of an animal on the target, but this was so much more. “It’s … like you took the totem, the spirit of the bison, and put him there.”
The man was grinning. She made surprises so much fun. His spear thrower had a giant deer with huge palmate antlers, and she marveled
at it as well. “It is supposed to capture the spirit of the animal, so it will be drawn to the weapon. I’m not really a very good carver, you should see the work of some, and that of the sculptors, and gravers, and the artists who paint the sacred walls.”
“I’m sure you have put powerful magic in these. I did not see deer, but a herd of bison is southeast. I think they are beginning to move together. Will a bison be drawn to a weapon that has a deer on it? I can go out again tomorrow and look for deer.”
“This will work for bison. Yours will be luckier, though. I’m glad I put a bison on yours.”
Ayla didn’t know what to say. He was a man, and had given her more hunting luck than himself, and he was glad.
“I was going to make a donii for luck, too, but I didn’t have time to finish it.”
“Jondalar, I am confused. What is ‘donii’? Is it your Earth Mother?”
“The Great Earth Mother is Doni, but She takes other forms and they are all donii. A donii is usually Her spirit form, when She rides on the wind, or sends Herself into dreams—men often dream of Her as a beautiful woman. A donii is also the carved figure of a woman—usually a bountiful mother—because women are Her blessed. She made them in Her likeness, to create life as She created all life. She rests most easily in the likeness of a mother. A donii is usually sent to guide a man to Her spirit world—some say women don’t need a guide, they know the way. And some women claim they can change themselves into a donii when they want—not always to a man’s benefit. The Sharamudoi who live west of here say the Mother can take the form of a bird.”
Ayla nodded. “In the Clan, only the Ancient Ones are female spirits.”
“What about your totems?” he asked.
“The protective totem spirits are all male, for both men and women, but women’s totems are usually the smaller animals. Ursus, the Great Cave Bear, is the great protector of all the Clan—everyone’s totem. Ursus was Creb’s personal totem. He was chosen, just as the Cave Lion chose me. You can see my mark.” She showed him the four parallel scars on her left thigh, where she had been clawed by a cave lion when she was five.
“I had no idea fl … your Clan understood the spirit world at all, Ayla. It is still hard to believe—I do believe you—but it’s hard for me to comprehend that the people you talk about are the same ones I’ve always thought of as flatheads.”
Ayla put her head down, then looked up. Her eyes were serious, and concerned. “I think the Cave Lion has chosen you, Jondalar. I think he is your totem now. Creb told me a powerful totem is not easy to live with. He gave up an eye in his testing, but he gained great power. Next to Ursus, the Cave Lion is the most powerful totem, and it has not been easy. His tests have been difficult, but once I understood the reason, I have never been sorry. I think you should know, in case he is your totem now.” She looked down, hoping she hadn’t said too much.
“They meant very much to you, your Clan, didn’t they?”
“I wanted to be a woman of the Clan, but I could not. I could not make myself be one. I am not like them. I am of the Others. Creb knew it, and Iza told me to leave and find my own kind. I didn’t want to go, but I had to leave and I can never go back. I am cursed with death. I am dead.”
Jondalar wasn’t sure what she meant, but a chill raised his small hairs when she said it. She drew a deep breath before she continued.
“I did not remember the woman I was born to, or my life before the Clan. I tried, but I could not imagine a man of the Others, a man like me. Now, when I try to imagine others, I can only see you. You are the first of my own kind I have ever seen, Jondalar. No matter what happens, I will never forget you.” Ayla stopped, feeling she had said too much. She got up. “If we are going hunting in the morning, I think we should get some sleep.”
Jondalar knew she had been raised by flatheads and lived alone in the valley after she left them, but until she said it, he didn’t fully understand that he was the first. It disturbed him to think he represented all his people, and he wasn’t proud of the way he had done it. Yet, he knew how everyone felt about flatheads. If he had just told her, would it have made the same impression? Would she have really known what to expect?
He went to bed with unsettled, ambivalent feelings. He stared at the fire after he lay down, thinking. Suddenly he felt a distorting sensation, and something like vertigo without the dizziness. He saw a woman as though reflected in a pond into which a stone had dropped; a wavering image from which ripples spread out in larger and larger circles. He did not want the woman to forget him—to be remembered by her was significant.
He sensed a divergence, a path splitting, a choice, and he had no one to guide him. A current of warm air raised the hair on the back of his neck. He knew She was leaving him. He had never consciously felt Her presence, but he knew when She was gone, and the void She left behind ached. It was the beginning of an ending: the ending of the ice, the end of an age, the end of the time when Her nourishment provided. The Earth Mother was leaving Her children to find their own way, to carve out their own lives, to pay the consequences of their own actions—to come of age. Not in his lifetime, not in many lifetimes to come, but the first inexorable step had been taken. She had passed on Her parting Gift, Her Gift of Knowledge.
Jondalar felt an eerie keening wail, and he knew he heard the Mother cry.
Like a thong stretched taut and released, reality snapped back into place. But it had been stretched too far and could not fit back into its original dimension. He felt that something was out of place. He looked across the fire at Ayla and saw tears flowing down her face.
“What’s wrong, Ayla?”
“I don’t know.”
“Are you sure she can take both of us?”
“No, I’m not sure,” Ayla said, leading Whinney, loaded with her carrying baskets. Racer trailed behind, led by a rope that was tied to a sort of halter made of leather thongs. It gave him freedom to graze and to move his head, and it would not tighten up around his neck and choke him. The halter had bothered the colt at first, but he was getting used to it.
“If we can both ride, traveling will be faster. If she doesn’t like it, she will let me know. Then we can ride her in turns, or both walk.”
When they reached the large boulder in the meadow, Ayla climbed on the horse, moved up a bit, and held the mare steady while Jondalar mounted her. Whinney flicked her ears back. She felt the extra weight and wasn’t accustomed to it, but she was a sturdy rugged horse and she started out at Ayla’s urging. The woman kept her to a steady pace and was sensitive to the horse’s change in gait that signaled it was time to stop and rest.
The second time they started out, Jondalar was more relaxed and then wished he was still nervous. Without the tense worry, he became entirely aware of the woman riding in front of him. He could feel her back pressing up against him, her thighs against his, and Ayla became sensitive to more than the horse. A hot, hard pressure had risen behind her, over which Jondalar had no control, and every movement of the horse jogged them together. She wished it would go away—and yet she didn’t.
Jondalar was beginning to feel a pain he had not experienced before. He had never forced himself to hold in his aroused desire so much. From the first days of manhood, there had always been some means for release, but there was no other woman here except Ayla. He refused to bring it about himself again and just tried to bear it.
“Ayla,” his voice was strained, “I think … I think it’s time to rest,” he blurted out.
She stopped the horse and got off as quickly as she could. “It’s not far,” she said. “We can walk the rest of the way.”
“Yes, it will give Whinney a rest.”
Ayla didn’t argue, although she knew that was not why she was walking. They walked three abreast, with the horse between them, talking over her back. Even then, Ayla could hardly keep her mind on landmarks and directions, and Jondalar walked with aching loins, grateful for the screen the horse provided.
As they came in sig
ht of a herd of bison, the anticipation of actually hunting with the spear thrower began to drain off a measure of their stifled ardor, though they took care not to stand too close together, and preferred to keep one or the other of the horses between them.
The bison were milling around a small stream. The herd was larger than when Ayla had first seen it. Several other small groupings had joined it and more would follow. Eventually, tens of thousands of densely packed, shaggy, brownish black animals would crowd across acres of rolling hills and river valleys; a lowing, thundering, living carpet. Within that throng, any one individual animal had little significance; their survival strategy depended on numbers.
Even the smaller number that had accumulated near the stream had subjugated their prickly individualities to the herding instinct. Later, survival would demand splintering again into small family herds to disperse and search for fodder during the lean seasons.
Ayla took Whinney to the edge of the stream near a tenacious wind-bent pine. In the sign language of the Clan, she told the horse to stay nearby, and, seeing the mare herd her young one close to her, Ayla knew she need not have worried about Racer. Whinney was entirely capable of guiding her foal away from danger. But Jondalar had gone to some trouble to find a solution to a problem she had envisaged, and she was curious to see how it would work.
The woman and man each took a spear thrower and a holder of long spears, and proceeded on foot toward the herd. Hard hooves had broken down the dry crust of the steppes and kicked up a haze of dust that settled in a fine coating on the dark shaggy fur. The movement of the herd was marked by the choking dust, the way smoke from a smoldering prairie fire showed the course of the blaze—and a similar devastation was left in the wake.
Jondalar and Ayla circled to get downwind of the slowly moving herd, squinting to pick out individual animals as the wind, laden with the hot rangy odor of bison, blew fine grit in their faces. Bawling calves straggled after cows, and butting yearlings tested the patience of hump-backed bulls.