by Jean M. Auel
One old bull, rolling in a dust wallow, heaved up to regain his feet. His massive head hung low as though weighted down by the enormous black horns. Jondalar’s six feet six inches topped the height of the bison at his humped shoulders—but not by much. The animal’s powerful, thickly furred front quarters tapered to low, lean hindquarters. The huge old beast, probably just past his prime, was too tough and stringy for their needs, but they knew he could be formidable when he stopped to eye them suspiciously. They waited until he moved on.
As they moved in closer, the rambling background noise of the herd increased and disintegrated into various pitches of bawling and lowing. Jondalar pointed out a young female. The heifer was nearly full grown, ready to bear young, and fattened from summer grazing. Ayla nodded agreement. They fitted the spears into their spear throwers and Jondalar signaled his intention to circle to the other side of the young cow.
By some unknown instinct, or perhaps because she had seen the man moving, the animal sensed she had been marked as prey. Nervously, she edged closer to the main body of the herd. Several others were moving to close around her, and Jondalar’s attention was distracted by them. Ayla was sure they were going to lose the cow. Jondalar’s back was toward her, she couldn’t signal, and the heifer was moving out of range. She couldn’t shout; even if he could hear her, it might warn the bison.
She made a decision and took aim. He glanced back as she was ready to hurl, took in the situation, and readied his thrower. The fast-moving heifer was stirring up the other animals, as were they. The man and women had thought the cloud of dust would be sufficient cover, but the bison were used to it. The young cow had almost reached the safety of the crowd, with others moving in.
Jondalar dashed toward her and heaved his spear. Ayla’s followed an instant later, finding its mark in the shaggy neck of the bison after his tore into her soft underbelly. The bison’s momentum carried her forward, then her pace slowed. She wavered, staggered, and slumped to her knees, cracking Jondalar’s spear as she collapsed on it. The herd smelled blood. A few sniffed at the downed heifer, lowing uneasily. Others picked up their dirge, jostling and eddying, the air rampant with tension.
Ayla and Jondalar ran toward the kill from opposite directions. Suddenly he started shouting and waving his arms at her. She shook her head, not understanding his signals.
A young bull, who had been playing at butting, had finally elicited a response from the old patriarch and dodged away, running into a nervous cow. The young male moved back, indecisive and agitated, but his evasive action was cut off by the big bull. He didn’t know which way to turn until his attention was caught by a moving bipedal figure. He lowered his head and ran toward it.
“Ayla! Look out!” Jondalar shouted, running toward her. He had a spear in his hand and pointed it.
Ayla turned and saw the young bull coming at her. Her first thought was her sling, an almost instinctive reaction. It had always been her immediate means of defense. But she dismissed it quickly and slapped a spear into her thrower.
Jondalar launched his spear by hand a moment before her, but the spear thrower imparted greater speed. Jondalar’s weapon found a flank, which turned the bison momentarily. When he looked, Ayla’s spear, still quivering, was lodged in the young bull’s eye; the animal was dead before he fell.
The running, shouting, and new source of blood smell started the aimlessly milling animals in a concerted direction—away from the disturbing activity. The last stragglers bypassed their fallen members to join the herd in a ground-shaking stampede. The rumble could still be heard after the dust settled.
The man and woman were struck dumb for a moment as they stood looking at the two dead bison on the empty plain.
“It’s over,” Ayla said, stunned. “Just like that.”
“Why didn’t you run?” Jondalar shouted, giving in to his fear for her now that it was over. He strode toward her. “You could’ve been killed!”
“I couldn’t turn my back on a charging bull,” Ayla countered. “He would have gored me for sure.” She looked again at the bison. “No, I think your spear would have stopped him … but I didn’t know that. I never hunted with anyone before. I always had to watch out for myself. If I didn’t, no one would have.”
Her words jogged a final piece into place, and suddenly a picture came together of what her life must have been. He saw her in a new way. This woman, he thought, this gentle, caring, loving woman, has survived more than anyone would believe. No, she could not run away, not from anything, not even from you. Whenever you let yourself go, Jondalar, and lost control, people backed off. But at your worst, she stood her ground.
“Ayla, you beautiful, wild, wonderful woman, look what a hunter you are!” He smiled. “Look what we’ve done! Two of them. How are we going to get them both back?”
As the full significance of their achievement filled her, she smiled, with satisfaction, triumph, and joy. It made Jondalar aware that he had not seen that smile often enough. She was beautiful, but when she smiled like that, she glowed, as though a fire was lit from within. A laugh rose up in him unexpectedly—uninhibited and infectious. She joined him; she couldn’t help it. It was their shout of victory, of success.
“Look what a hunter you are, Jondalar,” she said.
“It’s the spear throwers—they made the difference. We walked into this herd, and before they knew what happened … two of them! Think what that can mean!”
She knew what it would mean to her. With the new weapon she would always be able to hunt for herself. Summer. Winter. No pit traps to dig. She could travel and hunt. The spear thrower had all the advantages of her sling, and so many more.
“I know what it means. You said you would show me a better way to hunt, an easier way. You did, more than I imagined. I don’t know how to tell you … I am so …”
There was only one way she knew to express her gratitude, the way she had learned in the Clan. She sat at his feet and bowed her head. Perhaps he would not tap her shoulder to give her permission to tell him, in the proper way, but she had to try.
“What are you doing?” he said, reaching down to urge her up. “Don’t sit there like that, Ayla.”
“When a woman of the Clan wants to tell a man something important, this is how she asks for his attention,” she said, looking up. “It is important for me to tell you how much this means, how grateful I am for the weapon. And for teaching me your words, for everything.”
“Please, Ayla, get up,” he said, lifting her to her feet. “I didn’t give this weapon to you, you gave it to me. If I hadn’t seen you use your sling, I would not have thought of it. I am grateful to you, for more than this weapon.”
He was holding her arms, feeling her body close to his. She was looking into his eyes, unable and unwilling to turn her eyes aside. He bent closer and put his mouth on hers.
Her eyes opened wide in surprise. It was so unexpected. Not only his action, but her reaction, the jolt that flushed through her, when she felt his mouth on hers. She did not know how to respond.
And, finally, he understood. He wouldn’t push her beyond that gentle kiss—not yet.
“What is that mouth on mouth?”
“It’s a kiss, Ayla. It’s your first kiss, isn’t it? I keep forgetting, but it’s very hard to look at you and … Ayla, sometimes I am a very stupid man.”
“Why do you say that? You are not stupid.”
“I am stupid. I can’t believe how stupid I have been.” He let go of her. “But right now, I think we’d better find a way to get those bison back to the cave, because if I stay here standing next to you like this, I’ll never be able to do it right for you. The way it should be done for your first time.”
“The way what should be done?” she said, not really wanting him to move away.
“First Rites, Ayla. If you will allow me.”
28
“I don’t think Whinney could have hauled them both back here if we hadn’t left the heads behind,” Ayla said. �
�It was a good idea.” She and Jondalar dragged the carcass of the bull off the travois and onto the ledge. “There is so much meat! It will take a long time to cut it up. We should start right away.”
“They’ll keep for a while, Ayla.” His smile and his eyes filled her with warmth. “I think your First Rites are more important. I’ll help you take the harness off Whinney—then I’m going for a swim. I’m sweaty, and bloody.”
“Jondalar …” Ayla hesitated. She was feeling excited, and yet shy. “It is a ceremony, this First Rites?”
“Yes, it is a ceremony.”
“Iza taught me to prepare myself for ceremonies. Is there a … preparation for this ceremony?”
“Usually older women help young women prepare. I don’t know what they say or do. I think you should do whatever is appropriate for you.”
“Then I will find the soaproot and purify myself, the way Iza taught me. I will wait until you are through with your swim. I should be alone when I prepare.” She flushed and looked down.
She seems so young, and shy, he thought. Just like most young women at First Rites. He felt the familiar surge of tenderness and excitement. Even her preparations were right. He lifted her chin and kissed her again, then firmly moved himself away. “I’d like a little soaproot myself.”
“I’ll get some for you,” she said.
He was grinning as he walked along the stream behind Ayla, and after she dug the soaproot and went back up to the cave, he flung himself into the water with a tremendous splash, feeling better about himself than he had for a long time. He pounded the soapy foam from the roots, rubbed it on his body, then took off the leather thong and worked it into his hair. Sand usually worked well enough, but soaproot was better.
He dove into the water and swam upstream, almost as far as the falls. When he returned to the beach, he put his breechclout on and hurried up to the cave. A roast was on, smelling delicious. He was so relaxed and happy, he couldn’t believe it.
“I’m glad you’re back. It will take some time to purify myself properly, and I didn’t want it to get too late.” She picked up a bowl of steaming liquid with horsetail ferns in it, for her hair, and a newly cured skin for a fresh wrap.
“Take as long as you need,” he said, kissing her lightly.
She started down, then stopped and turned around. “I like that mouth on mouth, Jondalar. That kiss,” she said.
“I hope you like the rest,” he said after she left.
He walked around the cave, seeing everything with new eyes. He checked the haunch of roasting bison and turned the spit, noticed she had wrapped some roots in leaves and put them near coals, and then found the hot tea she had ready for him. She must have dug the roots while I was swimming, he thought.
He saw his sleeping furs on the other side of the fireplace, frowned, and then, with great delight, picked them up and brought them back to the empty place beside Ayla’s. After straightening them, he went back for the bundle that held his tools, then remembered the donii he had begun to carve. He sat on the mat that had kept his sleeping furs off the ground and opened the deerskin-wrapped package.
He examined the piece of mammoth-tusk ivory he had started to shape into a female figure and decided to finish it.
Maybe he wasn’t the best of carvers, but it didn’t seem right to have one of the Mother’s most important ceremonies without a donii. He picked out a few carving burins and took the ivory outside.
He sat at the edge, carving, shaping, sculpting, but he realized the ivory was not turning out to be ample and motherly. It was taking on the shape of a young woman. The hair that he had intended to resemble the style of the ancient donii he had given away—a ridged form covering the face as well as the back—was suggestive of braids, tight braids all over the head, except for the face. The face was blank. No face was ever carved on a donii, who could bear to look upon the face of the Mother? Who could know it? She was all women, and none.
He stopped carving and looked upstream and then down, hoping he might see her, though she said she wanted to be alone. Could he bring her Pleasure? he wondered. He had never doubted himself when he was called upon for First Rites at Summer Meetings, but those young women understood the customs and knew what to expect. They had older women to explain it to them.
Should I try to explain? No, you don’t know what to say, Jondalar. Just show her. She will let you know if she doesn’t like anything. That’s one of her most appealing qualities, her honesty. No coy little ways. It’s refreshing.
What would it be like to show the Mother’s Gift of Pleasure to a woman with no pretenses? Who would neither hold back nor feign enjoyment?
Why should she be any different from any other woman at First Rites? Because she’s not like any other woman at First Rites. She has been opened, with great pain. What if you can’t overcome that terrible beginning? What if she can’t enjoy the Pleasures, what if you can’t make her feel them? I wish there was some way to make her forget. If I could draw her to me, overcome her resistance and capture her spirit.
Capture her spirit?
He looked at the figure in his hand, and suddenly his mind was racing. Why did they grave the image of an animal on a weapon, or on the Sacred Walls? To approach the mother-spirit of it, to overcome her resistance and capture the essence.
Don’t be ridiculous, Jondalar. You can’t capture Ayla’s spirit that way. It wouldn’t be right, no one puts a face on a donii. Humans were never pictured—a likeness might capture a spirit’s essence. But to whom would it be captive?
No one should hold another person’s spirit captive. Give the donii to her! She’d have her spirit back then, wouldn’t she? If you kept it just for a while, then gave it to her … afterward.
If you put her face on it, would it turn her into a donii? You almost think she is one, with her healing, and her magic way with animals. If she’s a donii, she might decide to capture your spirit. Would that be so bad?
You want a piece to stay with you, Jondalar. The piece of the spirit that always stays in the hands of the maker. You want that part of her, don’t you?
O Great Mother, tell me, would it be such a terrible thing to do? To put her face on a donii?
He stared at the small ivory figure he had carved. Then he took up a burin and began to carve the shape of a face, a familiar face.
When it was done, he held the ivory figurine up and turned it around slowly. A real carver might have done it better, but it wasn’t bad. It resembled Ayla, but more in the feeling than the actual likeness; his feeling of her. He went back inside the cave and tried to think of a place to put it. The donii should be nearby, but he didn’t want her to see it, yet. He saw a bundle of leather wrapped up near the wall by her bed, and he tucked the ivory figure in a flap of it.
He went back out and looked off the far edge. What’s taking her so long? He looked over the two bison that were laid out side by side. They would keep. The spears and spear throwers were leaning against the stone wall near the entrance. He picked them up and carried them into the cave, and then he heard the sound of gravel pattering on stone. He turned around.
Ayla adjusted the tie on her new wrap, put her amulet around her neck, and pushed her hair, just brushed with teasel but not quite dry, back from her face. Picking up her soiled wrap, she started up the path. She was nervous, and excited.
She had an idea of what Jondalar meant by First Rites, but she was touched because of his desire to do it for her and share it with her. She didn’t think the ceremony would be too bad—even Broud hadn’t hurt after the first few times. If men gave the signal to women they liked, did it mean Jondalar had grown to care?
As she neared the top, Ayla was startled out of her thoughts by a tawny blur of swift motion.
“Stay back!” Jondalar shouted. “Stay back, Ayla! It’s a cave lion!”
He was at the mouth of the cave, a spear in his hand poised for throwing at a huge cat, crouched, ready to spring, a deep snarl rumbling in his throat.
; “No, Jondalar!” Ayla screamed, rushing between them. “No!”
“Ayla don’t! O Mother, stop her!” the man cried when she jumped in front of him, in the path of the charging lion.
The woman made a sharp, imperative motion, and in the guttural language of the Clan, shouted, “Stop!”
The huge rufous-maned cave lion, with a wrenching twist, pulled his leap short and landed at the woman’s feet. Then he rubbed his massive head against her leg. Jondalar was thunderstruck.
“Baby! Oh, Baby. You came back,” Ayla said in motions, and without hesitation, without the least fear, she wrapped her arms around the huge lion’s neck.
Baby knocked her over, as gently as he could, and Jondalar watched with mouth agape while the biggest cave lion he had ever seen draped forepaws around the woman in the closest equivalent to an embrace he could imagine a lion to be capable of. The feline lapped salty tears from the woman’s face with a tongue that rasped it raw.
“That’s enough, Baby,” she said, sitting up, “or I won’t have a face left.”
She found the places behind his ears and around his mane that he loved to have scratched. Baby rolled over on his back to bare his throat to her ministrations, growling a deep rumble of contentment.
“I didn’t think I’d ever see you again, Baby,” she said when she stopped and the cat rolled over. He was bigger than she remembered, and though a bit thin, seemed healthy. He had scars she hadn’t seen before, and she thought he might be fighting for territory, and winning. It filled her with pride. Then Baby noticed Jondalar again, and snarled.
“Don’t snarl at him! That’s the man you brought me. You have a mate … I think you must have many by now.” The lion got up, turned his back to the man, and padded toward the bison.
“Is it all right if we give him one?” she called over to Jondalar. “We really have too much.”
He still held the spear in his hand, standing in the mouth of the cave, stunned. He tried to answer, but only a squeak came out. Then he recovered his voice. “All right? You’re asking me if it’s all right? Give him both of them. Give him anything he wants!”