The Earth's Children Series 6-Book Bundle

by Jean M. Auel

  She had always cooked her ptarmigan in a pit lined with stones in which a fire was lit and allowed to go out before the birds were put in and covered over. But large stones were not easy to find in this region, so she decided to adapt the stewpot heating pit to her use. It was the wrong season for the greens she liked to use—coltsfoot, nettles, pigweed—and for ptarmigan eggs, or she would have stuffed the cavity with them, but some of the herbs in her medicine bag, used lightly, were good for seasoning as well as healing, and the hay she wrapped the birds in added a subtle flavor of its own. It might not be exactly Creb’s favorite dish when she was through, but the ptarmigan should taste good, she thought.

  When she finished cleaning the birds, she went inside, and saw Nezzie at the first hearth starting a fire in the large fireplace.

  “I would like to cook ptarmigan in hole, like you cook stew in hole. Can I have coals?” Ayla asked.

  “Of course. Is there anything else you need?”

  “I have dried herbs. I like fresh greens in birds. Wrong season.”

  “You could look in the storage room. There are some other vegetables you might think of using, and we do have some salt,” Nezzie volunteered.

  Salt, Ayla thought. She hadn’t cooked with salt since she left the Clan. “Yes, would like salt. Maybe vegetable. Will look. Where I find hot coals?”

  “I’ll give you some, as soon as I get this going.”

  Ayla watched Nezzie make the fire, idly at first, not paying much attention, but then she found herself intrigued. She knew, but had not really thought about it before, that they did not have many trees. They burned bone for fuel, and bone did not burn very easily. Nezzie had produced a small ember from another fireplace, and with it set fire to some fluff from the seedpods of fireweed collected for tinder. She added some dried dung, which made a hotter and stronger flame, and then small shavings and chips of bone. They did not catch hold well.

  Nezzie blew at the fire to keep it going while she moved a small handle the young woman had not noticed before. Ayla heard a slight whistling sound of wind, noticed a few ashes blowing around, and saw the flame burn brighter. With the hotter flame, the bone chips began to singe around the edges, then burst into flame. And Ayla suddenly realized the source of something that had been nagging at her, something she had barely noticed but that had bothered her ever since she arrived at the Lion Camp. The smell of smoke was wrong.

  She had burned some dried dung occasionally and was familiar with the strong sharp odor of its smoke, but her primary fuel had been of plant origin; she was used to the smell of wood smoke. The fuel used by the Lion Camp was of animal origin. The smell of burning bone had a different character, a quality reminiscent of a roast left too long on the fire. In combination with the dried dung, which they also used in large quantities, a distinctive pungent odor permeated the entire encampment. It wasn’t unpleasant, but unfamiliar, which created in her a slight uneasiness. Now that she had identified the cause, a certain undefined tension was relieved.

  Ayla smiled as she watched Nezzie add more bone, and adjust the handle, which made it burn hotter.

  “How you do that?” she asked. “Make fire so hot?”

  “Fire needs to breathe, too, and wind is the fire’s breath. The Mother taught us that when She made women keepers of the hearth. You can see it when you give your breath to fire; when you blow on it, the fire gets hotter. We dig a trench from underneath the fireplace to the outside to bring the wind in. The trench is lined with the intestines of an animal that are blown full with air before they are dried, then covered over with bone before the dirt is put back. The trench for this hearth goes out that way, under those grass mats. See?”

  Ayla looked where Nezzie pointed, and nodded.

  “It comes in here,” the woman continued, showing her a hollow bison horn protruding out of an opening in the side of the firepit, which was lower than the level of the floor. “But you don’t always want the same amount of wind. It depends how hard it is blowing outside and how much fire you want. You block the wind, or open it up here,” Nezzie said, showing her the handle that was attached to a damper made of thin scapular bone.

  In concept, it seemed simple enough, but it was an ingenious idea, a true technical achievement, and essential to survival. Without it the Mammoth Hunters could not have lived on the subarctic steppes, except in a few isolated locations, for all the abundance of game. At most, they would have been seasonal visitors. In a land nearly devoid of trees, and with the harsh winters only known when glaciers advance upon the land, the forced-air fireplace enabled them to burn bone, the only fuel available in quantities large enough to allow year-round occupation.

  After Nezzie got the fire started, Ayla looked through the storage rooms to see if there was anything that appealed to her to stuff the ptarmigan with. She was tempted by some dried embryos from the eggs of birds, but they would probably have to be soaked, and she wasn’t sure how long that would take. She thought about using wild carrots or the peas from milk vetch pods, but changed her mind.

  Then she caught sight of the woven container that still held the gruel of grains and vegetables she had stone-boiled that morning. It had been put aside to lunch on as anyone wished, and had thickened and settled. She tasted it. Without salt, people preferred distinctive, spicy flavors, and she had flavored the gruel with sage and mint, and added bitterroots, onions, and wild carrots to the mixed rye and barley grains.

  With some salt, she thought, and the sunflower seeds she had seen in a storage room, and the dried currants … and perhaps coltsfoot and rose hips from her medicine bag, it might make an interesting filling for the ptarmigan. Ayla prepared and stuffed the birds, wrapped them in fresh-cut hay, and buried them in a pit with some bone coals and covered them with ashes. Then she went to see what other people were doing.

  A lot of activity was going on near the entrance to the lodge and most of the Camp had congregated there. As she drew near, she saw that large piles of grain-bearing stalks had been collected. Some people were threshing, trampling, beating and flailing bunches of the stalks to free the grain from the straw and hulls. Others were removing the chaff that was left by tossing the grain into the air from wide, flat winnowing trays made of willow withes, to let the lighter husks blow away. Ranec was putting the grain in a mortar made from a hollowed-out mammoth foot bone extended by a section of leg bone. He picked up a mammoth tusk, severed crosswise, which served as the pestle, and began pounding the grains.

  Soon Barzec took off his outer fur parka, and standing opposite him, picked up the heavy tusk every other stroke, so that the work alternated back and forth between them. Tornec began clapping his hands together matching the rhythm, and Manuv picked it up with a repetitive, chanting refrain.

  “I-yah wo-wo, Ranec pounding grains go yah!

  I-yah wo-wo, Ranec pounding grains go neh!”

  Then Deegie came in on the alternating stroke harmonizing with a contrasting phrase.

  “Neh neh neh neh, Barzec makes it easy yah!

  eh neh neh neh, Barzec makes it easy nah!”

  Soon others were slapping their thighs, and male voices sang with Manuv while the female voices joined Deegie. Ayla felt the strong rhythm, and hummed along under her breath, not entirely sure about joining in, but enjoying it.

  After a time, Wymez, who had taken off his parka, moved close beside Ranec and relieved him without missing a beat. Manuv was just as quick to change the refrain, and on the following beat sang a new line.

  “Nah nah we-ye, Wymez takes the grinder yoh!”

  When Barzec seemed to tire, Druwez took it from him and Deegie changed her phrase, and then Frebec took a turn.

  They stopped then to check the results and poured the ground grain into a sieve basket of plaited cattail leaves, and shook it through. Then more grain was put into the bone mortar, but this time Tulie and Deegie took up the mammoth tusk pestle, and Manuv made up a refrain for both, but sang the female part in a falsetto voice that made everyone l
augh. Nezzie took over from Tulie, and on an impulse, Ayla stepped up beside Deegie, which brought smiles and nods.

  Deegie banged the tusk down and let go. Nezzie reached out and lifted as Ayla moved into Deegie’s place. Ayla heard a “yah!” as the pestle slammed down again, and grabbed the thick, slightly curved, ivory shaft. It was heavier than she expected, but she lifted it and heard Manuv sing.

  “A-yah wa-wa, Ayla here is welcome nah!”

  She almost dropped the mammoth tusk. She hadn’t expected the spontaneous gesture of friendship, and on the next beat when the whole Lion Camp sang it out, both men and women, she was so moved she had to blink back tears. It was more than just a simple message of warmth and friendship to her; it was acceptance. She had found the Others, and they had made her welcome.

  Tronie replaced Nezzie, and after a while Fralie made a move toward them, but Ayla shook her head, and the pregnant woman stepped back, readily acquiescing. Ayla was glad she did, but it confirmed her suspicion that Fralie was not feeling well. They continued to pound the grain, until Nezzie stopped them to pour it into the sieve and refill the mortar again.

  This time Jondalar stepped up to take a turn at the tedious and difficult task of grinding the wild grain by hand, made easier by cooperative effort and fun. But he frowned when Ranec came forward, too. Suddenly the tension between the dark-skinned man and the blond visitor charged the friendly atmosphere with a subtle undercurrent of enmity.

  When the two men, alternating the heavy tusk between them, began to pick up the pace, everyone felt it. As they continued to speed up, the chanting songs faded out, but some people began stamping their feet, and the clapping became louder and sharper. Imperceptibly, Jondalar and Ranec increased the force along with the pace, and instead of a cooperative work effort, it became a contest of strength and will. The pestle was slammed down so hard by one man it bounced back up for the other to grab and slam back down again.

  Sweat beaded up on their foreheads, ran down their faces and into their eyes. It soaked their tunics as they kept pushing each other, faster, and harder, smashing the large heavy pestle into the mortar, one then the other, back and forth. It seemed to go on forever, but they wouldn’t quit. They were breathing hard, showing signs of strain and fatigue, but refused to give in. Neither man was willing to yield to the other; it seemed each would rather die first.

  Ayla was beside herself. They were pushing too hard. She looked at Talut with panic in her eyes. Talut nodded to Danug and they both moved toward the stubborn men who seemed determined to kill themselves.

  “It’s time to give someone else a turn!” Talut thundered, as he shoved Jondalar out of the way and grabbed the pestle. Danug snatched it away from Ranec on the rebound.

  Both men were so dazed with exhaustion they hardly seemed to know the contest was over as they staggered away, gasping for breath. Ayla wanted to rush to their aid, but indecision held her back. She knew that somehow she was the cause of their struggle, and no matter which one she went to first, the other would lose face. The people of the Camp were worried, too, but reluctant to offer help. They were afraid that if they expressed their concern, it would acknowledge that the competition between the two men was more than a game, and lend credence to a rivalry that no one was ready to take so seriously.

  As Jondalar and Ranec began to recover, attention shifted back to Talut and Danug, who were still pounding the grain—and making a competition of it. A friendly competition, but not any less intense. Talut was grinning at the young copy of himself as he smashed the ivory pestle into the foot bone. Danug, unsmiling, slammed it back with grim determination.

  “Good for you, Danug!” Tornec shouted.

  “He doesn’t stand a chance,” Barzec countered.

  “Danug’s younger,” Deegie said. “Talut will give out first.”

  “He doesn’t have Talut’s stamina,” Frebec disagreed.

  “He doesn’t have Talut’s strength yet, but Danug has the stamina,” Ranec said. He had finally caught his breath enough to contribute to the commentary. Though still suffering from the exertion, he saw their contest as a way to make his competition with Jondalar seem less than the dead serious effort it had been.

  “Come on, Danug!” Druwez shouted.

  “You can do it!” Latie added, caught up in the enthusiasm, though she wasn’t sure if she meant it for Danug or Talut.

  Suddenly, with a hard bang from Danug, the foot bone cracked.

  “That’s just enough!” Nezzie scolded. “You don’t have to pound so hard you break the mortar. Now we need a new one, and I think you should make it, Talut.”

  “I think you are right!” Talut said, beaming with delight. “That was a good match, Danug. You have grown strong while you were away. Did you see that boy, Nezzie?”

  “Look at this!” Nezzie said, removing the contents of the mortar. “This grain has been beaten to powder! I just wanted it cracked. I was going to parch it and store it. You can’t parch this to keep it.”

  “What kind of grain is it? I’ll ask Wymez, but I think my mother’s people made something from grain pounded to dust,” Ranec said. “I’ll take some of it, if no one else wants it.”

  “It’s mostly wheat, but some rye and oats are mixed in. Tulie already has enough for little loaves of ground grain everyone likes, they just have to be cooked. Talut wanted some grain to mix with the cattail root starch for his bouza. But you can have it all, if you want it. You worked for it.”

  “Talut worked for it, too. If he wants some he can have it,” Ranec said.

  “Use what you want, Ranec. I’ll take what’s left,” Talut said. “The cattail root starch I have soaking is starting to ferment. I don’t know what would happen if I put this in it, but it might be interesting to try it and see.”

  Ayla watched both Jondalar and Ranec to assure herself that they were all right. When she saw Jondalar pull off his sweaty tunic, slosh water over himself, and go into the lodge, she knew he had suffered no ill effects. Then she felt a little foolish for worrying about him so much. He was a strong, vigorous man, after all, certainly a little exertion wouldn’t hurt him, or Ranec. But she avoided both of them. She was confused by their actions, and her feelings, and she wanted some time to think.

  Tronie came out of the arched doorway of the lodge, looking harried. She was holding Hartal on one hip and a shallow bone dish piled with baskets and implements on the other. Ayla hurried toward her.

  “I help? Hold Hartal?” she asked.

  “Oh, would you?” the young mother said, handing the baby over to Ayla. “Everyone has been cooking and making special food today, and I wanted to make something for the feast, too, but I kept getting distracted. And then Hartal woke up. I fed him, but he’s not in any mood to go back to sleep yet.”

  Tronie found a place to spread out near the big outside fireplace. Holding the baby, Ayla watched Tronie pour shelled sunflower seeds into the shallow bone dish from one of the baskets. With a piece of knucklebone—Ayla thought it came from a woolly rhinoceros—Tronie mashed the seeds to a paste. After a few more batches of seeds had been mashed, she filled another basket with water. She picked up two straight bone sticks, which had been carved and shaped for the purpose, and with one hand, she deftly plucked hot cooking stones from the fire. With a hiss and a cloud of steam, she plunked the stones in the water, pulled out cooled ones and added more hot until it came to a boil. Then she added the sunflower nut paste. Ayla was intrigued.

  The cooking released the oil from the seeds, and with a large ladle, Tronie skimmed it and poured it into another container, this time made of birchbark. When she had skimmed off as much as she could, she added cracked wild grain of some indistinguishable variety and small black pigweed seeds to the boiling water, flavoring it with herbs, and added more cooking stones to keep it boiling. The birchbark containers were set off to the side to cool until the sunflower seed butter congealed. She gave Ayla a taste from the tip of the ladle, and she decided it was delicious.


  “It’s especially good on Tulie’s loaf cakes,” Tronie said. “That’s why I wanted to make it. While I had boiling water, I thought I might as well make something for breakfast tomorrow. No one feels much like cooking the morning after a big festival, but children, at least, like to eat. Thanks so much for helping with Hartal.”

  “No give thanks. Is my pleasure. I not hold baby in long time,” Ayla said, and realized it was true. She found herself looking at Hartal closely, comparing him in her mind with the babies of the Clan. Hartal had no brow ridges, but they weren’t fully developed in Clan babies, either. His forehead was straighter and his head rounder, but they were not really so very different at this young age, she thought, except that Hartal laughed and giggled and cooed, and Clan babies did not make as many sounds.

  The baby started to fuss a bit, when his mother went to wash off the implements. Ayla bounced him on her knee, then changed his position until she was looking at him. She talked to him and watched his interested response. That satisfied him for a while, but not long. When he got ready to cry again, Ayla whistled at him. The sound surprised him and he stopped crying to listen. She whistled again, this time making a birdsong.

  Ayla had spent many long afternoons when she was alone in her valley practicing bird whistles and calls. She had become so adept at mimicking birdsong, that certain varieties came to her whistle, but those birds were not unique to the valley.

  As she whistled to entertain the baby, a few birds landed nearby, and began pecking at some of the grain and seeds that had fallen from Tronie’s baskets. Ayla noticed them, whistled again, and held out a finger. After some initial wariness, one brave finch hopped on her finger. Carefully, with whistles that calmed and intrigued the little creature, Ayla picked it up and brought the bird close for the baby to see. A delighted giggle and a reaching chubby fist scared it off.